No, not the 19th century intrigues between Britain, Russia and other powers for dominance of Central Asia. I'm talking the "Infinite Game" which is James P. Carse's organizing theme in his book, *Finite and Infinite Games: A Vision of Life as Play and Possibility.
I'm a gamer by nature and that's probably what attracted me to the title when I was browsing a bookstore's philosophy section many years ago. A thin little paperback with a black cover, the book opens by defining the two types of games:
A finite game is played for the purpose of winning, an infinite game for the purpose of continuing the play.
I bought it, devoured it in short order, and was blown away. The book somehow manages to offer a fresh perspective on the nature and possibilities of being a person in the world, and at the same time stay down to earth with little or no jargon. I've read it several times since.
Don't get me wrong; I don't want to put the book forward as scripture. Each time I read it, I see problems with Carse's reasoning. But I believe the main theme is sound and the theme has become something of a guiding principle for me in terms of how I try to relate to others, even if I often fall short of living up to it.
Everything flows from that first distinction which establishes two types of behavior -- finite play and infinite play. Finite play seeks to win, to bring things to a definitive end, and to have the titles of victory recognized in perpetuity. Infinite play seeks to keep the game going and to pursue horizons of possibility.
The idea of infinite play hearkened back to the endless Dungeons and Dragon campaigns I played in high school and college, yet it pointed to something broader and deeper than a swords-and-sorcery role-playing game.
Carse uses a technique of defining common words which are associated with either finite or infinite play. Finite play, for example, is "theatrical," while infinite play is "dramatic." There's also "serious" compared to "playful:"
To be serious is to press for a specified conclusion. To be playful is to allow for possibility whatever the cost to oneself.
Or "socieity" compared to "culture," or "cure" compared to "healing," or what became the Ding! moment for me: "power" compared to "strength."
Power is what you get when you win finite games. It's an entitlement that acknowledges your past victories. It's contradictory because you only have power to the extent others give it to you by recognizing your victories. No one is inherently powerful. Power is also limited to a relative few but, Carse says, "Anyone can be strong."
Strength is paradoxical. I am not strong because I can force others to do what I wish as a result of my play with them, but because I can allow them to do what they wish in the course of my play with them.
I think that passage took my breath away. It was an unveiling moment, yet so obvious when spelled out. Suddenly what I thought was strength wasn't really strength at all, and I realized I wasn't really a very strong person. Whether it was in my personal relationships, work life or discussion forums, that will-to-victory was at work, that desire to be the one who knew the most and understood the best. I was pretty good at it. But now I could see how that undercut the voices of others. I was trying to win by silencing alternative views. As Carse would say, I wasn't letting folks respond to my "genius" with their "genius," or vice versa. I was not strong.
I resolved to be stronger.
In reading the book, intellectual pursuits take on a new light. History, for example, is not about arriving at a final truth about what happened but engaging the past in an open-ended way that informs one's understanding and creativity. The approach is the same with science, music, fiction or art. I'm not looking at a Kandinsky painting to find the true meaning of his work, but to let my genius respond to his, whatever form that may take. The interaction is something new and unique. It points to a horizon of further play.
The Rider (Wassily Kandinsky)
Carse shines light on this dynamic with another pair of terms -- "explanation," associated with finite play, and "narrative," associated with infinite play:
Explanations settle issues, showing that matters must end as they have. Narratives raise issues, showing that matters do not end as they must but as they do. Explanation sets the need for further inquiry aside; narrative invites us to rethink what we thought we knew.
Wow. Yeah. Of course.
Carse's line of thought is not entirely original. You can see it in works like Martin Buber's little gem of philosophy, I and Thou, or in Carl Jung's approach to psychology. You also can see elements of Buddhism, Taoism and Sufism in Carse's ideas but he distills them wonderfully and clearly. For me it was a fascinating new way to look at the world.
The book touches on other subjects -- like sexuality, nature and politics -- viewing them in the light of either finite or infinite play. Even death is considered. For the finite player, death is the termination of play. For the infinite player, death occurs "in the course of play" and, ideally, stimulates further play among the remaining players.
Max Von Sydow plays chess with death in The Seventh Seal
Carse tends to privilege poets and storytellers, perhaps to a fault. But I don't mind because my artistic bent is to write fiction so, naturally, it's special. We're all storytellers, of course, or can be. Carse sees storytelling as the antidote to forms of discourse that seek to be recognized as truth:
Storytellers do not convert their listeners; they do not move them into the territory of a superior truth. Ignoring the issue of truth and falsehood altogether, they offer only vision. Storytelling is therefore not combative; it does not succeed or fail. A story cannot be obeyed. Instead of placing one body of knowledge against another, storytellers invite us to return from knowledge to thinking, from a bounded way of looking to an horizonal way of seeing.
With that, I'll get back to playing the Great Game (actually, I'm playing it here).
