The Joy of Games
We all have to play games.
It is a part of us. Animals play when they are young, and sometimes old. Kittens pretend to be ferocious hunters as they wobble on oversized paws, and their fat bellies topple them off balance. Humans play at everything, because we are players of games.
We rolled knuckle bones by the light of the fire, and told each other what they meant. I made holes in the sand of the Sahara and hid pebbles while you tried to find them. You carved those silly sticks to look like hounds and jackals and I said it would never catch on. We played tag, and hide and seek. (I don’t think Helen understood the rules.) And we made up fancy names for ourselves and told people to stop and go. We painted lines on boards and made chariots and elephants clash, and viziers go scurrying away. That really caught on.
We laughed and sang running around that chair until the flutes stopped and we ended up sitting on each other’s lap. And I knew Plato was good for something because those solids of his roll and tumble so nicely, and we covered them with numbers, and we made up so many stories and so many games that we lost most of them.
We lost some in Roman forts and shipwrecks, and rich tombs, but we didn’t care. There was always a new game. Parcheesi, Nine Men’s Morris, Snakes and Ladders, and Shove Ha’penny, and games with flowers and winks and fans, and more cards than I could count, though I suspect you could. And we laughed till our sides hurt. And you hated me when I stole Park Place.
Then you made new games out of light and math, and no one had ever seen such things. Beautiful, crazy pixels that jumped and danced and soared, and they made us feel like we did rolling knuckle bones by the fire.
We stretched wires past all the squids and sea sponges, and we played and laughed all along the wire. Everything started going so fast it took our breath away.
But now there is a twelve year old calling me unprintable names in my headset while I play. And I thought learning new games was part of the joy. But he is making me feel small, and sad, and like this game is not for you or me. But I thought we were players of games?
And there is a big game now and everyone has to play. It started small, and kept getting bigger. And it is a game where I sit in a building all day, and a man watches me do meaningless things and gives me points. And he says I can trade these points for food, and a room, and medicine for the baby. And he says that I have to keep getting better at this game, and do it faster and better, and faster and better all the time. Because there is a big green line and it has to keep going up. (The green line always goes up they say). And he says I have to keep playing this game until eventually I sleep in a box in the ground.
I don’t like this game. It is mean, and angry and I don’t feel joy when I play it. Even with the small games I play just for me, he says I should find a way to earn points for them, and keep making the green line go up.
For now I am going to play the game where we both pretend we are writers clacking away on our keyboards. And all our readers are seekers of wisdom and truth and they all nod sagely at what we write. And you and me will keep playing at being writers until we can’t keep a straight face anymore and we both burst out laughing.
And then we will play new games…forever.
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