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I’m watching my friend Larry’s ego crumble before my eyes. He is standing several paces away from me, sweating, and impatiently waiting for me to hit the small blue ball against the wall. There is an air of tension in the small court, and I’m wondering what I should do.
Larry is a work acquaintance of mine, and I know him only from meetings and passing each other in the hall. He’s known for both his intellect and his temper, both of which has allowed him to quickly rise up the corporate ladder. He’s also an avid racquetball player and has learned of my obsession with the game. When he asked me if I wanted to play, I jumped at it because any time I can get on the court, I’m a yes.
Now, I am second guessing my wisdom in saying yes.
While I am not anywhere near an expert at this game, it is evident that I am significantly better than him and both of us know it. I’ve quickly figured out that Larry likes to win at everything and this match is one place where it isn’t going to happen. We both know it, and we’re both miserable because of it. I start the next point with a weak serve.
When I was introduced to James Carse’s epic book, Finite and Infinite Games, my friend said it was right up my alley because of my love of game-theory and mathematics. What he didn’t know was that it was going to irrevocably change my life. The open paragraph caught and kept my attention.
There are at least two types of games. One could be called finite, the other infinite. A finite game is played for the purpose of winning, an infinite game for the purpose of continuing the play.
I devoured the book and saw the beauty of its logic.
As a member of this western society, I was trained as a man to play finite games in life and focus on winning at all costs. There was “no time for losers” (via Queen) and “the plaque for the alternates is down in the ladies room” (Top Gun).
I trained myself to excel at business and pushed myself towards success. I felt my self-esteem rise when I got the first place ribbon, and my self-critic go into overdrive for any other prize. My only goal was to be on the top of my game.
Regarding relationships, I also brought my need to win as one of my primary drivers. If I were arguing with my girlfriend, I would resort to dominant logic to overwhelm, and confuse with a “no retreat, no surrender” modus operandi. I would rather be right than connected, and my romantic partners learned to stop arguing with me. Winning arguments felt like scoring those crucial points in a match. I loved it, and it fed me but could also feel the impact it had on my relationships.
Things then started to shift for me with Carse’s theory. I started to think about a new form of game whose only purpose is the continuation of the play. It felt alien, uncomfortable but also liberating. I felt free from conflating my sense of manhood with the notches on my belt. I felt the power of intimacy in not focusing on winning but the intimacy that arose in the interaction.
Finite games can be played within an infinite game, but an infinite game cannot be played within a finite game. Infinite players regard their wins and losses in whatever finite games they play as but moments in continuing play.
This viewpoint continues to shift my perspective. After losing my finite games, I can’t see any value from the experience. Without the win, I perceive that I’ve gained nothing. However, if I can pull my lens back to view it as an infinite game then the lessons from the loss, the character it has built, the areas I’ve seen I can uplevel, my whole experience can be reframed. I start to look at my life as one extended training for my mastery and all those experiences I’ve looked upon negatively; I revisit to see their beauty.
The infinite player learns from his finite games to improve himself.
Immediately, the classic Nike commercial “Failure” starring my icon, Michael Jordan, comes to mind. In this powerful 30 second ad, I watch him miss shot after shot while his voiceover brings this point home:
I’ve missed more than 9000 shots in my career.
I’ve lost almost 300 games.
26 times, I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed.
I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life.
And that is why I succeed.
This viewpoint starts to extend into my romantic relationships, and I ease the grip on “winning” and shift into connecting. I learn the power of looking at my actions if my partner was upset first before pointing the finger at her. I begin to see from her eyes what the impact of my actions rather than letting my ego run the discussion. I find the value of intimacy over victory.
Larry’s return to my soft serve is a solid hit that drives me to the opposite corner. I have to move fast to catch it before the second bounce. After he volleys my return, I intentionally angle my racquet downward to ensure that the ball hits the ground before hitting the wall. Larry pumps his arm in victory, and his smile has finally reached his eyes.
For the next thirty minutes we play, for every point two points I win, I throw one to Larry. We leave the court sweaty and well-worked. Larry’s won two of the five games, but he acts like he’s won them all. On the scoreboard, it looks like I’ve had a mediocre day on the court.
“Can we do this next week?” he asks as we leave the club.
“Absolutely” I reply.
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