In this clever and surprising thriller about the perils of modern dating and the female rage it sometimes inspires, a board game designer starts playing by her own rules, and losers won’t be tolerated.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Dating Game by Ally Zetterberg, which releases on September 8th 2026.
The friendship game. The dating game. The end game. For board game designer Tilda Smith they’re all necessary steps on the path to finding happiness. And by structuring her life according to a set of rules, just like in the games that she loves to create at her job, Tilda can finally win.
The only problem? The other players don’t know they’re playing by Tilda’s rules. She’s fair. Very fair, in fact. But then one night her date pushes her too far and she gets just a bit carried away. Any player who disappoints must face consequences, right? But as Tilda finds herself transporting a body in a laundry bag, she has to question how to make the punishment fit the crime.
And now someone is watching Tilda and playing a game of their own. Will they turn the tables on her, or can she figure out a way to best them? The game is never really over until she says it is.
Game on.
EXCERPT
A letter is an unusual occurrence, and so I carry it with two hands, like you would a fragile baby chick, as I wait for the lift, alight, press the fifth floor with my elbow, and finally get out and open up the door to my quiet apartment. I regularly receive prototypes of board games from my publishers, yes. Games that are being sent out for play testing. I also receive boxes with an agreed-upon number of finished copies for me to keep, as part of the contract. I often get mail that are packages. But letters in brown envelopes that look like they contain words rather than items are not commonplace. I kick my sneakers off, not bothering to place them on the shelf. Who cares? I live alone and never have any guests. If I have a Zoom call, I can face the opposite direction of any mess.
The letter has been returned once and re-sent, and the brown en-velope is worn and thin when I squeeze it between my thumbs. My throat is dry after my walk, but I ignore its call for water and carefully peel the flap open with my naked nail.
Then the tears come. Or they would have, had I been able to cry like other people. Now the only hint I get that it’s sadness I’m experi-encing is the fiery burning behind my eyelids as my tear ducts try their best to release something, in vain. I rub at them, alleviating a burn similar to that of hay fever. Then I read.
Tilda,
I’m awfully sorry to unsettle you like this. I have had this forwarded in agreement with the firm handling my estate. I know how you hate being unsettled and for life to be stirred. Tilda, my girl, happy thirtieth birthday! I wish I could have been there to celebrate it with you. We would have had a Colin the Caterpillar cake, wouldn’t we? Like we always do. All those fancy cakes from bakeries can’t beat Colin. With some prosecco to wash it down. I hope you did something nice to celebrate yourself.
Now, if you have reached the point in your life where you’re happy, then do toss this letter in the paper bin, will you, and forget all about it. Off you go to enjoy your day. But if you are not happy, if you are still alone, still in the place you were when I left you, then continue reading.
Tilda—get yourself together. Life is more than work and board games. I always said one day you’d believe me, and I’d like you to make that day today. Life is more fun if you aren’t lonely. Now, this might come as a surprise to you. Considering we spent all our time with one another. I always wanted you close, didn’t I, my girl? Was quite happy with your predisposition and loyalty to me. I only wanted to protect you and steer you on the right path in life. Maybe that was wrong and maybe one day you’ll judge me for my selfishness. But you’re still young as I leave you, and can turn your life around. Please do that—turn your life around. Work less, see the sun more, swim in the ocean, and drink sweet cocktails even if they’re just empty calories. Because before you know it, you might be fifty years old and in a hospice saying goodbye to your only daughter.
Think of it as a game if that helps. Taskmaster, perhaps? I won’t design it for you because that’s your area. I’m simply your contractor telling you to design the game in which Tilda completes tasks and ends up less lonely and bitter than her poor old mum.
Promise me?
Bye, my girl. I trust that you’ve said your goodbyes and moved on from my untimely death by now. That you kept the promise to move somewhere sunnier than Bristol for me. Spain? Portugal?
Australia? I can only imagine the place you picked and the things you get to see. I hope you chose a therapist like I told you to. Someone to help you make sense of the world and control your emotions now that I’m gone. If you did, you’ll be ready. I’ll leave you with this list. It’s short but please take it seriously. This is what I’ve learned—if only too late—and I’d like you to try.
- Find a Everyone needs friends. Look for one in a place you normally wouldn’t look and approach someone you normally wouldn’t think is for you. Keep an open mind. When you find a friend, you need to do anything to keep them.
- Find love. There is someone out there for you. You just have to trawl through the woods and find him or A nice young man or woman who gets you and supports you being you. Do not settle.
- Finally, be That’s the endgame here. Just be happy.
Please try for me, darling.
If all this confuses you, then simply do this and the rest will follow:
Go make a difference in the world in your own special way.
Love always, Mum
I fold the letter up, more times than necessary, into a tiny little square, as if I’m attempting origami. I think I miss the voice the most. Her slow, calming tone. Dark and sweet, like wine. It’s like she’s here with me. I feel like I am important again. A daughter, a loved one, someone’s little girl. Not just a woman alone in a town where every-one knows someone except her.
Mum was right. I am still lonely. When I needed to burn some bad cells off my cervix a year ago I put a made-up name on my next of kin form and my own phone number below it. If they ever called it they’d end up in my voicemail. My thirtieth birthday was spent alone with a glass of prosecco, no Colin, because the English aisle at Carrefour doesn’t stock them—just tin after tin of Heinz baked beans, as if that’s what an expat really craves. The only wishes I received were from my publisher, Grant, on a work Zoom and from Asos telling me my gift was 25 percent off a full-priced item of my choice.
If Mum were still here I could explain to her that she was never selfish. She was my most beloved mother, and nothing gave me as much joy as staying close to her, in our own little world. Of course, I did fulfill her first wish—I moved abroad. I fulfilled her second wish, too—I found a therapist. If only I could explain that I’ve tried all the things she suggested and in the end I gave up because it just doesn’t work.
I let the instructions take space in my mind, turning them around until they look like games, just like Mum said. I like games; I always have. They are easy to understand, and you know exactly what to ex-pect. If the dice says three, you take three steps. Games are a haven in a world where people say one thing but think another and then end up doing something else completely.
Three games. Three missions. The Friendship Game, the Dating Game, and the End Game, where I will have the perfect, happy life. I’m not sure about it one bit, but then you should listen to your mum, shouldn’t you?
I’ll go and make a difference in the world in my own special way
