How to Play Left Right Center: The Dice Game That Turns Quarters Into Chaos
I've watched grown adults lose their minds over three dice and a pile of quarters. Left Right Center—or LRC as the cool kids call it—has this weird ability to transform rational human beings into shouting, laughing maniacs who suddenly care deeply about which way a plastic cube lands. And honestly? That's exactly why I love it.
The first time someone explained LRC to me, I thought they were pulling my leg. "So you just... roll dice and pass money around?" Yeah, pretty much. But here's the thing—sometimes the simplest games create the most electric moments. I've seen this game save awkward family reunions, break the ice at corporate events, and even settle disputes (though I wouldn't recommend that last one).
The Bare Bones: What You Actually Need
You need three things to play LRC, and if you're missing any of them, you're basically stuck playing charades or something equally tragic. First, you need the special LRC dice. These aren't your standard dice with dots—they've got L, R, C, and three dots on their faces. The dots are the boring ones, trust me.
Second, you need three chips per player. Now, the official game comes with these plastic chips that feel about as valuable as Monopoly money. But here's where things get interesting—most people I know play with actual quarters. Nothing says "I'm invested in this game" like watching your actual money slide across the table to your smug brother-in-law.
Third, you need at least three players. Two people can technically play, but it's about as exciting as watching paint dry in slow motion. The sweet spot? Six to eight players. That's when the chaos really kicks in.
Setting Up: The Calm Before the Storm
Everyone sits in a circle. This isn't just logistics—it's psychological warfare. You want to see the whites of your opponents' eyes when you take their last chip. Each player starts with three chips (or quarters, if you're living dangerously) in front of them.
Pick someone to go first. In my family, it's always the youngest, which led to my nephew developing an unhealthy obsession with being the permanent baby of the family well into his twenties. But you could flip a coin, arm wrestle, or just start with whoever's complaining the least about playing a "kid's game."
The Dance of the Dice
Here's where the rubber meets the road. On your turn, you roll as many dice as you have chips, up to a maximum of three. No chips? You're not out—you're just sitting there like a vulture, waiting for someone to accidentally throw you a lifeline.
Each die tells you what to do with one of your chips:
- Roll an L? Pass a chip to the player on your left
- Roll an R? Pass a chip to the player on your right
- Roll a C? Put a chip in the center pot (kiss it goodbye)
- Roll a dot? Do absolutely nothing (boring, but sometimes mercy is sweet)
The center pot is like a black hole—chips go in, but they don't come out until someone wins the whole shebang. I've seen that pot grow so large that people started eyeing it like pirates spotting treasure.
The Beautiful Madness of Mid-Game
This is where LRC transforms from a simple dice game into a psychological thriller. Players who were chip-rich suddenly find themselves destitute. The quiet accountant who started with three chips somehow ends up with twelve. Alliances form and crumble in the span of a single round.
I remember one game where my aunt went from zero chips to winning everything in three turns. She didn't say a word the entire time, just sat there with this Mona Lisa smile while the rest of us passed chips around like hot potatoes. When she finally won, she just shrugged and said, "Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you." We still don't know what that meant, but it felt profound in the moment.
The thing about having zero chips is that you're never truly out. As long as other players are still rolling, there's always a chance someone will roll an L or R and accidentally resurrect your chances. I've seen players go from zero to hero more times than I can count. It's like financial reincarnation.
Endgame: When the Music Stops
The game ends when only one player has chips left. That's it. No complicated scoring, no bonus rounds, no sudden death overtime. Just one person sitting there with all the chips while everyone else stares at them with a mixture of admiration and barely concealed envy.
The winner takes everything in the center pot plus whatever chips they have in front of them. If you're playing with quarters, this could be a decent little windfall. I once saw a game where the winner walked away with almost thirty bucks. Not bad for rolling some dice and hoping for the best.
The Unwritten Rules and Social Dynamics
Now, the official rules are simple enough, but every group develops its own traditions and house rules. Some people play where you have to roll with your non-dominant hand. Others insist on trash-talking throughout the game (my personal favorite). I've even seen groups where you have to take a shot every time you put a chip in the center, though I can't recommend that unless you want your game night to end with someone sleeping on the bathroom floor.
The social dynamics of LRC are fascinating. Watch how people's personalities emerge as their chip stacks fluctuate. The conservative players try to will the dice to land on dots. The gamblers secretly hope for action on every roll. The fatalists accept their destiny with zen-like calm. And there's always that one person who insists the dice are loaded when they're losing.
Strategy? What Strategy?
Here's the beautiful truth about LRC: there is absolutely no strategy. None. Zero. Zilch. You can't bluff, you can't count cards, you can't calculate odds. You just roll and hope. This drives certain types of people absolutely bonkers, and it's hilarious to watch.
I had a friend who was a chess master try to find patterns in the dice rolls. He kept a notebook and everything. After three hours of data collection, he concluded what the rest of us already knew—it's completely random. But watching him try was worth the price of admission.
The lack of strategy is actually LRC's greatest strength. It levels the playing field completely. Your grandmother has the same chance of winning as your cousin who thinks he's a professional poker player. It's democracy in action, if democracy was based entirely on luck and plastic dice.
Variations That Keep Things Spicy
Once you've played standard LRC a few dozen times, you might want to mix things up. Some variations I've encountered in my travels:
Wild LRC: Use regular dice and assign your own meanings to the numbers. Maybe 1 and 2 are L, 3 and 4 are R, 5 is C, and 6 is a dot. Or go completely wild and make 6 mean "everyone passes one chip to the right." Chaos ensues.
Speed LRC: Everyone rolls simultaneously. It's like regular LRC had too much coffee. Chips fly across the table, people shout, mistakes are made. It's glorious mayhem.
Reverse LRC: Start with all chips in the center and try to collect them. Roll to take from the center or steal from other players. It completely changes the game dynamic and makes everyone way more aggressive.
The Cultural Phenomenon
LRC has this weird ability to transcend age, culture, and social boundaries. I've played it in dive bars and country clubs, at kids' birthday parties and retirement homes. There's something universal about the hope that comes with each dice roll, the collective groan when someone rolls triple C's, the explosion of excitement when an underdog makes a comeback.
In the Midwest, where I grew up, LRC is practically a religious experience at family gatherings. It's not uncommon to have three generations around the table, from little kids who can barely see over the edge to great-grandparents who've been playing since before the official game was even invented. They used to play with regular dice and pennies, making up the rules as they went along.
The Dark Side of Dice
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that LRC can bring out the worst in people. I've seen friendships tested over a pile of quarters. Family members who won't speak to each other because someone "stole" their last chip (by rolling an R, which is literally how the game works). The game's simplicity means there's nowhere to hide your frustration when luck isn't going your way.
But here's the thing—that tension is part of what makes it memorable. The best game nights aren't the ones where everyone politely takes turns and shakes hands at the end. They're the ones where someone flips a table (metaphorically, usually), where trash talk flows like wine, where victory tastes sweeter because defeat was so bitter.
Why This Stupid Game Matters
In an age of complex board games with 50-page rulebooks and setup times longer than most movies, LRC stands as a monument to simplicity. You can teach someone to play in under a minute. You can finish a game in fifteen minutes or let it stretch for an hour. You can play it sober, drunk, or anywhere in between (though your mileage may vary on that last one).
But more than that, LRC creates moments. Moments of pure joy when you win against all odds. Moments of despair when you lose your last chip. Moments of connection when the whole table erupts in laughter at the absurdity of it all. In a world that often feels too serious, too complicated, too much, sometimes you need a game that's just three dice and a dream.
So next time someone suggests playing Left Right Center, don't roll your eyes. Don't complain that it's too simple or too random. Just grab your three chips, take your seat in the circle, and prepare for the beautiful chaos that's about to unfold. Because in the end, it's not really about the chips or the dice or even winning. It's about the people around the table and the memories you're making, one ridiculous roll at a time.
And if you happen to walk away with everyone's quarters in your pocket? Well, that's just gravy.
Authoritative Sources:
Knizia, Reiner. Dice Games Properly Explained. Blue Terrier Press, 2010.
Parlett, David. The Oxford History of Board Games. Oxford University Press, 1999.
Sackson, Sid. A Gamut of Games. Dover Publications, 1992.
Tinsman, Brian. The Game Inventor's Guidebook. Morgan James Publishing, 2008.