High Noon’s Position on Tariffs and the Path Forward

There’s been a lot of noise lately.

As new tariff measures roll out and global trade dynamics shift, the tabletop community—particularly publishers and manufacturers—have been quick to voice concern. And rightly so. Many are staring down the barrel of increased costs, production delays, and hard decisions about how to price and deliver the games they've worked tirelessly to bring to life.

At High Noon, we hear those concerns. We’ve lived them ourselves. We’ve spent years in the trenches of overseas manufacturing, navigating the shifting sands of international logistics, pricing volatility, and uncertain trade policy. We know how difficult this moment feels.

But now more than ever, it’s important to keep our heads.

Because when emotions run high, the temptation is to divide—to pit creator against creator, foreign against domestic, principle against profit. And that’s a mistake.

This isn’t the time to fracture. It’s the time to unite.

High Noon's Position:

We support reciprocal tariffs.

We don’t say that to take a political stand. This post isn’t about politics. It’s about perspective.

The current administration has made its strategy clear: tariffs are being used as a tool to encourage fairer trade relationships between nations. They aren’t meant to be permanent. They’re meant to start a conversation that has long been overdue—a conversation about balance, accountability, and mutual cooperation.

And while we can’t see into the future, we’re betting this too shall pass.

Missing the Mark

As tensions rise, the conversation around tariffs has become increasingly polarized—and unfortunately, increasingly divorced from reality.

On one side, we hear publishers voicing legitimate concern over how increased import costs threaten their survival. Margins in the board game industry are already razor-thin, and for many, these tariffs feel like the final straw. The choice, they argue, is bleak: either raise prices beyond what the average consumer can afford, or shut down entirely.

On the other side, we hear a different kind of outrage. Some are pointing to overseas manufacturing practices—labeling them as exploitative or even tantamount to slave labor—and asking how any publisher could feign innocence while relying on “sweatshop economics” to turn a profit. According to this view, publishers who rely on foreign manufacturing deserve whatever consequences come their way.

These are passionate arguments. They’re emotional. And they’re both fundamentally flawed.

What we’re seeing is a classic false dilemma—the belief that we must choose between two extreme and opposing views, when in reality, neither one tells the full story. To make matters worse, each side tends to rely on straw man arguments—oversimplifying the position of the other to make it easier to dismiss or attack.

The truth is more complicated—and far more important—than either of these narratives allows.

Let’s Start with the “Sweatshop” Narrative

Before we address the economic arguments from the publishing side, let’s tackle the more inflammatory rhetoric coming from those claiming the moral high ground.

There’s a growing chorus of voices—largely from my own side of the political aisle—condemning publishers for manufacturing overseas. The narrative goes something like this: “If you’re printing your games in China, you’re supporting slave labor or sweatshops. You should feel ashamed, and any fallout you suffer is your own doing.”

I understand where this argument comes from. It’s rooted in real concern for human rights and a desire to see ethical business practices prevail. That’s a good thing. But the way this concern is being weaponized? It’s misinformed at best—and dishonest at worst.

Let me be clear: That’s not how our industry works.

Board games are not stitched together in some dimly lit room by children for pennies a day. The factories we’ve worked with—especially the major players like Panda GM, LongPack, and others—are state-of-the-art facilities with modern equipment, trained staff, quality control systems, and business practices that look a lot more like a Toyota plant than a Dickensian nightmare.

Do bad actors exist in overseas manufacturing? Of course. Just like they do here at home. But to suggest that every publisher working with a Chinese manufacturer is turning a blind eye to human suffering is an intellectually lazy generalization. It ignores the real efforts many companies make to vet their partners, visit factories in person, and build ethical, long-term relationships abroad.

It also conveniently ignores the fact that many of these same publishers are small businesses—not mega-corporations—but passionate creators trying to get their dream to your game table without going bankrupt in the process.

Is there room for more accountability and transparency in manufacturing? Absolutely. But painting the entire overseas board game production ecosystem with the brush of “slave labor” is a gross mischaracterization that does nothing to advance meaningful solutions—and everything to fan the flames of outrage.

We owe it to ourselves—and to the people actually doing the work overseas—to be better than that.

“Then How Can It Be So Much Cheaper?”

That’s the natural follow-up, right?

If these overseas factories aren’t exploiting labor, then why are the costs so much lower than what we can produce here in the States?

The answer isn’t sinister. It’s systemic—the result of decades of intentional infrastructure development in China, built around one powerful strategy: specialization.

Over the past 30 years, China has poured its resources into building Industrial Zones—massive regions dedicated entirely to the production of goods. And within those zones, cities and districts often specialize even further.

To help visualize this, let’s bring it home to the U.S. Imagine if Florida was designated as an official industrial zone. Now imagine Jacksonville (where High Noon is based) became the hub for plastics. Inside that city, you’d find hundreds—maybe even thousands—of factories, each focused on just one tiny slice of the plastic manufacturing process. One makes plastic pellets. Another does injection molding. Another specializes in shaping small cylinders. Another only makes dice. Another? Just paints the pips on them.

Now imagine 10 factories in Jacksonville just focused on producing dice.

That level of focus and density creates scale, and scale creates efficiency. When you’ve got a full ecosystem of specialists all located within a few miles of each other, you eliminate supply chain delays, reduce overhead, and increase output exponentially. You’re not waiting on trucks from three states away to deliver raw materials—you’re walking it down the block.

That’s what happens in places like Shenzhen, Dongguan, and Zhejiang. These areas aren’t just random cities with some factory buildings. They’re ecosystems, finely tuned for hyper-specialized, high-volume production across every component a board game needs: dice, cards, miniatures, plastic trays, box inserts, shrink wrap, you name it.

So when you work with a Chinese manufacturer, you’re often not working with a single monolithic factory. You’re working with an aggregator—a company that sources your game’s components from all of these hyper-specialized neighbors, then assembles them under one roof for final packaging and shipment.

That’s why it’s cheaper. Not because someone’s being exploited—but because the system is optimized in ways we simply haven’t replicated yet in the West.

And until we do, it’s disingenuous to suggest that U.S. and Chinese manufacturing are playing on a level field. They're not. They're playing entirely different sports.

Now Let’s Talk About the Price Problem

Meredith Placko, CEO of Steve Jackson Games, recently published a breakdown of how tariffs are affecting game prices. She laid it out plainly: a game that used to cost $3 to manufacture overseas now costs $4.62 with the new tariffs. Add in freight, warehousing, fulfillment, distributor cuts, and retail markups, and suddenly that $25 game has to be sold for $40 just to keep the lights on.

The example is clear, detailed, and completely valid from a math perspective.

But here’s where I respectfully—and wholeheartedly—disagree:

This isn’t just a tariff problem. This is a business model problem.

What Meredith’s breakdown actually reveals is a long-standing reliance on third-party systems that were never built with modern creators, customers, or market dynamics in mind. From the factory to the shelf, we’ve propped ourselves up on a supply chain full of outdated roles, arbitrary middlemen, and inflexible pricing structures.

Let’s be honest: how many publishers have really evaluated whether they still need a distributor? Or whether retail partners are still adding enough value to justify 50%+ markups on the shelf?

We’re relying on these systems—not because they serve the customer better, not because they make us more agile—but because "that’s how it’s always been done." And now, as outside pressures (like tariffs) add weight to an already creaky framework, the whole system is buckling… and publishers are passing the cost down the line instead of asking, “Why is our chain this long in the first place?”

And worse—many aren’t just accepting this system. They’re defending it. Propping it up. Demanding that it be preserved at all costs, rather than innovating around it.

Meanwhile, who suffers? The customer. The backer. The fan who believed in your game, pledged their hard-earned money, and now finds themselves priced out—not because of greed, but because of institutional complacency.

Here’s a wild idea: What if publishers started collaborating directly with each other? Sharing logistics, consolidating freight, pooling resources to lower warehousing costs, or even creating direct-to-customer sales ecosystems that reward loyalty over margin-padding?

What if we served our customers first and let the rest of the industry catch up to that standard, instead of outsourcing that responsibility entirely?

This isn’t about cutting corners. It’s about cutting the cord—to a system that no longer serves us.

At this point, some publishers may be asking the obvious question:

“If not distributors… then who will market the game?”

And to that, I’d ask a follow-up question: How many games are actually marketed by distributors in the first place?

To understand where this is going, let’s zoom out and look at how the system currently "works."

A designer or publisher creates a game—often fueled by passion, sleepless nights, and the last few dollars in their Kickstarter budget.
That game is sold to a distributor at a steep discount—typically 60% or more off the retail price.
The distributor then “markets” the game to retailers, usually by adding it to a catalog, showcasing it at a trade show booth, or throwing it on a sell sheet with a dozen other titles that month.
Orders get fulfilled by the distributor’s own center or, more often, by yet another third-party logistics company—who takes their cut, too.

Now here's the kicker: publishers are still expected to do their own marketing.

That’s right. Even after handing over the bulk of their profits to a distribution network that was supposedly built to market and sell their game… it still falls on the publisher to pay for Facebook ads, hire influencers, attend conventions, and build their own customer base from scratch.

So again, I have to ask: What is the distributor actually doing?

Because from where I stand, it sure looks like they're acting more like a toll booth than a sales engine—collecting fees for access, but offering very little in the way of momentum.

And the deeper you dig, the more apparent it becomes: this system wasn’t built for creators. It was built to protect the old guard. It’s a relic of a time when shelf space was the only way to reach customers, and gatekeepers could dictate who made it and who didn’t.

But that world is gone.

Today, there are more board games on the market than ever before—thousands of titles launching every year, across platforms and regions. How many of them do distributors actually push to retail partners? How many make it to shelves? And of those that do, how many are marketed in-store beyond just sitting in shrink wrap on a back shelf collecting dust?

From my experience—and the experience of countless other indie publishers I’ve spoken with—the answer is: not many.

And here’s the hard truth: Distributors have built a business model not on performance, but on positioning—preying on the passion and inexperience of hobbyists who think loving board games is enough to make a game sell.

They present themselves as the gateway to success, but most don’t actually open any gates. They just charge you to stand near the door.

This isn’t about being anti-distributor. It’s about being pro-reality.

The board game industry is a branch of the greater retail industry. And in retail, products don’t sell because they’re beautiful or clever or designed with love. They sell because someone put in the work to educate, engage, and earn the customer’s attention.

If the publisher is already expected to do all of that… then maybe it’s time we re-evaluate who we’re paying to do what—and why.

Retailers Aren’t Off the Hook Either

Now, let’s be clear: this isn’t about throwing distributors under the bus. They’re not going anywhere—at least not anytime soon. The big publishers with evergreen titles will continue to work with them, and that symbiotic relationship will keep the lights on in the traditional supply chain. And honestly? That’s fine. If it works for them, more power to them.

But it doesn’t work for everyone else.

Certainly not for most publishers.

And definitely not for most retailers.

Walk into nearly any game store and what do you see?

Hundreds of games on the shelves.

Four games being played at the tables.

And of those four? One is almost always Warhammer.

Now I don’t know for sure whether Games Workshop even uses a traditional distributor. But what I do know is that they’ve nailed something most companies haven’t: engagement.

They’re not flooding the internet with ads. They’re not relying on distributors to get them featured in a retailer’s newsletter. They’re putting their money—and their strategy—into the store experience. Game days. Organized play. Tournament prizes that turn heads. Community-building that keeps customers coming back week after week.

That’s how they win. Not with shelf space, but with mindshare.

Now, I’m not saying anyone’s going to dethrone Warhammer tomorrow. But I am saying that publishers—and retailers—need to start paying attention.

Because engagement doesn’t happen by accident. It takes effort. It takes money. And it takes collaboration.

Retailers: unless you can pay all your rent with just one game line, you’re going to need to diversify what moves off your shelves. That means you can’t just stock a game and hope it sells. You’ve got to work with the publisher—run demo nights, host events, offer in-store promos, talk to your customers, learn the rulebook, play the game. Be an advocate.

Because here’s the deal: If a game underperforms on your shelf, and you never demoed it, never promoted it, never explained it to a customer… that’s not a product failure. That’s a partnership failure. And in this industry, we’ve had way too many of those.

And Publishers: you can’t just drop off your games at a distributor’s warehouse and call it a day. If you want to see your game thrive at retail, you need to invest in relationships, just like Games Workshop did. That doesn’t mean matching their budget—it means matching their intention.

You’ve heard the saying, “Knowledge is power.” I disagree.

Knowledge + Action = Power.

If this industry is going to survive—and more importantly, thrive—it’s going to take publishers and retailers both waking up to how the system actually works and putting in the effort to push these products the last few inches into the hands of players who will love them.

We don’t need more finger-pointing. We need more handshakes.

Take Ownership, Not Just Inventory

Retailers, before you throw a game into the clearance bin, I urge you—reach out to the publisher. Ask them, “What can we do to get this moving?” Give them a chance to support you. You might be surprised at how willing they are to help—through promotional assets, demo kits, event support, or even just a clearer explanation of how the game shines.

This is your store. These are your shelves. It’s your brand and your bottom line on the line. Owning a game store can be a passion project, yes—but it also has to be a business. That means taking ownership of what’s selling and what’s not. That means learning how to move product, not just stock it. And that means treating your role with the same level of professionalism you expect from your suppliers.

Likewise, publishers: if your answer to a struggling game is to shrug and say, “Well, that’s the distributor’s job,” then you’re missing the bigger picture. Passing accountability to a third party is a symptom of a much deeper issue: laziness and a lack of ownership over your own success.

Yes, you may have entered this industry as an artist or a designer. But if you’re publishing and selling a product, you’re not just a creator anymore.

You’re the CEO of your company.

You’re the face, the driver, and the one holding the bag if things go south.

The buck stops with you.

And when we all start embracing that level of ownership—retailers and publishers alike—that’s when we’ll stop waiting for someone else to fix things, and start building something worth fixing together.

Let’s Talk About the Value of Restraint

At High Noon, we’re no strangers to the rising cost of components. Dice, miniatures, custom inserts, terrain—it all adds up. And yes, those are real costs. But I think there’s a forgotten strategy that too many publishers have abandoned: Restraint.

Let’s rewind.

When I was growing up, games were simple.

Remember Risk? Armies were just little wooden cubes.

Nobody needed a thousand-dollar sculpt to have fun. The game itself was the value.

It wasn’t about the dressing. It was about the play.

Then Kickstarter changed the landscape.

Publishers learned that elaborate components raised big bucks—often millions.

And some companies built entire brands on it. CMON (Cool Minis or Not) became a household name, not because of innovative gameplay, but because of the miniature armories packed into their boxes.

By the time High Noon hit fulfillment, the industry had done a full 180. Publishers prioritized components first—sometimes even before the game design. Value became visual, not experiential. And honestly, I don’t even blame publishers entirely for that.

Consumers started demanding more. They equated weight with worth.

But here’s where High Noon took a different road.

When I launched my first Kickstarter, I was pressured—hard—to pack the game with plastic. Dozens of miniatures. Hundreds. Price it at $300+, I was told. “That’s what the market expects.”

But that wasn’t the game I wanted to make.

I didn’t want flash. I wanted fun.

So I held the line:

14 miniatures for up to 4 players.
A tight, immersive Western experience.
Limitless replayability
Priced at $75 retail.

The campaign raised over $150,000.

Then came retail… and the distributors.

They told me to slash the price to $40.

Because of the component count.

Because of what they thought the game was worth based on plastic and cardboard—not gameplay.

I refused.

Because I know the value of High Noon. And more importantly, our players know it too.

Sure, that decision cost us distributor support. It cost us retailers, too.

But we’ve done exceptionally well at conventions—where people actually play the game.

Where value is felt, not guessed.

Where customers go all-in, buying the full product line, without blinking at the price.

Because they played it. They get it.

Meanwhile, the gatekeepers—the same ones who set their watch by component weight—missed it entirely.

So no, the easy answer to the tariff situation isn’t “just make games look cheap.” But maybe, just maybe, the pain a lot of publishers are feeling right now is self-inflicted. Not out of malice or greed—but out of laziness. Out of a blind assumption that if the box looks big enough, everything else will take care of itself.

Here’s a hard truth: If your game isn’t fun without flashy components… it probably isn’t a good game.

And before you start lamenting the cost of production, maybe ask the harder question:

What was actually needed to begin with?

Then ask an even harder one: Is this game even necessary?

Do we really need another variant of Wingspan?

Another Munchkin skin?

Another board game about dim sum and sushi when we could just… go eat dim sum and sushi?

What are we doing here?

If you're going to enter this space, do it with intention. Because if you’re not offering meaningful gameplay, respectful of your customer’s wallet and time, then you're not part of

the solution.

You're just noise.

Bringing It Home

At the end of the day, tariffs aren’t the real issue. They’re just a spotlight—shining harshly on a system that’s been long overdue for a shake-up.

If we’re going to fix what’s broken, we have to start by taking ownership at every level.

Publishers – It’s time to stop outsourcing accountability. If you’re publishing a game, you’re in business—whether you like it or not. That means acting like a business owner, not just an artist with a product. Focus on delivering actual gameplay value, not just component spectacle. Know what your game is really worth—and why. If it can’t stand on its own without flashy minis, then maybe it wasn’t ready to stand at all.

Retailers – You are more than shelves and price tags. If a game isn’t moving, don’t bin it—engage. Reach out to the publisher. Ask questions. Be a partner. You can’t afford to sit back and hope Warhammer pays the rent for the rest of your catalog. Treat every game on your shelf like it has the potential to be someone’s new favorite. But that only happens if you show them why.

Distributors – If you want to stay relevant in this evolving market, your role must evolve too. Visibility isn’t value. A line in a catalog isn’t marketing. A spot in a trade show isn’t advocacy. If publishers are still expected to do all the legwork, then you need to ask yourself what you’re really providing—and whether it’s worth the cut you're taking.

And all of us, collectively—need to start being honest about what this industry is, what it can be, and what it will take to get there.

We have to:

Prioritize gameplay over gimmicks
Collaborate instead of outsource
Engage instead of blame
Respect our customers' time, money, and intelligence
Respect ourselves enough to operate with strategy, not just emotion

And we have to do all of this before pointing to tariffs as the root of our problems.

Because whether or not we take action…Whether or not we adapt, collaborate, or course-correct…This too shall pass.

Tariffs are temporary.

What we choose to build in response to them—that’s what will last.

So let’s build something better. Together.