To: W. Shortz
From: Edward Nigma
It’s 9:45pm and there are about fifteen of us (I cannot, for reasons you’ll come to understand all too soon, say exactly how many) sequestered in an otherwise empty room (I cannot say where) with one lightbulb swaying back and forth overhead, casually illuminating shadowy faces for too-brief seconds (I cannot say what wattage). The discussion involves who drives which getaway car, and which historical anachronism will be standing where.
Destroy this communiqué after reading.
Forgive me, I have explained poorly - I myself am unclear on certain details. We know this: Five years ago two Obies created a game. Showing great wit, they named it ObieGame. Beyond this, facts are amorphous at best. Sources describe it as a combination treasure hunt, brain teaser, action movie, and creative writing assignment gone awry. Sometimes it involves Charles Martin Hall’s house. On one occasion, there was a KGB agent.
There have also been ninjas.
Tonight, though - At ten, two cars will deposit a half dozen planners behind Mudd. Fifty students are already gathered under the ramp, knowing that here, now, something will happen to tie all the pieces of the last two weeks together. Pulses will quicken. The planners will appear singing the Slovakian national anthem. Information will be handed out. By midnight, players must prevent the space-time continuum from being torn asunder, using a digital camera and some bad poetry.
Very bad poetry.
And onwards? Riddles will no doubt be cracked, the secrets of Oberlin explored, bikes peddled furiously. If history is any guide, then in two hours one team will have managed to save the world. Perhaps it will be through keen mental acuity. Perhaps through sheer force of will. I cannot say for sure. One thing, though, is certain.