It should be noted that play is not essential to survival. It can even seem counterproductive to an organism safety is we consider how violent play between two puppies looks from our perspective. When they are quite young, dogs have a full set of disposable, razor-sharp teeth which they use to nip at anything that will play with them. When two are brought together, reciprocity dictates that they will each commit wholeheartedly to the game. They tumble, collide, nip, wrestle, and eventually bite unto one another’s necks without concern about the dangers of the surrounding environment. We often separate dogs when their play seems to escalate to be too rigorous or into a fight. We don’t often consider the correlation the dogs’ behavior has with high-impact sports or battles in a greater war. Instead, we worry about their well-being.
This play, however, is very much like what we do as young children. We are led by a compulsion to explore, emulate, and invent new ways to play with everything around us. While this is not necessary to our survival, per say, it is integral to our intelligence and mental complexity. Numerous studies have shown positive effects of play, such as socialization—without which we might isolate ourselves to the detriment of our health—and increased brain function—apparent from the much greater number of neurons in the brains of animals that are allowed to play versus those that are not. Indeed, the latter set of animals (those not permitted to play) show increased body fat, lethargy, and depression. Without play, we are less healthy, less intelligent, and far less happy.
This could present us with a number of questions. Why do we stop playing after adolescence? Well, we don’t. We simply move on the games or play with a completely new level of complexity, unparalleled in the animal kingdom. Why would we ever stifle play? Actually, I don’t want to touch this question with a ten foot pole. I can only imagine it would devolve into accusations of child abuse, so… If we continue to play more complicated games, why do some participate while others watch or experience that participation secondhand? Further, why does it seem that some don’t engage in anything that looks like play at all but still grow into adjusted, healthy, happy people?
I’m hardly covering new ground by suggesting that the scope of what ‘play’ means goes much farther than we typically think. Soccer is play, but so is Doom. It matters little that one is overtly physical while the other is physical only when one must throw a controller across the room. As I mentioned in the previous post, life itself fits the definition of a game, albeit one of which we have no manual and which thus disgusts us at times with its rigors and inconceivable—in truth—non-existent plot. The host of the Vsauce episode that set off this post points to our playing games, even ones of immense complexity, as an attempt to ensure fast, easy to achieve, and understandable rewards. This runs contrary to life as a game because with so many factors influencing your achievements, goals nearly always seem ephemeral, partially achieved, or impossible to describe. So we find solace in depictions of life which have been altered to as to adhere to a set of rules. This is true of Settlers of Catan just as it is true of Harry Potter.
What is the fundamental difference between readers, writers, and gamers? I won’t even attempt to try to codify that. It would be laughable, I’ve not done the research, and the answer would need a rather robust theory to comprehend. There are a few points that interest me enough to speculate, however. Writers must, a priori, be readers. To be a writer, on must be literate and possess some knowledge of extant written forms, genres, modes, tropes, etc. ad nauseum. The level or depth of knowledge one has of these things may vary greatly, but one must possess some amount. Long before a writer publishes, or at least has someone read their work, they are readers who know that their continued happiness hinges—at least in part—on their writing. They might be said to have a positive compulsion to attempt to understand or script some version of life through their own lens which they will then share with the world. It could be through a work written and sent on to another to read in isolation, in which case I would venture to say that each is engaging in a different kind of play, or it could be by fashioning a world for a table-top game, in which case all participants will engage as a game. Writing, and by extension reading, is always a game.
But why don’t all readers want to participate in the writing portion of the game? We are all, at some point, storytellers. We enjoy relating to others stories, true or untrue, regardless of how anyone perceives our ability to do so, including ourselves. Why does this not translate into writing (or scripting) in addition to reading? The same could be asked of gamers, who also engage with a narrative world with easily understood and achieved goals. Why is it that some people play video games and go on to create new ones while other only play? Why is it that some feel the need to engage in both creation and production while others do not?
The nearest I can come to an answer, or at least one that satisfies me, is that scriptwriters seek another level of control. They don’t simply want to experience the reward associated with achieving pre-formatted goals; they wish also to create goals for others. This is really half an answer, because it doesn’t touch on the next question: why do some wish to control and others to participate? That question is far too psychological for me and has likely already been attempted by many more qualified than I, so I have to find some contentment in the answer I am able to provide. For scriptwriters, part of the reward comes from packaging a new form of play for others to engage it. These scriptwriters might design physical sports, D&D scenarios, or novels. I am obviously most connected with the last of these, but all are equally fascinating and an attempt to understand one bring the observers closer to understanding something about all of them as well as what compels us, in the first place, to play.
