Ryan Gosling and Margot Robbie Face Off in Monopoly: The Melbourne Edition

Max Sterling, 2/11/2026Glass towers rise, profits wobble, and politics swerve—urban dreaming collides with commercial and geopolitical gamesmanship. Melbourne builds up, corporations pad numbers, and world leaders play Monopoly with jetliners. Is it progress, smoke and mirrors, or just another spin around the board?

The latest chapter? Activity centres—23 of them, no less—a phrase that conjures up less the chaos of urban sprawl and more a cluster of gyms or perhaps daycares. But these are the battlegrounds for Melbourne’s idea of fair growth. Caulfield gets to reach for the clouds at 20 storeys, while Prahran, South Yarra, Windsor, and Malvern are granted a more modest 16. One wonders who handed out the extra floors—was it a game of darts behind closed doors, or just blind faith in infrastructure keeping up with ambition?

Planning Minister Sonya Kilkenny assures the public (and possibly herself) that all this is in service of fairness for Victorians. That’s a big word, “fairness.” One suspects the ghosts of art deco and Victorian terraces are shivering in anticipation, perhaps dreading yet another round of glass-box makeovers.

Not that everyone’s sold on this high-rise renaissance. Deputy Liberal leader David Southwick, brandishing the time-honored board-game metaphor, calls the plan a round of Monopoly for the permanently caffeinated. Only, the prizes aren’t tattered orange bills but pricetags veering north of a million bucks. “If we really want affordable homes for young people,” he argues, “stacking sky towers in Brighton, Toorak, Malvern or Caulfield isn’t it.” A valid point, especially for anyone still reeling from last quarter’s rental prices.

YIMBY Melbourne, those intrepid souls who dream of vertical neighborhoods with a soul, aren’t letting the technicalities slide by, either. They’ve raised a skeptical eyebrow at the 1,000-square-metre lot size requirement—a regulation with all the subtlety of a velvet rope outside an exclusive club. “It’s exactly the sort of rule you write if you don’t much fancy building new homes,” they quip, perhaps imagining some gray-faced planner with a ruler and a secret grudge against progress.

And just as the dust settles on that, the scene shifts, as if someone nudged the dial from city planning to the financial channels. Take GXO Logistics—an outfit performing the fiscal equivalent of the cha-cha. The bottom line? $43 million, which might look decent in a vacuum. Except, last year they pocketed more than double. Revenues, on the other hand, are up nearly 8%. Accountants twist their calculators into knots to offer up “adjusted” earnings of $101 million, like a chef insisting the souffle’s fallen because it’s supposed to be rustic.

It’s a familiar trick: real numbers, minus a few inconvenient realities, add up to something smoother for shareholders’ nerves. as the numbers flicker across the screen, GAAP shuffles in the background—revealing a story that’s never quite as simple as it first appears. The guidance, sunny enough for investors, pins hopes on future earnings per share in the ballpark of $3, give or take. Whether that ballpark comes complete with hot dogs and a winning team is anyone’s guess; the only certainty in Q2 2025 is that economic weather forecasts are about as reliable as Melbourne’s.

Meanwhile, on the world stage, cityboard intrigue gives way to grander theater. Scroll over to North America, and it’s a different set of players, same game—this time with aircraft, bridges, and trade policy on the board. President Donald Trump, never shy about turning negotiation into spectacle, dangles the prospect of bridge blockades and certification disputes. The target: Canadian aircraft, or more precisely, the bureaucratic ballet enveloping Gulfstream jets backed by General Dynamics.

FAA Administrator Bryan Bedford, with all the diplomatic tact one can muster after three years of stamp-collecting at regulatory agencies, promises that “issues with Canada were resolved.” The phrase lands with all the assurance of a television weatherperson predicting “scattered chaos” before a storm. In trade games, certifications are currency, sometimes swapped away as leverage, sometimes clutching the bottom drawer for safekeeping.

If the stakes feel outsized, that’s because they are. Regulatory tempests, supply chain headaches, politicians jostling for narrative control—each a piece on the board, all moving in patterns that are equal parts rational and inscrutable. A bit like watching someone play poker with Monopoly money while the house rules keep changing.

So what ties all these, seemingly disparate, stories together? Every subplot—be it the upward sprawl of Caulfield’s core, GXO’s accounting gymnastics, or an FAA official’s poker face—is a variation on a theme as old as civilization: the contest between what should be, what can be, and what a clever workaround might buy in the meantime.

The citizen, as always, is left peering between the lines. Sheltering in the shade of a new high rise, deciphering quarterly results that shimmer with optimism, or quietly wondering if the next international dispute will ground their long-awaited vacation. Every roll of the dice is loaded with hope and a whisper of skepticism.

Perhaps, in the end, those who shape cities, companies, and trade deals aren’t all that different from each other. Builders and brokers, ministers and CEOs—all just moving pieces forward, sometimes with purpose, sometimes out of habit, and always with that same question in the backs of their minds: Is this the hand that finally changes the game, or just one more round before the board’s swept clean?

And so the city grows, profits falter and rise, the world spins madly on. Monopoly, poker—or something else entirely. In Melbourne, as in boardrooms and border disputes, it’s never just about throwing the dice. It’s about how the game is played.

Some skylines, when the sun finally scrapes the glass, seem almost too eager—stretching up into the haze, defiant, a little desperate to be seen. Melbourne these days wears that hunger openly. The city’s planners and politicians have been busy, sketching out a future that isn’t a sci-fi fever dream so much as a highly-polished, semi-contentious reality: cranes, concrete, glass. Ambition beaming down Swanston Street, chased by the relentless grumble of those who just want a parking spot that isn’t a subplot in a Kafka novel.The latest chapter? Activity centres—23 of them, no less—a phrase that conjures up less the chaos of urban sprawl and more a cluster of gyms or perhaps daycares. But these are the battlegrounds for Melbourne’s idea of fair growth. Caulfield gets to reach for the clouds at 20 storeys, while Prahran, South Yarra, Windsor, and Malvern are granted a more modest 16. One wonders who handed out the extra floors—was it a game of darts behind closed doors, or just blind faith in infrastructure keeping up with ambition?Planning Minister Sonya Kilkenny assures the public (and possibly herself) that all this is in service of fairness for Victorians. That’s a big word, “fairness.” One suspects the ghosts of art deco and Victorian terraces are shivering in anticipation, perhaps dreading yet another round of glass-box makeovers.Not that everyone’s sold on this high-rise renaissance. Deputy Liberal leader David Southwick, brandishing the time-honored board-game metaphor, calls the plan a round of Monopoly for the permanently caffeinated. Only, the prizes aren’t tattered orange bills but pricetags veering north of a million bucks. “If we really want affordable homes for young people,” he argues, “stacking sky towers in Brighton, Toorak, Malvern or Caulfield isn’t it.” A valid point, especially for anyone still reeling from last quarter’s rental prices.YIMBY Melbourne, those intrepid souls who dream of vertical neighborhoods with a soul, aren’t letting the technicalities slide by, either. They’ve raised a skeptical eyebrow at the 1,000-square-metre lot size requirement—a regulation with all the subtlety of a velvet rope outside an exclusive club. “It’s exactly the sort of rule you write if you don’t much fancy building new homes,” they quip, perhaps imagining some gray-faced planner with a ruler and a secret grudge against progress.And just as the dust settles on that, the scene shifts, as if someone nudged the dial from city planning to the financial channels. Take GXO Logistics—an outfit performing the fiscal equivalent of the cha-cha. The bottom line? $43 million, which might look decent in a vacuum. Except, last year they pocketed more than double. Revenues, on the other hand, are up nearly 8%. Accountants twist their calculators into knots to offer up “adjusted” earnings of $101 million, like a chef insisting the souffle’s fallen because it’s supposed to be rustic.It’s a familiar trick: real numbers, minus a few inconvenient realities, add up to something smoother for shareholders’ nerves. as the numbers flicker across the screen, GAAP shuffles in the background—revealing a story that’s never quite as simple as it first appears. The guidance, sunny enough for investors, pins hopes on future earnings per share in the ballpark of $3, give or take. Whether that ballpark comes complete with hot dogs and a winning team is anyone’s guess; the only certainty in Q2 2025 is that economic weather forecasts are about as reliable as Melbourne’s.Meanwhile, on the world stage, cityboard intrigue gives way to grander theater. Scroll over to North America, and it’s a different set of players, same game—this time with aircraft, bridges, and trade policy on the board. President Donald Trump, never shy about turning negotiation into spectacle, dangles the prospect of bridge blockades and certification disputes. The target: Canadian aircraft, or more precisely, the bureaucratic ballet enveloping Gulfstream jets backed by General Dynamics.FAA Administrator Bryan Bedford, with all the diplomatic tact one can muster after three years of stamp-collecting at regulatory agencies, promises that “issues with Canada were resolved.” The phrase lands with all the assurance of a television weatherperson predicting “scattered chaos” before a storm. In trade games, certifications are currency, sometimes swapped away as leverage, sometimes clutching the bottom drawer for safekeeping.If the stakes feel outsized, that’s because they are. Regulatory tempests, supply chain headaches, politicians jostling for narrative control—each a piece on the board, all moving in patterns that are equal parts rational and inscrutable. A bit like watching someone play poker with Monopoly money while the house rules keep changing.So what ties all these, seemingly disparate, stories together? Every subplot—be it the upward sprawl of Caulfield’s core, GXO’s accounting gymnastics, or an FAA official’s poker face—is a variation on a theme as old as civilization: the contest between what should be, what can be, and what a clever workaround might buy in the meantime.The citizen, as always, is left peering between the lines. Sheltering in the shade of a new high rise, deciphering quarterly results that shimmer with optimism, or quietly wondering if the next international dispute will ground their long-awaited vacation. Every roll of the dice is loaded with hope and a whisper of skepticism.Perhaps, in the end, those who shape cities, companies, and trade deals aren’t all that different from each other. Builders and brokers, ministers and CEOs—all just moving pieces forward, sometimes with purpose, sometimes out of habit, and always with that same question in the backs of their minds: Is this the hand that finally changes the game, or just one more round before the board’s swept clean?And so the city grows, profits falter and rise, the world spins madly on. Monopoly, poker—or something else entirely. In Melbourne, as in boardrooms and border disputes, it’s never just about throwing the dice. It’s about how the game is played.