I first encountered Mahjong in the pages of Red Dragon. It wasn’t a game to me then — just a tile, a small but memorable detail in a chilling story. The dragon tile lingered in my mind, though I didn’t fully understand what it meant. I knew Mahjong existed, but only as a digital matching game — a quiet diversion where tiles disappeared in pairs, nothing like the intricate, strategic game I would later discover.
Last week, at a thrift store, I stumbled upon a real Mahjong set. The box was heavy, its contents rattling like a treasure chest. I had no idea if the set was complete, but when I opened it at home, there they were: rows of neatly arranged tiles, their symbols unfamiliar yet somehow familiar — bamboo, characters, dots, and yes, the dragon tiles. Seeing those red, green, and white dragons felt like rediscovering an old memory — the connection back to Red Dragon, only this time I wasn’t reading about them. I was holding them.
The tiles themselves were simple — cardboard rather than the thick, satisfying click of more traditional sets — but that didn’t matter yet. I didn’t know the rules — not really. But when I mentioned the set at work, several coworkers were just as intrigued as I was. We agreed to figure it out together. Between parent-teacher conferences, in those small breaks of quiet before the next meeting, we spread out the tiles, flipped through instructions, and started playing our first tentative games.
The rules were a puzzle — strange, detailed, and overwhelming at first. Drawing tiles, discarding them, building combinations — it felt like trying to read an unfamiliar language. Were we supposed to call out “Pong” or “Kong?” Was this a winning hand or just chaos?
And yet, “Pong” and “Chow” felt oddly familiar — like echoes from another game. They reminded me of Rummikub, a game I played with my mom as a kid. In Rummikub, I remember carefully arranging sets and runs — books and sequences — across the table, quietly counting tiles and planning my next move. There was something deeply satisfying about finally laying down a perfect sequence or stealing a wild tile to turn a losing hand into a win.
Mahjong carried that same rhythm — the strategy, the shifting patterns, the unexpected twists — and suddenly I was transported back to those quiet moments with my mom, huddled over the table in quiet concentration, matching tiles and chasing that same feeling of victory. Mahjong, like Rummikub, felt like a puzzle that kept revealing new layers — frustrating at times, yet endlessly rewarding.
Those moments of confusion while learning Mahjong became part of the fun. We’d break into laughter over mistakes, celebrate small victories, and puzzle over the tiles together. The game rewarded observation and patience, and just when I felt like I was getting the hang of it, a new rule would pop up, unraveling my fragile sense of understanding.
The dragon tiles became my favorite — symbols of power and fortune in Chinese culture, yet still tied in my mind to Harris’s dark novel. I kept thinking about that tension — the dragon as a symbol of strength in one context and terror in another. It reminded me that symbols, like games, take on new meaning depending on how you play them.
My Mahjong set is humble — just cardboard tiles — but playing with them has left me wanting more. I can imagine how satisfying a proper set must feel, with its weight, texture, and the distinct click of the tiles. Still, those cardboard tiles were enough to reveal something special: a game that’s part logic, part luck, and part social ritual. More importantly, those simple tiles brought my coworkers and me together, turning long conference nights into moments of connection.
And like Rummikub with my mom, I know I’ll keep coming back — not just for the game itself, but for the experience it creates. Mahjong isn’t just about winning hands — it’s about patience, discovery, and shared moments across the table. It’s a reminder that sometimes the best connections — whether with friends, family, or even a childhood memory — are built one tile at a time.