So, I’m really bad at Go. Like, absolutely garbage at playing it. Which is to say, I know how to play better than most people. But compared to people who actively play, my style is absolutely remedial. I make sloppy shapes, I have no sense of pacing, and I make plays that give up initiative on the reg. And, oddly enough, I love losing. Love it. I’ve played 9-stone handicap games against people waaaay above my level and had my score absolutely dwarfed in comparison to the other player. And I had fun.

Huizinga writes that “The spirit of the professional is no longer the true play-spirit; it is lacking in spontaneity and carelessness. This affects the amateur too, who begins to suffer from an inferiority complex” (197). I don’t know if I agree with that. I look back at the unorthodox early-game of the late Go Seigen and see an immense playfulness in his style—his brash willingness to work against convention kicked off an entire movement of crazy opening moves later dubbed the Shin Fuseki (“new opening”) Era. Outside of board games, I think of Magic Johnson, whose finesse on the court Sicart describes as “Dark play,” or “a playful approach to play situations” (Play Matters 31). Perhaps these players are outliers in professional games, but I absolutely see room for playfulness in competitive sport.

Which brings me back to the amateur, to losing against a skillful opponent. I’ve played Go against people twenty years my senior, who have been playing for decades, and had them wipe the floor with me, even with a significant handicap in my favor. But I also never went into those games expecting to win; I went in expecting to learn, to play my best game. The elegance of their moves showed me the ugliness in my own and gave me hints as to how I should improve. And my lack of experience allowed me to play unorthodox moves that would surprise and confuse the more experienced player. In playing sub-optimally, there were moments where I was able to think around all of the built-up heuristics and strategies that the more experienced player was used to, and those moments of brief, fleeting, (and usually fairly insignificant) triumph salved the sting of losing some.

Play is all in how you approach the game, and the standardization/professionalization of competitive sports does not necessarily take that away.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Huizinga’s discussion of play and language, which he seems to especially consider in his discussion of poetry: “Poiesis, in fact, is a play-function. It proceeds within the play-ground of the mind, in a world of its own which the mind creates for it…poetry will never rise to the level of seriousness. It lies beyond seriousness, on that more primitive and original level where the child, the animal, the savage and the seer belong, in the region of dream, enchantment, ecstasy, laughter” (119).

So, if, as he argues, “[a]ll poetry is born of play” (129), I wonder if we can extend this line of thinking to prose and other forms of articulation as well, since it seems to me that the Huizinga’s privileging of poetry here could potentially limit our understanding of how playful other forms of writing and communication might be. How, too, might the intersection of play and language affect the way we teach such things, and how might our understanding of this be complicated by the fact that Huizinga also wonders how this form of play fares in (his) contemporary society: “How far is the play-quality of poetry preserved when civilization grows more complicated?” (129).

I’ve also been thinking about the fact that Huizinga extends this interrogation of the current state of play in the final chapter, since he wonders “how much of the play spirit is still alive in our own day and generation and the world at large” (173). Or, to put this another way, Huizinga posits the following questions: “To what extent does the civilization we live in still develop in play-forms? How far does the play-spirit dominate the lives of those who share that civilization? The 19^th century, we observed, had lost many of the play-elements so characteristic of former ages. Has this leeway been made up or has it increased?” (195).

I know we talked about this a bit last week, but I’m still wondering how play has continued to evolve, especially when we think about how our technologies expand the ways we might engage with play. And, in thinking about the ways we played in class last week when we played Johann Sebastian Joust, I also wonder how technology affects the way we think about the manner in which the body engages in play.

Agonism is a concept I always have a hard time accepting. On the one hand, I think there’s something to be said for learning from adversity and hardship, but I suspect agonism has more in common with hazing than instruction. I enjoy games that are brutally difficult, like Bloodborne or Roguelikes because of the laser-focus on trial and error and detail-oriented iteration of technique, and desensitization to the idea that failure will kill you, but that’s me. I don’t want to ask my students enjoy what I enjoy like that. Agonism has a tendency to discourage people from playing as much as it does to teach them about failure. I much prefer Jesper Juul’s account of failure-game relationships wherein a good game teaches the player to overcome failures before them in a safe space. Huizinga’s recount of agon in his section on ritual “games” or “play” that give life and society meaning through their underlying themes of sacrifice, of course, makes sense, but I question it when we talk about application to education. If anything, I’d like to see Huizinga take up the concept of eristic games, instructive countering of moves/arguments simply to see them played out. Not only is it a solid metagaming activity that instructs players on the limits and possibilities of the game, it can be coupled with reflection to show why some moves are better for others, not just for the sake of the game but for the sake of the players. Above all else, eristic exercises can be instituted in a more safe way than agonism, which assumes that conflict is ever-present and pervasive. I see why Huizinga doesn’t take up eristic games: they’re not ritualized. I admire Huizinga’s project to show the “seriousness”
that comes from games and their contributions to society, but it’s also important to focus on the play that happens on small scales and doesn’t always result in great singular meaning.

Every time I start to get on board with Huizinga, this issue of play as divorced from ordinary life comes up and I get lost again. I can’t get a fix on what he considers ordinary; in so much of the text here, he’s using word play, riddles, and rhymes to talk about education and proliferation of information, certainly ordinary topics if ever there were any, even if that information is draped in dreams, riddles, and imagery. In Play and Poetry, what we’re seeing is history, much as we’re seeing religion and codes in Playing and Knowing, and with Mythopoeisis, I’m almost there with him, as these ideas come together in notions of created worlds, beings, and tales to explain the world around us. But it just doesn’t jibe with my sense of play and I’m finding it so hard to wrap my mind around. Yes, it’s imaginative, but that’s our perspective, from a perspective of “knowing” about things (like diseases and their causes, for instance). Earlier people were trying desperately to find a sense of order in their universe. Is that play? Perhaps; when we play plenty of games, we look for order (sorting things, cataloguing, collecting information). And perhaps that tendency to dream answers is play. I’m talking myself out of my argument as I type it. But when I’m reading the text, it’s so difficult for me to take things their creators thought as very serious, even essential, and label them “play” — and I very much believe in the power of play!

I’m all in on play in philosophy, though, so long as we call them headache-inducing forms of play….

In his historical overview of how play has shaped societies, Huizinga covered a lot of ground. Despite getting lost in the avalanche of references to legends, folk tales, riddles, and stories I’ve never encountered, a few parts did stand out and provoked some thoughts relevant to composition. The part that stood out most for me, however, was on page 197. Huizinga said the following about play in modern times:

“Now, with the increasing systematization and regimentation of sport, something of the pure play-quality is inevitably lost. We see this very clearly in the official distinction between amateurs and professionals (or ‘gentlemen [sic] and players’ as used pointedly to be said). It means that the play-group marks out those for whom playing is no longer play, ranking them inferior to the true players in standing but superior in capacity. The spirit of the professional is no longer the true play-spirit; it is lacking in spontaneity and carelessness. This affects the amateur too, who begins to suffer from an inferiority complex. Between them they push sport further and further away from the play-sphere proper until it becomes a thing _sui generis_: neither play nor earnest” (197).

On the one hand, I’m not sure I agree with Huizinga’s critique here. Not exactly anyone would have been able to participate in Medieval tournaments (or even wear armor or ride a horse), and poetry isn’t known for being commonplace among all populations, in much the same way that I won’t be on an NHL team anytime soon.

On the other hand, I can empathize with Huizinga in that playing games with someone who is far more skilled (or professional) usually isn’t fun. But part of me also wonders if play doesn’t transform, rather than becoming “impure*.” Reading this, I thought of the role of play in writing processes within Composition classrooms, and it seems–at least in my experience–that play tends to take place during the invention process or playtesting. But I’ve encountered it far less during revision, editing, peer review, and proofreading. I wonder if this follows similar lines of reasoning as to why companies often solicit feedback early on in a design cycle, but they’re hesitant to reveal too many secrets once the market is saturated? That is, is there simply too much risk involved at later stages for play to be productive, or am I missing out on playful revision and editing activities?

*This also makes me think of Miguel Sicart’s concept of dark play from Play Matters and how that fits into the idea of professionals playing in different ways than amateurs.

1. Huizinga consistently uses “earnest” as a counterpoint to “play.” However, there are many of us in this room that play things seriously or do serious work about play that force us to view playing as an earnest activity. How has our understanding of play shifted since the publication of Homo Ludens to allow for “earnest playing”?

2. Let’s situate this reading among the other readings for this course. Why include Homo Ludens among composition articles from the late 80’s through the late 90’s? How are we to mobilize a theory of play in the context of these composition texts? What, indeed, does play have to do with computers in the composition classroom?

3. In Chapter 2, Huzinga defines play as:

“a voluntary activity or occupation executed within certain fixed limits of time and place, according to rules freely accepted but absolutely binding, having its aim in itself and accompanied by a feeling of tension, joy, and the consciousness that it is ‘different’ from ‘ordinary life.'” (28)

Does this definition of play hold up today? If we were to rewrite a definition of play, would it look much different than this?

We might look to Miguel Sicart’s recent book, Play Matters for a postmodern definition of play. Though he gives a fractured and lengthy definition in chapter 1, I have found a relatively concise breakdown of Sicart’s “definition” of play:

1. “Play is contextual” (6), understanding context with Dourish and others as the “network of things, people, and places needed for play to take place.” (7) Contexts of play are characterized by a tension between offering rational Apollonian order and creation on the one hand and inviting emotional Dionysian disorder and destruction on the other — concepts Sicart borrows from Nietzsche’s analysis of Greek tragedy.
2. Therefore, “play is carnevalesque” (11), this time appropriating a term from Bakhtin’s study of medieval carnival: play temporarily inverts the norms of society, which results in the body releasing fearful inhibitions in laughter, all the while revealing the workings of the social reality we live in. Goodplay integrates creation and destruction into this form of carnival.
3. “Play is appropriative, in that it takes the context in which it exists and cannot be totally predetermined by such context.” (11) In this manner, contexts designed for play (playgrounds, games) afford but don’t determine play, and players can re-appropriate other spaces or objects for play.
4. As a consequence, play is necessarily “disruptive” of the order of the context it appropriates (15).
5. “Play is autotelic”, “with its own goals and purposes” (16).
6. “Play is creative” (17), that is, it provides a form of expression, and as such,
7. “Play is personal” (18), an expression of our individual and collective character.

(http://gamestudies.org/1501/articles/deterding_s)

How does Sicart’s view of play differ from Huizinga’s (besides its outrageous length)?

4. Tying this back to our classrooms, how do you incorporate play into your classes (if at all)? Since play is often seen as “frivolous” or “immature,” how do we balance maintaining some sense of authority in our classrooms while still being playful? Or maybe we don’t feel this tension at all?

5. Speaking of play in the classroom, how do we get around the fact that “all play is a voluntary activity?” (7) If we try to bring play into the classroom, do we run the risk of trying to bring in “mandatory fun?”

6. Huzinga is big on rules. Rules are his jelly, his jam, his peanut butter: “The rules of a game are absolutely binding and allow no doubt” (11). They are necessary for holding together the “play-world” (11). However, there is a lot of playfulness in modern games that challenge the supremacy of the rule. Speed-runners of video games manipulate game mechanics to beat the game in a way that was not intended by the designers—one could even argue that speed-runners are not following the spirit of the game by doing so. What function do rules serve in regards to play? Has our understanding of that function shifted since the writing of Homo Ludens? How?

In an effort to try and make the best out of this reading situation:

Play is commonplace. From the time we’re born until our faculties no longer permit us, we play, we interact, we engage, we challenge, we set rules and restrictions and we look for loopholes to avoid them and the entire time we’re engaged in some level of critical thinking. Except for that period between first grade and 16th grade – then it’s all standardized learning and hoopla.

Being the SLS outsider that I am, I realize that this theoretically, philosophically dense reading is probably a staple in R/C, providing a series of anti-standards (or maybe a different set of standards) to apply to the composition classroom. I certainly see its benefit: learning through play; and I can’t help but think about second language acquisition theories that in some way agree with this notion. A child is born and is immediately bombarded with coos and goos of language, and belly time, and play time. They get older and are thrown into Pre-k not so much to learn their ABCs as it is to learn how to play, or socialize, with other kids following a set of certain rules. It’s said that this play time with children their own age teaches them how to learn language, they intuitively pick up syntax structure, pronunciation, the differences between inside and outside voices, and learn to negotiate meaning in a social context with some guided input from the adults monitoring their play. When we look at SLA, we consider context, anxiety, purpose for learning a second language, and, with adults, learn to mitigate the different rules they bring with them into the classroom. Yet, there’s a clear distinction between the playground and the classroom, and if play can’t be forced, how do you encourage students (especially adults with various cultural backgrounds) to play with language – written or spoken?

I have some thoughts, but I’ll tease those out during class maybe.

Huizinga’s chapter 2 is my favourite. words and languages (German in particular for some reason these days) are always fascinating. all the Greek and Latin is a little hard to get through since I don’t have that background (I imagine those were more common educational staples back in the 30s) but the whole idea that the ways we use words like “play” and “playful” and “game” and “sport” and all that is important. I don’t know if I’m smart enough to know what to do with that importance, but there is probably a lot to be done. this chapter of Homo Ludens is an example. it enlightens cultures for us, and almost starts to sort of map how play shows up differently and is embedded differently in different parts of the world. that we play games and play instruments but don’t play our voices… that’s interesting. but you can play a recording of someone singing. I think something in the word play seems to need at least some external dealing-with-the-world and dealing-with-others-ness. its connection to learning and rhetoric is in there too. it’s really cliche to say everything we do is some kind of game we play and modify as we go, but it’s true. and it’s helpful (if frustrating sometimes) to remember.

Good God, I’d forgotten how racist Huizinga was.

Yet, despite his infuriating ethnocentrism, I am fascinated by his idea of ritual and play inhabiting the same space. There is something about that magic circle, with its set rules and its separate-but-real existence that resonates in this space. It’s a strange leveling of the playing field that elevates play without necessarily diminishing the intent behind ritual. And that, I think, is the most interesting thing about Huizinga for me…the idea that play is far from frivolous. Irrational, yes, but not dismissible.

It’s a great argument for learning-through-play…with the small problem that, as Huizinga notes, you can’t be ordered to play. Play is an act of freedom, and playing by demand is only an imitation of the actual act. I suppose this is where classroom gamification (the grievously ineffective kind) comes into play. The mechanics of games and play aren’t enough. There has to be freedom to play, to be serious or not, and to fail without failing, as it were.

You know. Simple stuff.

Homo Ludens is unlike any of the other readings we have had so far this semester. The highly theoretical/philosophical/historical text is written quite well and took a lot of time to get through, but there were several chapters that I found interesting. Chapter 6, “Playing and Knowing” discusses the role of riddles and sophistic debate in relation to epistemology and play. I found it made several good points about not only Western thought (through the Germans and Greeks) but also through Eastern philosophy (through the Chinese and Indians).  Much like the rest of the book, the connections to play are deeply rooted in cultural practices and beliefs about competition and value (such as winning in a debate). Huizinga presents Aristotle and Empedocles as masters of debate, problems, and play as a part of paideia. I had never thought of their word PLAY and emphasis on wrestling (mental and physical exercise) as PLAY.  I could get behind this. Homo Ludens seems like  great read– I wish I had more time to dig into it.