Tag: Life

Top-Secret Games: Trader Joe’s

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The goal of the game is to win the games. The hard part is noticing they exist.

I was in the Trader Joe’s in Santa Cruz, California, standing between two checkout lines. Both stations had a cashier. Neither line had people waiting. I was deliberately ambiguous about which line I was in.

A shopper arrived behind me. She asked which line I’d chosen. I answered slowly: whichever one finishes first.

She found this unacceptable. She appealed to the Trader Joe’s gods — that is, the cashier. The cashier ruled against me. You have to pick a line. I hemmed and hawed to buy myself time and picked. 

About two years later, I was shopping with a friend at that same Trader Joe’s. My friend performed the exact same hedge. A person asked which line we were in. My friend answered the same as I had. Once again The Gods smote us. So I stood in one line and she in the other. Whichever line finished first: our group re-combined there. 

It’s like the old saying: “Everyone is playing a game that you know nothing about.” 

Here are my Trader Joe’s games: 

The dual-line straddle. If you stand at the right angle between two lines, you can commit to whichever one moves faster. This is optimal play — it’s an option you should always exercise when the structure permits it. It’s also widely considered rude, for reasons that truly make no sense to me. I’m there first; I deserve to be served first. This is a queueing theory problem: one line is more fair, BUT people also feel more annoyed that they’re in a longer line. (And here’s the thing: the person directly behind me isn’t actually the one harmed by my slowness. The person farther back is — the one whose checkout would have opened up if I’d committed earlier. We’re all glaring at the wrong people.)

The tag-team shop. Often, I stand in line while Partner grabs more items. The line moves; I advance; she rejoins. We’ve doubled our throughput. In the US, this is fine. In France, it’s a violation — my sister once spoke to me in a bakery line outside Paris and the woman behind us made it clear: this is a faux pas. Different country, different rules. (And yes, it’s perfectly reasonable to permit joining, or to restrict joining, or to permit joining but without an item, or to permit a direct substitution of equal numbers of people for equal numbers of people / equal items for equal items. If you can think of it, I can justify it.) 

The end-of-line dash. Partner’s specialty. As we approach the register, Partner likes to make a mad dash for one final item. Discussing this game, she was the most beamingly radiant I’ve seen her in a while. It has all the traits of a good game: clearly-defined, time-pressured, skill-based, some luck to keep you on your toes, low-stakes if you lose. Sometimes she meets me after the checkout emptyhanded. Sometimes she brings the stracciatella we don’t actually need but ends up being delicious with a little honey and salt. That’s not the point. The point was the game.

Here’s the secret: Trader Joe’s is also playing a game.

Their queueing system isn’t optimized for throughput. There isn’t always a central queue, no take-a-number system, no signal from the register that they’re almost ready for the next customer (so the next customer can start walking). When I asked where the bathroom was, the employee walked me halfway across the store rather than pointing. They’ve decided their game is warm experience, not minutes per customer.

Which means the friction I keep running into at Trader Joe’s isn’t accidental. It’s the residue of a different optimization. They’re playing for one thing; I’m playing for another; the shopper behind me is playing for a third (presumably their personal, egotistical perception of fairness powered by a deontological backing of the inefficient rules of Trader Joe’s (because it sure as hell ain’t actual fairness; actual fairness means the first arrival gets to checkout first)). All three of us are right, given our games. We’re just not playing the same one.

Most disagreements about etiquette aren’t moral disagreements. They’re disagreements about which game everyone thinks they’re playing. 

In serious situations, I’ve heard people say, “I’m not here to play games.” 

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that they always say that angrily. 

What If It Were Easy?

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The goal of the game is to do. You do by removing friction. 

A few years ago, a shaman watched me explain something I was struggling with. Then he asked, “What if it were easy?”

The friend with me said, before I could answer: “Julian associates difficulty with value.” 

He wasn’t wrong. I think most people do. We assume that if something is hard, it must matter; if it’s easy, it can’t be the real thing. Cultures everywhere reinforce this: no pain, no gain; if it burns, it’s working. 

But sometimes a thing is hard because it’s valuable, and sometimes it’s hard because of friction. Both feel difficult. They’re worlds apart. 

I notice the difference most clearly with games.

When I’m playing a game I love, three things happen: 

  1. I pay attention without effort. 
  2. I want to improve. 
  3. When it ends, I want more. 

This feeling – total absorption, no friction between me and the activity – is rare and precious. Most activities require me to push myself to do them. Games don’t. They grab me by my noggin and suddenly I’m along for the ride. 

A movie buff once told me he loves movies for the immersion. I experience immersion with movies sometimes. With books and theater, sometimes. With games, almost always. That’s information about me, not about games. Games are my art form.

This week I made a list of things in my day I find unenjoyable. Except for the entries about physical pain, every entry was a type of friction: either current or future. Some friction is necessary as a means to an end (waiting on hold with a doctor’s office). But some of it is inherited assumptions about how a life is supposed to feel.

If the shaman asked me again today, I’d answer: I think more of it is supposed to be easy. Not all of it. But more than I’ve been letting it be.

I’m game. 

The $10.125 Sandwich

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The goal of the game is selling sandwiches. You sell sandwiches by making it fun. You make it fun by taking fun seriously. 

I bought a sandwich today. The sandwich shop offers a cute promotion: from 3 to 6 pm, if you call a coin flip correctly, you pay half price. 

It’s fun, it’s attractive, and they net 75% of the normal retail price. 

But the experience is broken. 

First, you don’t pay until after the flip. So I, who sees loopholes without trying, am instantly aware that I could order the sandwich, flip the coin, and walk if it lands the wrong way. How would they even develop a process to stop me? I pay full price and then the flip determines my refund?

Second, the coin. It’s some B.S. commemorative coin — one side is the restaurant name, the other the logo — where neither side is obviously heads or tails. So the cashier has to tell me, and presumably every patron between 3 and 6pm, “this side is heads.”

Third, the flip. Less a flip than a half-spin. He calls it whichever way it lands in his hand. Not even the catches-it-and-slaps-it-onto-the-back-of-his-other-hand move that’s standard on any schoolyard.

What happened to the good ol’ quarter?
Why are we making this more complicated than it needs to be?
Why can’t the customer flip the coin onto the counter, where it would be easily visible?
Why not call the sides “name” and “logo” instead of heads and tails? 

The sandwich was good. It satisfied my basic need – fuel after the gym so I’m not grumpy. It wasn’t $13.50 good. It’s definitely $6.75 good. It’s probably also $10.125 good (the expected cost). 

Here’s what bugs me. The promotion could have been theater. A customer walks in, gets drawn into a small moment of drama, calls it in the air, wins or loses, laughs either way, tells their friends. Instead it’s a transaction with a dice roll bolted on. The cashier is phoning it in. The coin is wrong. The flip is wrong. The ritual isn’t a ritual.

The fun version costs them nothing. Same margin, same coin-flip odds, same sandwich. Just a real coin, a real flip, and a cashier who understands he’s running a tiny game show for thirty seconds a day. 

And sure, if there are people in line behind me, by all means do the quick version. But the main reason they’re doing this promotion at all is because they don’t have many patrons between 3 and 6pm. 

If they fixed it, I’d come back. If they fixed it, I’d bring people. The half-time half-price is nice; the experience could also have value. 

Also, I called heads and it landed tails. 

Content is what you know. Method is how you think. 

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To play well, you must find the method. To find the method… well, that’s part of the method. 

Today I met a cabinet rep who knew, off the top of his head, that the tambour door came in 24, 28, 32, and 36 inches. That’s the content, and, as one data point, it’s not yet impressive. But the fact he can rattle off seemingly every dimensional trait for multiple different cabinet styles and product lines across multiple brands? That’s beautiful. It’s like showing a chess master the opening few moves of a historical game and seeing him place it precisely. 

But content you can find in a book. Trivia is by its nature trivial. What you can’t find in a book: method. 

Repeatedly, he heard our proposals and improved them. He looked at a 79-inch space, listened to what I’d planned (two 36-inch cabinets, side by side), and proposed: a 30 and two 24s. Total: 78 inches. Gives you 6 more inches of cabinets. 

After he did this a few times, I isolated his method: 1) Map the dimensions of the space. 2) Subtract standard sizes from total length. 3) Find the combination that leaves the minimum remainder.

The content — knowing the sizes — is the raw material. The methods — including “subtract to find the minimum remainder” — is what makes him good at it.

A chess-master friend of mine thrives in certainty but buckles when he arrives at probabilities. Since I grew up playing poker, I rarely see certainty but am comfortable making positive-expected value bets. These games teach different skills. For him, it’s the detailed, factual, calculation-heavy process of walking a specific position to its end. (It’s no coincidence he’s now in law). For me, it’s staying afloat until I see a spot with an edge; then pouncing on it. 

Having spent many years ghostwriting for top Silicon Valley founders, executives, and investors. I’ve enjoyed living in brilliant minds. One thing I’ve noticed: 

Experts can usually describe their content in detail, but most can’t articulate their method. A surgeon could tell you every action in her procedure. But she might not know that she’s left-handed and therefore angles every screw slightly off from where a right-handed surgeon would. That left-leaning screw is just something she does, and she might even recognize it as hers. But ultimately she knows more than she can say. 

Most people hire for content. What do you know? What’s on your resume?
Some hire for good method, assuming you’ll acquire content fast.

The worst are the ones who confuse content for method. They’ve memorized the right answers for the common cases. But they can’t handle a new scenario. 

Yesterday’s post in fewer words: 

  • Pattern-matchers have content without method.
  • Scientists have method that generates content. 
  • When I’m hiring a doctor, I want a scientist. 

The cabinet rep impressed me with his content. But we also shouldn’t ignore some of the other points of his method. “You sure you don’t want a panel on the side of the fridge? You’re gonna want to look at the wires and the side of fridge every time you enter your kitchen for the rest of your life?” 

The honest answer? Yeah, I’m game.

The Surgeon Who Quoted Standard Practice

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You win the game by assembling the right team. In medicine, the right team thinks. 

Before my sleep apnea surgery, I interviewed surgeons the way you interview contractors. Notebook in my pocket, questions prepared, specific concerns about specific structures, specific tradeoffs, and speculation about areas outside of the medical literature. 

After ten years of complaining about sleep to at least a half-dozen doctors, I finally met a surgeon who lit up when I pulled out the notebook. We were in a teaching hospital; his students were in the room. He went question-by-question with me. He enjoyed the questions the way an expert juggler enjoys a bowling ball being thrown at his head. I pushed him hard. He juggled the chainsaws. We became friends.

The second surgeon, at a different and widely respected teaching hospital, wore a very nice lab coat and said things like “the standard practice in this scenario is…” She said it several times. When I pressed on specifics, she returned to standard practice. She was pleasant. She was credentialed. She was a pattern-matcher. She wanted me to use a CPAP for the rest of my life. 

Doctors are often pattern-matchers. You go in with symptoms, they recognize the pattern, they prescribe the standard response. Most of the time this works, because most symptoms are common. The pattern holds.

The problem is that pattern-matching is indistinguishable from competence until you’re the edge case. And then it’s catastrophically different.

A real scientist notices when the pattern doesn’t fit. A pattern-matcher doesn’t notice, because noticing would require understanding the mechanics rather than seeing the pattern. The failure is perceptual, not moral. The pattern-matcher isn’t lying and usually isn’t careless — they don’t understand the mechanics of the machine, so they follow the owner’s manual. 

This is why “they didn’t intend to be malicious” is such a weak defense of anyone in a professional role. Nobody intends malice. Bullies don’t intend malice — they perceive attacks where there aren’t any. Cruel people don’t intend cruelty — they mis-observe what cruelty is (often by thinking they’re acting righteously). The failure of perception is the failure. 

Optimism is a specific, dangerous version of this. The optimist sees only what’s going right. If their own work is the problem, they can’t see it — and they can’t hear it when other people raise it, because the pattern in their head is: my work is fine. 

I don’t want a doctor. I want a scientist who practices medicine. Even better: a philosopher who uses science to practice medicine.

A test: can you break your surgeon in conversation? If they can be broken – if your uneducated mind can throw questions that cause them to buckle – are you really going to trust them cutting into your unconscious body? If a surgeon can’t handle intensity well, do you really trust them with your surgery? 

After my first six doctors mis-diagnosed or mis-treated my sleep issue, I now attack the ideas of every doctor who consults on my case. If they can’t hack it, I want a different doctor. I didn’t even go to medical school, and you can’t handle me? 

I may irk some competent doctors who are unwilling to tolerate my approach. I accept this rate of false negatives, since I am happy to travel the country to find a doctor. If I had limited options, I would behave differently. 

It’s lonely to keep searching for a new doctor over and over again. For one recent medical topic, I’m on six consults and counting. 

When it’s not a big deal, I don’t fight this hard. But when it is, I’ll keep attacking your ideas, methodology, and approach until I dismiss you or I trust you. 

Most people fall into the first category. The second category is how I befriended my surgeon. 

Game on.

Wise to the Game

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A relaunch.

I’m most alive when I’m playing games.

A few months ago, my sister asked me about an unspoken rule in her business culture – an implicit game. I told her about games where explicit acknowledgment of the rule breaks the rule, and pointing that out is also against the rule. She thanked me and said I should write about the philosophy of games.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since.

Near the end of my senior year of college, I ushered my father into a room above the library and drew three circles on a whiteboard: writing, philosophy, and befriending eccentric people. In the middle I wrote the question that would pick my profession: “in what areas am I in the top 5% of my classmates?” 

The answer that fell out: befriend eccentric people, then write their philosophy.

Not wanting to be a starving writer, I asked one follow-up: who in that circle has money? Growing up in Silicon Valley, the answer was tech founders. I spent the next six years building that business and rose to the top of the technology ghostwriting industry. It was fun while I was growing. It’s not fun anymore. The game is too easy. 

So today I ran the exercise again, with the ikigai framework:

  • What do I love? Games. Learning new things. Befriending eccentric people.
  • What am I paid for? Writing.
  • What does the world need? Play. Whimsy. Fun.
  • What am I good at? Making complex things clear.

The answer that fell out is games, which makes sense: games are a bounded, examinable instance of the thing the world needs more of. If the world needs more play, games are where play can be examined. I learned this at clown school: the first course isn’t about humor or fun or jokes; it’s about games. 

The three pillars of this publication, going forward:

  1. Games.
  2. Eccentric people.
  3. Practical philosophy.

Writing is the medium. Speaking, eventually.

The new name is Wise to the Game. (My last name is Wise. It’s a pun. A double-pun? No: a triple-pun. Try to keep up.) 

More tomorrow.

The Sum

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The goal of the game is to keep the sum. You keep the sum by noticing who’s low. 

Partner and I play a game: we try to keep our sum competence level the same.

On a normal day, she’s the one who tells strangers their dog isn’t actually a schnauzer — it’s just cut like one. She’s the one who’d google the laws on dog-deterrents in the tree box, to get the annoying ones removed.

Today we met with a doctor, and afterwards she wanted to curl up in a ball. So she went to our cave of a bedroom, where she either napped or fiddled on her phone. And today I was the one who googled the dog-deterrent laws. I didn’t spot the schnauzer — I didn’t know to look. But the gym got visited, and we got fed. The sum held.

It goes the other direction too. Yesterday I noped out of what I usually handle — navigating, picking the food place — and she took us to Whole Foods where we bought my favorite oranges.

I don’t think this is an accident (at least on my side). When she’s doing well, we’d both rather I spend my attention elsewhere. When she’s doing worse, it’s worth the effort. 

One question this raises: if one of us is very competent, is it worthwhile for the other to be negative? 

I assume no, but let’s investigate. 

What’s the benefit to un-competence? Not merely the lack, but the negative. 

One piece is fun. Competence is goal-oriented. Un-competence is expansive, innovative, novel. Competence lifts the weight and puts it back down, thereby strengthening the muscle. Un-competence learns there is such a thing as standing on one’s head. 

Sometimes standing on one’s head raises new understanding of human biology. Sometimes un-competence creates a new joke. 

I wonder if other people play a similar game in their relationships. Or if it’s just me — if I’d do this with anyone.

It doesn’t strike me as a bad approach. If anything, it’s quite elegant. 

Game on.

Know what you’re hiring for (Apr 15 2026)

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As long as you do your job 🙂 

My contractor is excellent. Exquisite. Delightful. Perfect for the price point. 

His project manager is new.
Not in a bad way.
In a just-moved-to-the-U.S.-from-Pakistan-where-he-used-to-be-an-architect way.
In a living-with-eight-relatives-out-in-the-boonies way.
In a this-is-his-first-project-at-his-new-job-in-a-new-country way.
In a hungry way. 

Yesterday, he sent me a long email saying we need to stick to timeline.
I replied appreciating him for his work and telling him, respectfully, that the delays have all been on his side.
I also texted the contractor to follow up about a question he and I had discussed thrice, but that the project manager had a different conclusion on.
I received a reply that included both the answer I expected and a note that he was looking forward to seeing me tomorrow.
I replied: tomorrow? That works, but did we have a scheduled appointment? 

And at 8:36am, Partner prods me in my half-torporious slumber to say that project manager is en route.
I check my email. At 5am, the project manager emailed to say we were meeting at 9am. 

The amusing part is: this is actually fine. None of these minor hiccups have actually been problematic for the specific job I want him to do.
And also, if his timing is a bit slower because he’s green, we’ve signed a sufficiently solid contract to be okay in that eventuality. 

I’m still very sure that the project manager is a good fit, and that the contractor is excellent.
I’m also suspicious that the project manager might have been up all night working on my project. (He said he had sent the 5am email “last night” and I’m not sure when he slept before taking the metro north train in.)
And that he dresses differently depending on whether he is going to meet designers (black turtleneck on one occasion, stylish black t-shirt on another) or subcontractors (blue jeans and a baseball cap).
Lol.
Keep up the good work! 

Vandals & Volition (Apr 14 2026)

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Why can’t we all want the same things? 

Just outside our apartment, walking to The Park, Partner & I spotted a man kick a trash can. The can fell on its side, languishing in the street. 

Despite having an appointment in 40 minutes and Google Maps informing me the walk would take 38 minutes, I stopped to right the can. I lifted first its outer shell, plopping it back in its rightful place on the sidewalk, then its inner catching chamber, inserting this chamber into the shell. 

Walking away, I felt both smug and nervous. I caught myself sneaking glances at the vandal who had tipped it over. Will he notice? Come after me? Have I regressed the impact of his righteous fury, thereby inspiring it against myself? 

Just as I entered the park, he looked back toward the can, object of his anger. Noticing it was tipped, he crossed back across 7th avenue, re-set himself in the same position, and kicked it over again. 

And I, already too far and with other things to do, continued on with my day. 

Three hours later, I returned to find the can replaced in its proper location, save for the lid slightly open. Some other Good Samaritan must have contributed to the fight against entropy. 

But I’ll always remember the kicker’s determination. How inspiring it must be to have a clear, defined purpose. 

—

I found it: the best article ever written in America. I laughed. I cried. I hungered. I grew. Deeply worth the experience, especially for those of us who care about the journey of food and the food of journeying.

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/2026/05/best-free-restaurant-bread-america/686582/

—

And a quote from April 8th: 

“How come you’re incredibly detail-oriented when reading a contract?” – Partner, fishing out an egg from the pot of eggs I sous vided last night and clearly just missed one when I put them away.

The empty longing of a holding pattern. (Apr 12 2026)

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In which Our Hero yearns. 

When a plane doesn’t yet have a safe runway available, the control tower tells the captain to “go around again”. The captain circles and circles, awaiting the change in this external event that will enable the hundreds of passengers to continue on with their lives. No one enjoys a holding pattern. Quite the opposite: it is during these unenjoyable intervals that we find ourselves “killing time”. 

The last few weeks have been versions of this activity. I’ve forwarded key aspects of incredible importance (my eye surgery; Partner’s jaw surgery complications fixing; Partner’s medical malpractice case; apartment renovations; my work). Yet we – Partner and I – are not living the lives we wish. 

We lift weights more days than not. We amble through the most beautiful park in the greatest city in the world. We cook and eat food that we enjoy. We watch Jeopardy over lunch or dinner, shouting out the answers we know (and a roughly equal number that we don’t). 

But still, we wish for more community. 

We moved into this apartment with the intent of living with others. Now, 2.5 months in, renovations have not started. They might not for another month. Then add 4 months for the renovations themselves. And it could be – probably will be – over half a year before we live with roommates we like, hosting weekly dinners and playing board games and shouting out Jeopardy answers with more than just ourselves. 

This period – this holding pattern – weighs on me. 

There’s no point establishing clear patterns and habits and routines when they will all change in a month. No point improving the infrastructure or systems in a home that will literally have different walls. No reason to stabilize on processes of engagement with my roommate (Partner) when we’ll need to live elsewhere for a while and then return to a different home. 

So we set ourselves on a month-long horizon. We establish temporary patterns. We work, and lift weights, and reach out to friends. We enjoy what we can. 

But still, each day, I want more. 

I want what we’re building. I want at least 5 people living here. I want to cook meals with others, to establish a weekly “Come over for dinner on Tuesday!” that invites a half-dozen people. A board game group and a poker group. I miss those activities. I miss them, though I’ve never had them. 

And that weight – the weight of wanting what I don’t have – is a heavy burden

for at least the next month. Or two. Or four. Or six. Or….