The Joy of the Unseen Game: Why Are You Really Playing?

When did it happen?

When did the thing you love, the thing that brought you a quiet, simple peace, become a performance? When did your passion become a platform, your hobby a hustle, your joy a justification?

We’ve all felt it. That subtle shift from doing something for the sheer love of it to doing it for an audience. The painter who once lost hours in the dance of colors now checks the ‘likes’ on their latest post. The writer who once bled words onto a page for the story’s sake now obsesses over bestseller lists. The weekend footballer who used to laugh when they missed a goal now seethes with frustration, replaying the error in their mind, worried about what their teammates think.

We start playing a different game—not the one on the field or the canvas, but the one in our heads. The game of validation. The game of proving our worth, our talent, our significance. And in playing this new game, we often lose the very reason we stepped onto the field in the first place.

The truth is, the most profound and sustainable reason to play any game is simply because you enjoy it. Not to prove something.

“Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.” — Aristotle

The Story of Elias and the Silent Piano

Elias had been a pianist since he was six. His hands, even as a child, seemed to know their way around the eighty-eight keys like old friends. He didn’t play for applause or for competitions. He played for the feeling of the polished ivory under his fingertips, for the way a chord could hang in the air and tell a story all on its own. He played because his little apartment felt empty without the music. The piano was his sanctuary.

As he grew, so did his talent. His friends were mesmerized. His family, bursting with pride. “You should perform!” they’d say. “You could be famous!” The idea was intoxicating.

So, he did. He started small, playing at local cafes, then at weddings, and eventually, at prestigious concert halls. With every performance, the applause grew louder, the critics more attentive. He was no longer just Elias, the boy who loved his piano. He was Elias Vance, the prodigy.

But a strange thing began to happen. The sanctuary started to feel like a cage. Before each performance, his stomach would churn not with excitement, but with a cold, heavy dread. His mind wasn’t on the music; it was on the audience. Will they like this piece? Was that note sharp? Is the critic from the city paper here tonight?

He began choosing pieces not for their beauty, but for their technical difficulty—pieces that would impress, that would prove he deserved the acclaim. The joy was being systematically replaced by pressure. The game had changed from creation to competition.

One evening, after a sold-out show where he received a standing ovation, he returned to his apartment. The applause still rang in his ears, but it felt hollow. He sat before his beautiful grand piano, the one that had been his confidant for two decades, and felt nothing. He tried to play a simple melody from his childhood, a tune he once played with pure, unthinking joy. His fingers felt like lead. The music wouldn’t come.

He had won the game of proving himself. The world believed he was a brilliant pianist. The only person he hadn’t convinced was himself.

For weeks, the piano remained silent. He was terrified he had broken the one part of him that felt truly authentic. One rainy Tuesday, unable to bear the quiet any longer, he walked to the piano. He didn’t think about an audience or a critic. He closed his eyes and just rested his hands on the keys, remembering what it felt like when he was six. He didn’t try to play a masterpiece. He played a single, simple note. A C. He let it resonate, filling the room with its clean, clear voice. Then another. And another.

He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t proving. He was just… playing. For himself. For the love of the sound. He played for hours, not complex sonatas, but simple, meandering melodies that came from his heart, not his head. Tears streamed down his face—tears of relief, of homecoming. The music was back because the joy was back.

Elias still performs, but something fundamental has changed. He no longer steps on stage to prove his worth. He steps on stage to share his joy. The audience is not a panel of judges anymore; they are fellow travelers invited into his sanctuary for a brief, beautiful moment. And the music has never been more breathtaking.

When you do something purely for the joy of it, you enter a state of flow where time melts away. You are not defined by the outcome, by the victory or the defeat. You are defined by your engagement with the process. The world is obsessed with scoreboards—follower counts, salaries, awards, applause. But the real scoreboard is internal. It measures fulfillment, peace, and passion.

This isn’t to say ambition is wrong or that seeking recognition is a flaw. But it should be a byproduct, not the primary driver. The moment the need to prove eclipses the love of doing, the magic is lost.

So, ask yourself: What is your game? Is it your career, your art, your fitness, your relationships? And more importantly, why are you playing? Are you playing to silence the critics, real or imagined? Or are you playing for the music that only you can make?

Let yourself be guided by that deep, intrinsic pleasure. Play for the love of the game. The rest is just noise.