What I Learned from Candyland

When I was a preschooler, I'd beg my mother to play the board games with me -- Candyland, Chutes & Ladders, Hi-Ho Cheerio -- games in which skill was not pitted against skill, but rather luck against luck.

Mom was a good sport, but she was grateful when my younger brother was finally old enough to play with me. Any adult who has ever played any of these games knows the feeling. They are all frustrating, meaningless, pointless exercises in which the draw of a card, the roll of a die, or the vagaries of a spinner can, from one moment to the next, send you right back to the starting line. In theory, these games can go on forever, and, for adults, they often feel like they do.

To mom's credit, she never complained, although I understand now why she was so eager to teach us card and other games in which skill, strategy, and experience played a part. And that's probably why my memories of playing those games are all positive, explaining why I, as a parent, fell so easily into the the mistake of introducing our daughter to these games in which the thrill of winning is replaced by fervent prayers against bad luck.

Some games of Candyland would last literally for hours. Time and again, one of us would, turn-after-tedious-turn, move our little gingerbread markers toward the ultimate goal only to, crushingly, be sent back to square one. It was the myth of Sisyphus in microcosm, the players doomed to roll that damned boulder to the top of the hill only to have it, each time, roll back to the bottom . . . for eternity! 

These board games wound up in the preschool, where they made regular appearances in the classroom, although my instruction to the other adults in the room was that they didn't have to play the game with the children unless they, and the children, really wanted to. I only asked that they keep an eye on the game parts so that at the end of the day we could return them all to the their proper boxes. Occasionally, an adult would take on the challenge of participating, only to discover the same grind of meaninglessness that both my mother and I had encountered. 

One day a group of four-year-olds set themselves up for a round of adult-less Candyland. One of them had played the game before, so took on the role of explaining the rules and managing the turn-taking. I was only half paying attention, but was surprised when, moments later, a winner was declared. What good luck, I thought. Then a few minutes later, another winner, followed by eager chatter about playing again.

This time I paid attention and quickly understood. They were simply ignoring the bad luck. No one had to go back to square one, no one had to miss a turn, and everyone was allowed to take the shortcuts. They even played a round with only one gingerbread man pawn, all of them sharing in the journey to the candy castle. They even moved the piece together, each of them pinching a little arm or leg or head to move it forward to the next colored square.

In the big game of life, no one wins or loses. In the end it's always a draw. It's always the myth of Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the hill until the game is over. That's how my mother and adult me had experienced Candyland, but as I watched these kids play with one another, I realized why children keep coming back: playing with others is the only way to make and find meaning in life. It is the play, not the winning or losing, that matters. 

These kids understood, in their hearts if not their heads, that what they were doing was not trivial or frivolous, and it certainly was not meaningless. When we play with one another it is the only time that we truly come together as free people. These children had chosen to play together and choosing to play together, whatever we play together, is the the definition of human freedom. That is how we make our lives have meaning, which is the only way anyone has ever won.

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