When I was a child, my eldest brother discovered The Oldest Game.
He discovered it on his own, with just a pen, a partner, and his imagination.
The game begins when one player challenges the other, and the challenged starts by drawing anything.
The challenger then goes on the offensive, drawing something which threatens the chosen object.
The challenged then responds with either a defensive or offensive invention.
Their selection determines how the first challenger will pursue their original mission.
So on…
And so on…
There is a rhythm to the game. The creatures, objects, and concepts start small but grow in magnitude and complexity.
There are no rules about what can or cannot be put into play. It just has to answer the last move.
The game ends where imagination does. When something reasonably superior for that game’s context is put into play, and no moves are left.
Theoretically, The Oldest Game can go on forever.
A Wizard’s Duel
My brother never called it The Oldest Game. He called it Counter-Strike.
Sitting in the back pew of our family’s tiny baptist church, he and his friends would wage war on each other’s minds, engraving bespoke mythologies on the back of tithing envelopes.
In movies, this game is called A Wizard’s Duel, and instead of drawing on paper, two magic-wielders go head-to-head in a turn-based battle of wits. The most iconic example is from Sword in the Stone. My personal favorite is from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. It’s from this variation that I get the title “The Oldest Game.”
Always Changing
Something about the premise of a wizard’s duel speaks to me. I think it’s the same attribute that makes me so fond of the trickster archetype. I feel like I am always changing language, changing location, changing myself. If you told me that the most ancient game in our universe was a game of transformations—of survival by means of constant change—I wouldn’t hesitate to agree with you. When it comes to longevity, life is a free fall—and all that matters is how many wings you can grow before it’s time to kiss the earth.
Indeed, the most egregious sins I’ve ever witnessed were by men who decided that they had been playing this game long enough. Men who got tired of constantly shape-shifting and decided that things should be easier by now. So, they quit the game and choose the alternatives: use force or lie. These are the methods of people who have given up adapting to reality and think that reality should adapt for them. All of them end up doing damage to the world— and to their own souls, too. If not for their example, I would probably do the same.
There are, of course, people who have no idea what I’m talking about. People who have been born and raised and lived in a world that has been remarkably stable and has never demanded a transmogrification. I caught myself envying one of these the other day and had to check myself. That feeling is a warning to me: I am getting tired. I need rest, but I don’t know how. It’s hard when you have trust issues with reality.
Like all games of strategy, The Oldest Game is, in part, about prediction. Scenario planning. The more you can intuit what your opponent might throw at you, the more likely you are to respond triumphantly. The last five years of my life have been one evolution after another, but my challenges were always taking on forms I could more or less anticipate. Nowadays, I don’t have that advantage, which sends my imagination into overdrive.
What is coming to meet me?
Where is it coming from?
What will it demand of me?
How do I prepare for it?
What skin do I reach for?
When is it my turn to sleep?
There is an old proverb, it says: “Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young.” I think of this when I come across veterans of The Oldest Game— my fellow wayfarers. The ones who have not opted out unceremoniously and still know how to wrap themselves in the furnishings of new life. The ones who have stayed kind despite disintegration, and have stayed wild after a broken heart. When I find them, I like to buy them a beer and ask for their secrets.
They never tell me. I’m starting to think there isn’t one. There is just the road, my feet, and the next step. Indeed, when you are practiced in the art of rebirth, everything is always baby steps. Baby steps is the only thing that a phoenix is guaranteed to learn twice. So that’s what we do.
Right foot, left foot. Again. Right foot, left foot. Again. Baby steps.
About the Author:
Bradley Andrews is a hopeful rabble-rouser on a mission to inspire the world. Stay in touch with what he’s doing by subscribing to a weekly digest of his activity through micro.blog. This will send you writing, photos, and other curiosities that you are guaranteed to love.
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