Tag: Games

Clown School Break Day 46: Trivia ain’t Trivial 

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In which Our Hero leads a team to victory! 

My team won at trivia. Thirty percent of trivia is assembling the right team. Thirty percent of trivia is knowing the right answers. Thirty percent of trivia is accurately knowing your knowledge. And the last thirty percent is knowing how to give 120%. 

In the team-assembling category, my team excels at movies, science, games, literature, and mythology. We are weak at sports. This week, there was only one sports question rather than an entire sports section. That’s lucky.  

In knowing the right answers, we performed strong. We missed only 6 of the 22 questions. While that might sound like a lot (it’s almost a third!), our big advantage is in the next point… 

We know what we know. When one of my teammates says “I know this one”, we bet hard. Today’s trivia involves a point-wagering system: for each round of three questions, you assign one a small number of points, one a medium number, and one a large number. You submit your point wager when you submit the question, before you know what all the questions in the round are. So a team that gets only one third of the answers right can equal a team that gets two thirds of the answers right, so long as the first team assigns points correctly and the second does not. 

And then there’s knowing how to give 120%. When we know the answer is “Mississippi mud [something]” and my team is waffling between Mississippi mudslide and Mississippi mud pie, Your Humble Narrator (in his acting role as Team Captain) submits the answer as “Mississippi mud (pie)”. Ergo, when the answer is revealed to be Mississippi mud *cake*, Our Hero’s team receives the point. (Deservedly? That’s not mine to judge; I’m just here to get points.) This gamesmanship also manifested in Your Hero’s tracking of the points (so as to note that we were shorted 2 points in the theme round, and then get those reinstated). 

And I guess one final part: uniting people to a purpose. Trivia is not important. We’re fighting for a $30 giftcard when our table is spending twice that. This doesn’t matter. 

But it’s fun to try. 

Clown School Break Day 45: What is Fun? 

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What is fun? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more. 

Yesterday night I played a bit of poker, then stopped. 

I wasn’t obviously playing poorly. 

I just wasn’t enjoying it. 

What is fun? 

Why is poker more fun when you’re winning? 

Part is the monetary aspect: it’s not enjoyable to lose money. And while the monetary aspect in this case is not large enough to be life-affecting, it’s still relevant to the pleasure. 

Poker is an intellectual exercise that I enjoy attempting to do well. It’s fun circumstance in which I strive to do something properly. That’s part of the joy that I get from sharing my hands with a professional poker playing friend: the interestingness of improving. 

It’s also a naturally exhilarating game. You can play well – perfectly, even – and still lose. 

Is fun just the distraction from suffering? That’s the etymology of at least one french word and one spanish word for fun. 

If so, are the times when I stop enjoying poker the times when it becomes too serious? When I’m taking it with too much heaviness? (Alternate hypotheses: my suffering outside of poker is too great for the distraction to work, or I’m not suffering enough outside of poker so the distraction doesn’t give me additional pleasure.) 

I think it’s closer to: I’m feeling fear. I don’t enjoy poker when I’m feeling a lot of fear. When the fear prevents me from playing well, I stop enjoying the poker. I clam up and that’s no good. 

Solutions: 

  1. Don’t play poker games where the stakes cause me to feel fear. 
  2. When you feel fear, notice it’s fear. Then put it in its place and make the right decision.

Amusingly enough, when I wrote that my today’s pokerplaying went from playing my B game to my A game. That’s nice! 😀 

Clown School Break Day 42: Making Spades for Poker Pros(pectors)

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In which Our Hero stumbles upon something interesting… 

My partner wants to improve at poker. She 1) has the sort of mind that could be very good at the game, and 2) wants to improve her comfort in situations where she makes the right decision but the outcome turns out bad. [She also 3) wants to improve her comfort in situations where she made the wrong decision and the outcome comes out bad.] 

We watched some theory videos together today. It was very fun. I enjoyed it. I’m excited for more! 

–

My partner asks whether there exist little poker drills, à la “hit the ball at this bucket” in tennis, so you can have fun while learning the skill. I said I didn’t know any. 

We therefore invented a way to teach a particular, very-important poker skill in a manner that’s actually fun. Perhaps we will expand this, refine it, and share it with others! 

… and I built an app for it! More info to come… 🙂 

Clown School Break Day 36: Empty Spaces

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In which emptiness permeates Our Hero. 

Today I drove in silence. My partner in the passenger seat, surrounded by calm empty space. 

Usually I drive with music or a podcast. This drive was 3.5 hours. 

For the first two hours, just being. 

Once in a while adding a comment. Saying something. Mostly quiet. 

It was nice. 

— 

It reminded me of some time spent on stage. The increased comfort that comes from increased experience. The greater ease that comes from an acceptance of emptiness. 

I’m reminded of the idea variously attributed to Miles Davis and other musical greats: playing the spaces between the notes. 

It’s pleasant to play the spaces between the notes. 

It’s even more enjoyable to let the spaces between the notes play. 

And then

To level up

To the notes themselves playing 

And you simply helping

😌 

Clown School Break Day 35: The New Player 

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In which a new teammate joins Our Hero. 

What is it like to add a new player to an established team? 

Today we added a new player to our 3-person cooperative poker game. 

Upon adding this fourth person, we reverted back to the basic version of the game as it was a fitting level for them. 

Here’s what the experience was like for me: 

  1. Less psychologically engaging. The game was simpler so the intensity was lower. 
  2. More meta-play. I asked more questions, engaged in more conversation, made more jokes. We all did. The game itself was less of the game. We added other games to fill the empty space. 
  3. It was fun for a different reason. The relationship is one I care about. So I prioritized connection and play with this new player. The other players did too. We all wanted them to have a good time. So we left having enjoyed ourselves, but not as much due to the game itself as we had previously. Instead, it was more due to compersion. 

Our new player stepped away. We returned to our triumvirate crew. We took one round to re-acclimate and then clicked back into it. 

Perhaps much of socialization is knowing what game you’re playing at any given time and effectively switching between them. If you have more capacity, add another game. If you’re overwhelmed, let go more. If you’re welcoming a wobbly player you care about, play with them more (outside of the main game itself). And always know which game is most important. 

Clown School Break Day 34: Invention via Iteration 

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In which Our Hero builds upon himself. 

I created a new game today. 

We started with the game I described two days ago. 

We played with three people. It wasn’t as good as with 4 or 5 people. Then we expanded so we each received two hands instead of one hand, for a total of 6 two-card hands. 

Then we gave ourselves 3 cards per hand instead of two. 

Then we gave ourselves 6 cards instead of two sets of three, which we subdivided into our own three-card hands. 

What did I learn? 

  1. Follow the fun. When it’s not fun, find new fun. 
  2. Don’t push. If it’s fun enough, stick with it. 
  3. I like chaos. Compared to my card game compatriots, I enjoyed the more intricate game. (Part of that may be my familiarity with poker — i.e. this end version was farther at the end of my comfort zone while the basic game had become trivial). 

We spent 5 hours today playing that game. Playing variations. Ending at the more intricate one. 

Also this: 

  • To get to the end we had to go though the steps. Sometimes you have to take people through the basics, not start at the end if the end is too complicated. 

Building blocks. Leveling up. 

And one more thought: 

  • In the last hand, I correctly called all three cards in two of my compatriots’ hands. One of my friends half-jokingly called me “the oracle”. 

Perhaps what other people find chaotic is just the space I exist in. Sometimes what’s trivial to you is complex to me. (My partner laughs when I refer to putting frozen food on a plate and microwaving it as “cooking”.) 

This reminds me of one of the lessons from clown school: everyone has their own challenges. What’s trivial for me may be hard for you. Jesus would say “judge not lest ye be judged”. (And after all, today is the day for celebrating his birthday.) 

I’m glad to have seen my classmates trudge through their own challenges. And I’m glad to have built up the self-comfort prior not to judge them during the process. That would be a real dick move. 

🤡 

Clown School Break Day 30: Cooperative Games

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In which Our Hero collaborates. 

My family has recently taken to playing cooperative games. Growing up, we played mainly competitive games. Sometimes team games, but more often individual competitive games.

My partner recently posed the question: What if a person grew up playing mainly cooperative games?

An interesting question.

For one, most sports are competitive. (Sure, some are team-based, but those are still generally against other people rather than a challenge against nature or circumstance.)

For two, most contrived games (as distinct from natural games like science or business) are competitive.

For three, most good contrived games are competitive. Taking board games as a field I know quite well: only over the last ~20 years have cooperative board games taken off, and still they are much less popular and less created than competitive ones.

Bad games are generally not worth playing. They’re unfun and teach poor / useless skills.

Good games are, well, good.

I learned to count and perform basic mental math through the card game cribbage. I’m not aware of a cooperative equivalent that’s as engaging and strategic (and building one’s strategic muscle is worthwhile in itself).

Cooperative games teach communication, team coordination, collective strategy, leading and following, ebbs and flows.

I used to ghostwrite for the founder of the video streaming platform Twitch. He and his brother both sold companies for ~$1B, and they credit their parents’ chore system with teaching them to collaborate and strategize. The chores had to be completed, but the how and the who were up to the children’s choices. (For more, search the word “chore” in this article or this article.)

Collaborative games are excellent. And in the grand scheme of things, many competitive games are really about collaboration on the meta level anyway. Tennis is about (i.e. funded by) encouraging people to play tennis, which is generally good for physical health. Individual competitive sports like running are about setting a new record, thereby pushing human physical ability to new heights.

Perhaps it’s true: Even when we’re competing, we’re collaborating.

Clown School Day 18: You Must Play the Game

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In which Our Hero misquotes Shakespeare.

“This above all: to thine own game be true.” —Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 3.

It’s very easy to forget the game.

But the game is the most important thing.

Some performance is only game. Tennis, for instance, is only game: and look how much money that earns.

The Rehearsal

My scene partner and I rehearsed today. We lacked pleasure because we had forgotten the game.

The original game was simple: I make my partner lick a thing. Like when children find a bug and dare each other to eat it.

It wasn’t fun anymore. We knew it was coming. We knew he would do it. There was no tension, no conflict.

So we changed it.

Now, we begin with a eulogy for a piece of the space: “We are gathered here today to say goodbye to the power outlet.”

Then we play rock-paper-scissors.

The loser, as a ritual of farewell, must lick it.

As the scene escalates, so do the lickables. The floor. The bottom of a shoe. The teacher.

We didn’t have a game. Now we have a game.

The game? Rock-paper-scissors.

But with stakes!

The Farce

In Improv class, I realized the rule applies to everything.

We played a farce: a train compartment. One person enters, perfectly normal except for one grotesque tic. They repeat it. Then a second person enters, takes pleasure from that game, and — after a long time enjoying their tic (longer than you think) — adds their own tic, heightening the first. Then a third person. Then a fourth.

The game is simple: take the game from the person before you, heighten it through your play, and pass it on.

Simple is nice.

Simple is hard.

You have to feel the scene. Is it falling down? Are you talking over the game with “train compartment” nonsense? Are you heightening or dominating or smothering?

When everyone played the game, the farce appeared by itself.

When someone forgot, everything froze.

The game makes the show. Always has. Always will.

The Handstand

This morning, I flipped upside-down.

My first handstand (wall-assisted), then onto a peer’s back, who rolled me forward, turning us both into a ball.

A new game: gravity as partner.

I’d forgotten the joy of inversion.

The Father

My father arrived in Étampes today. He wants more than anything to see a class.

I’d love to have him: to share my play space. The school forbids it.

No visitors, no cameras, no phones. We even sign a “no recording” oath, like monks taking vows.

Why so strict?

Because clowning is vulnerable.

I’ve seen people bare grief. I’ve seen them make absolute fools of themselves (and not the good kind).

Once, a student scraped his false teeth along the floor before popping them back in. The room gasped. Disgust and horror.

Once, I yelled at the teacher. Their instruction felt like trash; maybe provoking me was the point.

This isn’t for YouTube. This is for us.

The school protects its game.

It keeps the outside world out, so the play inside can live.

The Lesson

The game is everything: the lick, the tic, the flip, the secret room.

When you forget the game, everything dies.

When you play it, life appears.

Protect the space so you can play the game.

Then find the game.

Release all else.

Play the game.

And when you lose it, start again.

That’s what makes it a play.

Clown School Day 17: The LeBron of Tic Tac Toe

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In which Our Hero learns that leadership means getting the simple things right.

THE SETUP

The game is simple: tic-tac-toe.

The complication: teammates.

Two teams of 11 players, across a ten-foot-by-ten-foot tic-tac-toe board. Each team has three handkerchiefs of their team color. At the sound of the drum, the first player sprints to a spot on the board, drops their handkerchief, and sprints back to tag the next player.

When all three of your handkerchiefs are placed, your move is to move one of your handkerchiefs instead of placing a new one.

At three in a row, you win the point.

THE ESCALATION

How is this so hard?

First, foot faults. Were both of your feet inside the square where you dropped the kerchief? If not, your placement doesn’t count. (More than one clown kicked the game board itself, forcing a complete game stop and reset.)

Second, speed. Your next teammate goes when your previous teammate tags them. If you dawdle, the opponents may get two moves to your team’s one: a death knell in tic tac toe.

Third, skill errors. Can you picture the board as it currently is, and how you would like it to be after your play? Can you balance both your team’s desire for three in a row with the importance of blocking the other team?

Fourth, panic. If you’re not sure where to place the handkerchief, you may find yourself overwhelmed by the twenty clowns yelling at you.

THE CHAOS

If this sounds intense, that’s because it is. It’s the most competitive I’ve seen clowns in four weeks of class. One clown classmate commented to me: “Usually you and I are the only two trying to win. In this game, everyone is.”

And the best part: it’s tic tac toe.

You know, the game that even a monkey can play.

When I played this same game in the summer course, I was dubbed “the LeBron of tic tac toe” by a Boston-accented TikTok star who’d gained school-wide notoriety for roasting himself in a Trump impression.

This time, my team came out to a strong start. 2-0 in the lead.

Their team called a time out.

From across the board, I could see one member of their team — a former death row attorney now turned stand up comedian — giving an impassioned speech.

Members of my team jeered at him. I thought of strategic elements I wanted to share — if unsure, play the middle or corners, not the sides; run back quickly to tag your teammate — but kept them to myself, unsure how to make them land. I didn’t want to come off as the pushy, out-for-victory teammate.

The game restarted. Their team came out on a tear. They won three of the next four points, and ultimately took the match 11-9.

All game I mused to myself: What had he said? They started to coordinate so well. What strategies did he share? How did he inspire them to listen to his suggestions without coming off as pushy?

THE REVELATION

At lunch, I asked him. I complimented him on his success, then I asked what he had said.

“Oh, that? Some of our team didn’t understand the game. I just explained the rules.”

There’s a Polish expression I enjoy that translates to “Not my circus, not my monkeys”.

Unfortunately, this is my circus.

And unfortunately, it is not populated with monkeys.

Clown School Day 11: The Joy of Gibberish

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In which Our Hero finally speaks his native tongue

I did it! I clowned! Wahoo!!! !!!! !!!!

Here’s the sitch:

Our head teacher asks for five people who don’t speak Chinese. I step forward. She plays a Chinese song and we’re told to mime along. Then she turns down the music and says: keep going. Continue the song, in this language we do not speak.

I have been preparing for this my whole life.

I’ve always loved imitating sounds. Not faces, not gestures, sounds. The cadence of languages, sirens, shower water hitting my rubber duck. It’s always been a private delight.

Today I let it out. I imitated the music of a language I don’t know, and loved it. The audience loved it too.

It gets better.

On Friday I asked our teacher how to tell when something works. She said: you have to look at the audience and see.

I already knew that, but I needed to hear it from her.

So today I looked. I saw the joy light up their faces. One woman — the same who’d argued with me on Thursday — beamed with glee. My roommate was glowing, proud to see me not only succeed but to know I was succeeding.

And so I kept playing. Kept singing. Kept sharing that joy.

Good news: I have a skill people love.

Bad news: in America, this skill is considered offensive.

Five years ago at a rodeo in Wyoming, I was doing a southern accent for fun. My travel partner told me it was unacceptable. She thought I was mocking. Maybe she was right; maybe she wasn’t. Either way, I stopped.

Now, at last, I’ve found a place where the same instinct — my delight in sound and voices — brings laughter and connection instead of tension and fear.

Sometimes I wander around the house doing silly voices. Usually, people shut this down. But in clown, it’s beautiful.

Or maybe it’s always been beautiful, I just need the right place to perform.

🤡

[My travel buddy of the last two years would like to add this note about me: “I’ve also noticed when traveling that you [Julian] pick up the accent and speech pattern of folks you chat with. I often worry that folks will find it offensive, but, tbh, I think they don’t usually notice and seem to like it.”]