What’s in a game?
By Josh Nobleman
This might seem like an inane question. Something only a philosopher would ask—and you’re not wrong! If you’re curious about the philosophy of games, stick around. If not, no worries, this post might not be your cup of tea.
The philosopher Wittgenstein famously argued that the term “game” defies strict definition. Why? Because no single quality is necessary or sufficient to make something a game.
Think about it:
Games have shared rules. Stakes.
What about Calvinball? Playing house?
You must compete or at least interact with other players.
What about solitaire? Sudoku?
Games must have goals.
What about sandbox games like Minecraft. D&D?
Games are fun!
Tell that to the high-stakes poker player who hasn’t smiled in 4 hours.
And so on.
So Wittgenstein – let’s call him W – used games as an example of something that can’t be defined by rigid boundaries.
The word “definition” comes from the Latin definire. “de”- means "away from" and “finire” means "to limit" or "to end." So from the beginning (at least as we understand it in english), defining a thing means setting its boundaries by marking the limits of that thing. What can and cannot be included. Where it starts and ends.
Just because we can’t do that for a word like “game” in a rigid way doesn’t mean that games aren’t real. You know a game when you see one. We can recognise games as a cluster of overlapping similarities. W called this family resemblance.
And W’s insight isn’t just about games. It’s a nerd’s lesson to other nerds (me, and let’s be honest, you, if you’re still reading) about understanding the real world, a place where every rule has an exception (even that one). We call it “street smarts” but what we mean is intuition, adaptability, and the courage to face uncertainty.
Because the real world can’t be conveyed through the limited means of a book; a chess board or a computer screen. It’s alive – complex, mutable, and so detailed that it defies a complete understanding.
So, what is the family resemblance that makes something a game?
Another philosopher, Gordon Burghardt, has a framework. Games are played. And play is:
incompletely functional,
voluntary,
unusual in its combinations of behavior,
done in a low-stress context, and
repeated with variation.
On first blush, #4 looks compelling: low stress. Playing a game is supposed to protect us from the seriousness of failure. If you fall during a game, it’s funny, not embarrassing. The stakes are low. The outcome is not a big deal – relatively speaking. Spit water on your brother during your wrestling match and you might lose the game and offer him a new shirt. Do that at a funeral, and it’s not so funny anymore. Context.
But I’d push back: what is “low-stress” to you might not be to me, and vice-versa. I have plenty of friends who are definitely not into improv. Or more dramatically, consider the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell. The protagonist is invited to an island where he is hunted as prey. He wasn’t game for a game where he’s the game. But that’s the game.
Anyway, this is why I find Bernard Suits’ definition more compelling (yeah, another philosopher. I warned you). Suits argues that a game is where you voluntarily accept unnecessary obstacles for the sake of the struggle itself. This approach allows for games of high-stress or stakes. Hence, Type-2 fun: experiences that, due to their difficulty, may not be immediately enjoyable in the moment– they might even be frustrating, exhausting and stressful– but they become satisfying to us afterward.
If we accept Suits’ definition, the quality of a game lies in how well its rules relate us to our voluntary challenges: are the stakes manageable? Do the constraints motivate us? It’s ironic, then, that games—this concept W used to illustrate the limits of limits—are, at their core, all about the limitations they impose on us.
Without limits, play becomes unfocused and less rewarding; it’s the constraints that make exploration meaningful and, ultimately, fun.
Consider juggling. Without rules, tossing objects might feel pointless or overwhelming. But when we have to follow a specific pattern, or for a certain number of throws, or a certain rhythm, it becomes a game. And if the constraints of that game result in achievable goals and a sense of progression, then it can be a fun game. Limits aren’t your enemy; they’re what create the possibility for joy.
You’ve probably heard of the concept of “flow”. It’s attributed to psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Flow happens when challenge is balanced with skill. Without constraints, training can lose the tension that drives us to try.
An aerialist is given a game: ascend using just one arm. This might force even the advanced student to explore unconventional ways of climbing. Underused muscles, body mechanics not normally engaged, or attention focused on individual components usually ignored. But they might not even notice that deepened understanding because they’re having fun.
Circus is full of these self-imposed challenges, and in many ways, training is a game we’ve decided to play. No one needs to do a handstand (I discovered this the hard way these last few months when I was too injured to train handstands). Juggling clubs, riding on a single wheel – these are arbitrary goals. And the methods we use to achieve them are full of constraints: “No collapsing your shoulder girdle.” “Point your toes”. “Keep your pelvis neutral.”
We train by imposing limits on time (do it to the music), or movement (if you can dodge a wrench…) to turn drills into games. Aerialists, acrobats, and jugglers create beauty within the limits that their apparati allow. And watching this as a performance feels far less limited than the CGI scene in a superhero movie.
And, recalling Burghardt’s criteria, I can see how the context of a game at least makes something less stressful than if that thing were not a game. It can help us reframe mistakes as a “game over, start again?” rather than a failure. It becomes part of our story.