Walk into any kafeneio in Crete, and you’ll hear it before you see it: the sharp crack of dice on wood, the sliding clack of pieces, the short pause that means someone just made a mistake.
That’s Tavli.
To a Cretan, it is the sound of life, the passage of time, and the only acceptable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon when the sun is too heavy for honest work.
In Greece, and especially in the rugged, defiant villages of Crete, Tavli (the Greek iteration of backgammon) is the unofficial national sport. It is the theater of the kafeneio, where men who have survived history, heartbreak, and hard winters sit hunched over wooden boards, nursing a single metrios for three hours. It is a game of luck, yes, but mostly it is a game of psychological warfare.
The Three Faces of the Board
Unlike Western backgammon, which is often a singular pursuit, Tavli is a trilogy. To win a session, you must master three distinct variations, each with its own personality and its own special brand of frustration.
1. Portes (The Doors)
Portes is the closest relative to the international game. It is the “opening act,” a game of speed and blocking. The goal is to move your pieces around the board and “bear them off” before your opponent. The strategy lies in building “doors”—placing two or more checkers on a point so your opponent cannot land there. It is the game of foundations.
2. Plakoto (The Pinning Game)
This is where the Cretan spirit truly shines because Plakoto is about dominance. In this version, you don’t “hit” an opponent’s piece and send it back to the start. Instead, you “pin” it. If you land on a lone opponent’s stone, it is trapped until you decide to move. There is a specific, “kind but bitchy” satisfaction in trapping your opponent’s final piece in their own home territory, watching them squirm as they realize they have nowhere left to go.
3. Mevroumi (The Escape)
The most complex and often the slowest, Mevroumi starts with all thirty checkers on the board. It is a game of calculation and patience. It requires a level of foresight that borders on the prophetic. While Portes is a sprint and Plakoto is a wrestling match, Mevroumi is a chess game played with dice.
The Folklore of the Dice
In Crete, the dice (zaria) are not just plastic cubes; they are extensions of the player’s will. There is a deep-seated superstition regarding how one throws. A “soft” throw is for the timid. A “hard” slam—where the dice bounce off the wooden rim—is for the man who is in control of his destiny.
There is a linguistic art to Tavli as well. You don’t just say “six-five.” You say “exi-pente.” But if you roll a double-two, you shout “dyares!” with a flourish. When a player is losing badly, the mocking begins. The winner might offer to buy the loser a “souvlaki to help them feel better,” a biting Cretan jab that implies the loser is too weak to compete.
“Tavli is the only place where a Cretan grandfather can legally assault his best friend with words and dice, only to share a raki five minutes later.”
The Geometry of the Kafeneio
If you look at the layout of a traditional Cretan village, the kafeneio is the center, and the Tavli board is the center of the kafeneio. The tables are often small, forcing players into physical intimacy that contrasts with the game’s competitive fire.
The board itself is usually a work of folk art. Dark walnut, inlaid with lighter lemon wood or mother-of-pearl. The stones—the poulia—should be heavy. They need to have enough weight to make that satisfying thud when you’re “pinning” your opponent’s hopes and dreams in a game of Plakoto.
Data and the Social Fabric
While we don’t have a “Tavli Census,” sociologists have long noted that the game serves as a vital cognitive exercise for older people in rural Greece. In a 2022 study on Mediterranean longevity, researchers noted that the high levels of social engagement and mental stimulation in Greek village life—specifically through games like Tavli—contribute to the region’s lower dementia rates.
- Average game time: 15–30 minutes per round.
- Social reach: Played by all ages, though dominated by the “elders” in the mornings.
- Economic impact: The price of a game is usually just a cup of coffee or a carafe of raki.
How to Play Like a Local (The Unwritten Rules)
If you find yourself in a village in the White Mountains and someone gestures to the empty chair across from a board, remember these rules:
- Don’t think too long. This isn’t the World Chess Championship. If you take more than five seconds to move, you’ll be met with a “Vre!” and a look of pure exhaustion.
- The dice are always wrong. If you lose, it’s because the dice hated you. If you win, it’s because of your immense genius. Never admit to being lucky.
- Accept the trash talk. In Crete, if they aren’t teasing you, they don’t like you.
- The “Mazi” Rule. Usually, games are played “one of each” in a series. You haven’t really won until you’ve won the overall session across Portes, Plakoto, and Mevroumi.
I Didn’t Just Play. I Won.
There’s a particular kind of arrogance that comes with sitting down at a tavli board in Crete, especially when you’re not local. You feel it in the air—the assumption that you’re about to be taught a lesson.
I sat there anyway, in a plastic chair outside a village kafeneio, sunlight cutting through the leaves like it had somewhere better to be. My hair kept blowing across my face, completely unbothered by the fact that I was trying to concentrate. The board in front of me was polished, serious, the kind of board that has seen arguments, friendships, and small humiliations.
Across from me—confidence. The kind that doesn’t speak much because it doesn’t need to.
The dice hit the wood with that familiar crack. I moved carefully at first, almost politely. Then something shifted. A rhythm. A small opening. A mistake on the other side—subtle, but enough.
Tavli does this thing where it pretends to be luck until it suddenly isn’t.
Mid-game, I stopped reacting and started deciding and blocking when it mattered. Letting go when I had to. Watching—not just the board, but the hesitation, the pauses, the tiny recalculations across from me.
By the time the end came, it wasn’t dramatic. No grand gesture. Just a final move, clean and inevitable.
I won, and for a brief moment, I wasn’t the outsider anymore.
Για την Κρήτη και για κάθε τόπο που ακόμη αναπνέει.
Argophilia — Independent. Unaligned. Always listening.
(For Crete, and for every place that still breathes.)
