Why Are Games Fun?

Welcome to Monday, the day for me to overcomplicate a simple topic, yet again.

I was playing tennis with a friend recently. On a particular point, he scorched one straight past me, winning the game.

“Geez man! Great shot.” I laughed as I finally stopped running around like a headless chicken.

I pondered later how peculiar it was that I felt genuine joy for him crushing me in that game, even though I actively tried to prevent him from doing that. How often does this occur, that the outcome we strived to avert still brings us happiness?

Put more simply, why are games fun?

Shouldn’t we always want to win, since losing is “bad”? But then, don’t we want our friends to be happy? These conflicting feelings would make it seem impossible that competition could ever be fun. The mystery centers around two ancient human emotions: competitiveness and empathy.

Competitiveness served early humans well, ensuring they felt enough drive to fight other animals or tribes so as to have a decent chance of eating. The modern act of competition plays on this archaic emotion.

Empathy also served these early humans well. It allowed for tribes to work together and to care for each other, ultimately creating a stronger force than each human would have been alone.

Games are fun because of a simple fact: we can feel both of these emotions at once. They work in tandem. They exist as ends to a spectrum, not as rigid absolutes. This spectrum, with empathy on one end, and competitiveness on the other, is what makes it possible that we enjoy games. When in perfect balance, we capture that most wonderful feeling I keep mentioning: fun.

It’s a spectrum because when in balance, it’s a blissful flow, but the farther out to an end you go, the less fun it is. Swing too far to the competitive end, and you’re angry at any point you lose. You’re only happy when you beat your friend, and you don’t actually feel any joy, only the fleeting winner’s rush. All dopamine, no serotonin. Swing too far to the empathetic end, and you’re letting your friend win every point, eroding any sense of effort or achievement for either of you. All serotonin, no dopamine (I’m not a biochemist; take this with a grain of NaCl).

But, when held in balance, there’s almost no way that one could have a bad time. This balance is fragile though, and requires oversight. I’m certainly guilty of the occasional expletive following a bad shot. Just rein it back in to keep walking that delicate, beautiful line, where the competitive side loves the win, and the empathetic side loves to see the friend triumph. Do this, and it’s a win-win.

This begs the question: what else could be seen on a spectrum? Where else can we find win-win situations that are usually seen as win-lose?

Take, for example, a work commute. Typically, a commute is not seen on a spectrum. It’s seen in absolutes. It’s either “bad” because there was traffic, or spilled coffee, or a cop pulled you over. Or, it’s “not bad” because it went as expected, there was no traffic, no pestilent red lights. Why not allow for some space between those two ends? Maybe the spilled coffee, while inconvenient, is also a bit funny? The same way it’d be if you saw it happen in a Steve Carell movie, only this time, you’re the clumsy main character. Maybe the traffic is a chance to exercise your ever-evolving patience muscle, what ABC anchor-turned-meditation enthusiast Dan Harris would call a “bicep curl for your brain.” This shift in perspective, this ability to reframe seems to be a common trait in the happiest of people.

Turn absolutes into spectrums. Find the balance. Repeat.

-John