Alan Watts on the Game of Life—and How to Play It
Experts from one of the audio clips of Alan Watts.
Alan Watts (1915–1973) was a British philosopher, writer, and speaker best known for popularizing Eastern philosophy in the West.
With a gift for turning complex ideas into vivid, poetic language, he introduced audiences to Zen Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism through books, lectures, and radio broadcasts.
I recently came across one of his talks and found it very fascinating.
He has explained complexities of life by using a simple gaming analogy.
I kept listening to it over and over again.
Sharing the unedited experts from the talk below..
Remember your first day of school? Kindergarten was just to get ready for first grade.
Then first led to second, and on it went—always preparing for what came next. The treadmill began early.
High school arrived, a “big moment.” You had to choose tracks, keep scores high, keep climbing.
Do well and you reached university. The pattern continued: prepare for the world, for the future, for the life you were told was coming.
You finally stepped out—and it was the same rhythm. Another ladder, another race, another “next.”
One day—at forty, earlier, or later—you pause. “Is this it?” you wonder, feeling much the same, only more tired and unsure.
We’re told we must go on, must survive. It’s necessary because… it just is.
But that never quite sits right. So what have we really been doing—and what have we missed?
We take life far too seriously. We act as if it’s something to be endured until a reward arrives, as if grimness were a virtue.
Consider another approach: life is not a journey or a test. Suppose it’s a game—or better, a play.
A proper game has enough structure to engage and enough uncertainty to stay alive. Too fixed, and it dies; too loose, and it dissolves.
Tic-tac-toe is dull once you know the trick. There’s no play left in it.
At the other extreme, try three-dimensional chess on eight stacked boards. Most give up before the first move.
What we seek is the middle ground—games like poker, bridge, or chess, where chance meets skill and mind meets mystery. You never quite master them, yet they’re never out of reach.
So too with life: a balance of known and unknown. Predict too much and the game dies; let go of everything and it disappears.
We want the dancing edge, the razor’s edge—between order and chaos, where the music plays.
We crave security and build plans and predictions. But when life becomes fully predictable, we lose interest.
Imagine a fortune-teller who reveals everything. Would you truly want to know the exact day you’ll love, sicken, and die?
Knowing the ending drains the story. No sparkle, no curiosity.
We love games because outcomes are uncertain. You can guess and strategize, but you don’t truly know.
That “not knowing” keeps us involved. When the future is too defined, life turns mechanical, and we begin to wonder what the point is.
The fascination is in the play, not the ending. In the mystery, not the outcome.
Given keys to absolute certainty, we’d quietly throw them away. Our spirit prefers adventure to safety—the open sea to the harbor, storms and all.
Life, like great art, isn’t total precision. It’s a dance or a jazz improvisation: structure that lets the unexpected move with grace.
Technique is only the beginning. Greatness requires surrender.
Think of a Chinese calligrapher’s brush. Years of practice—yet the moment is risky: the ink may run dry, the paper may bleed, a line may wobble.
In that slight slip of control, beauty comes alive—the “controlled accident.” A flicker of chaos inside the frame, a dash of wildness inside the rule.
Bach’s stately harmonies carry a mischievous whisper. A subtle bend awakens the ear and stirs the soul.
Try to perfect every move and life goes dead. Master the form just enough to let go—and it becomes play.
Our hunger for order hides a danger. Make life too secure and you smother it.
It starts innocently: a rule here, a precaution there. Bad behavior invites a law, then a form, then another form, until we forget how to live.
A world of complete security—yet no one dances. When control becomes master, not servant, we trade freedom for safety and spontaneity for structure.
To be completely safe is to be completely dead. Nothing moves; the spark is gone.
We keep believing one more rule or system will save us. But life isn’t a system to manage—it’s a rhythm to dance.
Without risk, surprise, and not-knowing, the music stops. Orderly, perhaps—but joyless.
Look to the artist for a clue. A true artist seeks life, not perfection.
A brushstroke that runs dry is a mistake for a beginner—but for a master, it’s character, movement, breath. That imperfection gives soul.
Technicians control; creators invite the unknown and frame it into meaning. A jazz musician doesn’t just read notes—he listens and responds.
The “wrong” note, embraced, becomes rhythm. Even the cosmos plays this way.
Stars don’t form perfect grids. Waves don’t crash in even intervals—yet beauty is undeniable.
Why insist our lives be tidy and controlled? Why not trust that beauty emerges when we let go?
Life isn’t a cabinet to arrange. It’s a fire to dance—fueled by free wind.
We also try hard to control ourselves—and failing that, we try to control each other.
This springs from an old suspicion: human nature can’t be trusted. Left alone, we’ll wreck the place, so we build cages of morality.
But not everyone agreed. In ancient China, Confucius spoke of human-heartedness—an innate kindness.
Asked to define it, he refused: “You already know.” Virtue may arise naturally when we stop straining to be righteous.
Righteousness can be more dangerous than greed. The greedy may steal; the righteous may destroy in the name of principle.
So perhaps we can trust our nature. Flowers don’t learn to bloom; waves don’t study how to break; hearts don’t take lessons to love.
Not every thread must be knotted. Not every path must be lit.
Life isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a forest to enter—wide-eyed, barefoot, willing to get a little lost.
If you demand certainty before moving, you’ll never move. Wait for it all to make sense, and you’ll wait forever.
Life is beautiful because it doesn’t wait for understanding. It moves, stumbles, flows.
You don’t play a game to finish it. You play because playing is delightful.
There is laughter in not knowing, joy in trying, grace in the fall. So stop trying to “win” at life—there’s nothing to win.
There is only this trembling moment, this unfolding pattern, this strange dance. You never quite know what comes next—and that’s the charm.
To be completely safe is to be completely dead. And you were not born for safety—you were born for the game.
Hope you find this insightful.
Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.