A fantastic letter--we really appreciate you sharing this with us!
This is going to prompt some fantastic discussion this week, both regarding the success/failure of developers and the success/failure of the player within the game. I'm really, really looking forward to all of that!
I apologize wholeheartedly in advance for the length of this post.
This isn't only true for video games or theatre. We're increasingly designing a world that fails to challenge, and thus fails to inspire. I know I run the risk of sounding a little, "Gawh, kids this days!" while shaking my fist at the local skateboarders, but it's something that is true. There is something that we are teaching our children from an earlier and earlier age. It's not a lesson that is good for them, it's one that's convenient for us. We're teaching them that discomfort and failure can and should be avoided at all costs.
We're teaching them how to quit.
As an infant, you once wanted to walk, but could not. You watched others do it, and you were, in your own way, envious. They could get around faster. They could reach things. They could hold a cookie and still move about. It was glorious to behold, and you wanted it. So, you set about learning. You tried standing, holding a coffee table or something to stay up. You couldn't stay up long before your little legs would tire, but eventually you got better. Before long, you were making hurried laps around that table, but you were still crawling when you had to go somewhere else. Realizing this, one day, you decided that had to end. You took your first steps.
It didn't go well. Accounts vary, but in all likelihood you fell flat on your face. Maybe you even caught a piece of the table to your forehead on the way down. Falling hurt. The sensation of falling was confusing and terrifying. It was frustrating to have shown yourself unable to do what you wanted. Make no mistake, infants can feel all of this. It was a wholly negative experience for you, but you had one ace up your sleeve: No one ever told you that you could just quit, so you didn't.
Next time, you failed, but you failed a little less. And then a little less than that. So it went for trial after trial, with all the bumps and bruises that came with each. Eventually, "big failure" became "small failure," became "small success," became "big success." And within a few weeks, there wasn't a single part of your brain or body that remembered not being able to do this.
This is learning. This is how it is done. Learning is coming face-to-face with something you can't do or don't know, with which you are not comfortable or proficient, and doing battle until you've added it to the list of things you can do. It is the arduous trek from "awful" to "great," and the gulf that separates the two is only crossable on a bridge you construct from your failures.
Failure, however, is not the enemy. When failure comes to us, it can only do one of two things. It can teach us, or it can stop us. At first, we aren't aware of the latter, but somewhere along the line, we learn life's worst lesson: "If something gets too hard, you can just quit and go do something else. No need to endure the discomfort, the pain, or the embarrassment of what you can't do. Just go find something else to do." This lesson is what can turn failure's stepping stones into stumbling blocks.
There are three ways in which we teach our children this awful lesson, as parents or as teachers.
1. We protect them too much. We work so hard to shield them from any pain or discomfort, both physically and emotionally. It's for their safety, but also because we'd rather believe they can go through life in an entirely positive way. Sadly, that's just not how it works. No one wants to intentionally put kids in negative or hurtful situations, but there are times where you have to let them happen. Because eventually hurt and failure are going to find them.
Think of this like the chickenpox. It's out there, we recognize it will find our kids eventually. And we know that it is far less dangerous to a child than to an adult. So what do a lot of parents do? They find a kid with the chickenpox and send their own child to play with the sick one. Why? To get it out of the way early, when it can't do as much damage. We do this to allow their immune systems to develop strength early on, even if we don't understand it in that way.
Beyond this, medical studies are finding that kids who never get dirty, like those in our hyper-sanitized environments, tend to develop more allergies (which are just our own immune systems over-reacting to normally innocuous things) because their immune systems don't learn how to handle these things early enough.
If only we could apply this same logic (though in a careful, judicial manner) to their emotional and social "immune systems"--the mind's defense when dealing with negative input from the world. If you shelter and "hyper-sanitize" a child's world, they never learn to develop any sort of immunity to it. And when (not if) it hits, it will hit harder.
2. We play too often to the child's strengths. Kids will inevitably develop strengths and weaknesses based on combinations of genetics and development (though I tend to favor development). "Well, Billy is good at reading, but he's not very good at math." This may be an accurate statement, but the difference comes in how we use that information. Does it mean we pile on the reading, and we marginalize the math? Or does it mean that we put a bit more focus, from time to time, on where he's weak?
If a child is found to have a "lazy eye," it simply means one eye is weaker than the other in terms of its ability to focus. One eye is dominating, and the other eye becomes increasingly weak. You see the same kind of thing happen in countless pairings where one side is strong than the other. The highly-complicated and futuristic way in which they deal with a lazy eye early on? An eye patch. On the good eye. This forces the weaker eye to develop the strength to do what it needs to do and bring it up to the same level as the stronger eye.
We use the same logic when someone has an injured leg. Yes, you keep the weight off while it's healing... but as you get toward the middle and end of the process, you've got to start putting weight on it, bending it, gradually increasing the capabilities of the "bad leg." If you don't, muscles won't be ready, stitches can re-open, and bones won't be able to handle the stress. If you always avoid putting weight on a weakness, it stays a weakness forever. Sometimes you have to steer a child away from a strength (just momentarily) so that they can develop other strengths, and so that they can learn that weakness don't have to stay that way--they're a sign that you've got a harder road, not a dead end.
3. We just don't care enough, sometimes. It can really be that sad and simple. #1 and #2 teach our kids that they should quit, and this is how we often teach them that they can. The child tries something new, finds that it's harder than they thought, and they want to quit. Without even looking up from what we're doing, we just casually wave them off, "Sure. There's plenty of other stuff you could do." (Personal testimony follows. Feel free to skip to cut some length from this post.)
I teach middle school band. That is to say, I teach children in their first years of playing a musical instrument--flute, oboe, clarinet, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, baritone, tuba, french horn, percussion, and so on. Kids get into band for mostly similar reasons--they saw or heard someone play it once, and thought it was awesome. They wanted to do that.
Then they get to the first day of class, making the first few sounds. Even for the best future musicians, it doesn't go well--when compared to the image they had in their minds. I know and understand the growth that needs to happen, so I'm doing my best to encourage them... but there's a gulf between what they thought it would be like and how it actually is. It's not like other things (easy to start, hard to master). It's hard from beginning to end. Part of this is because it requires a lot of work from both the mind and the body... and the mind is so rarely patient with the body.
Different instruments become harder at different times. Clarinet seems easier at the beginning, but becomes a lot harder a few months later, for instance. But every instrument has "the wall"--the point at which the ease of the first few notes vanishes, and it takes real work to progress any further. The mind learns rapidly, but the physical coordination falls behind. And nearly every child, at some point, will utter the phrase, "This is too hard. I don't want to do band anymore."
I know it's coming, and I'm always prepared to handle it. You help the child around the wall, and they'll realize that, though it was a mile high, it was only an inch thick. They learn not only how to get better on the instrument, but how to stand up to a challenge. The problem comes from the parents. A parent will call and say, "Billy wants out of band. How do I get him out?" I'll try to let them know what's going on, the way this all works, and what we can do about helping him stay. Often, it works. Other times, I get the old, "Well, I just don't want to force him to do something he's not interested in."
Wrong. You know he's interested because he joined it. How interested is up for debate, sure. But this goes beyond that. If he doesn't want to come back next year, hey, that's fine. It happens, and I don't take it personally. But what he's "not interested" in right now is being "not good" at something. And he's going with his first instinct, as learned at home--run from discomfort, avoid failure.
But this is our chance to teach Billy how to meet a challenge and succeed. It's not about playing the trumpet. I'm under no illusions that all of my students will play these instruments 'til their dying day. Most won't pick it up again after high school. But what they learn about themselves, that's the real value. They learn that you can never be good at something if you're not willing to be bad at it first.
Most of the time, I can keep the kid through the year. About half the time, those kids will come back the next year. But too often, the parents take them out regardless of what I say. Why? Because there are so many other, easier things the child could be doing. The parent isn't interested in hearing the instrument, bringing the child to concerts or extra rehearsals, providing encouragement in the home... it's easier just to take him out and let him try something else. And usually, the kid will quit that, too. Because that's the lesson he learned.
THE BOTTOM LINE Growth can never occur in a state of comfort. As a child, you know you're growing when your clothes fit funny, your legs hurt, your voice gets all crackly, and a million other uncomfortable things. Growth requires a certain amount of discomfort, and we've got to be willing to endure it--and hold our kids and students to the same task.
Video games fall into the same trap. They can't be "too challenging," because there are tons of simpler games out there for people to run to. You've got to make the player comfortable, because challenge breeds discomfort. It causes the player to face what they're not good at (which should be read "not good at yet"), and most can't handle that. Games are supposed to be "fun," right? And facing your weaknesses, even a little, just isn't fun.
I know that the content I've read in this issue so far mostly speaks to failure as a developer, but I think the issue extends to how the player handles failure, and the implications of that on how games can move forward.
If you made it this far, I commend you. Go have some coffee. Or a nap.
I've been described by one of my teachers in high school as one of the greatest underachievers he's had a chance of knowing. He said if I had bothered to do more than the minimum I could have been one of his greatest students.
I remember struggling with a really tough project at work several years ago, and having lots of problems. I remember discussing my frustration with my boss. He told me: "The only people who never fail are those who never try". It was the best morale booster I'd ever gotten from a boss.
I wish I was that kid who could get straight A's if they wanted to. I've been trying, very hard I might add, to get that A. And I'm saddled with a sea of B's, and even a C. And, while I realize that I'm taking classes above the average difficulty, with above average students, when I'm surrounded by nothing but these things, they become the norm to me, and it's pretty saddening.
I'm wondering if anyone who is complimenting this editor's note on its inspiring message are actually going through a series of failures at the moment, because this article is sure as hell doing nothing for me. Not that I'm saying that I'm going through particularly hard falls.
A fantastic letter--we really appreciate you sharing this with us!
This is going to prompt some fantastic discussion this week, both regarding the success/failure of developers and the success/failure of the player within the game. I'm really, really looking forward to all of that!
I apologize wholeheartedly in advance for the length of this post.
This isn't only true for video games or theatre. We're increasingly designing a world that fails to challenge, and thus fails to inspire. I know I run the risk of sounding a little, "Gawh, kids this days!" while shaking my fist at the local skateboarders, but it's something that is true. There is something that we are teaching our children from an earlier and earlier age. It's not a lesson that is good for them, it's one that's convenient for us. We're teaching them that discomfort and failure can and should be avoided at all costs.
We're teaching them how to quit.
As an infant, you once wanted to walk, but could not. You watched others do it, and you were, in your own way, envious. They could get around faster. They could reach things. They could hold a cookie and still move about. It was glorious to behold, and you wanted it. So, you set about learning. You tried standing, holding a coffee table or something to stay up. You couldn't stay up long before your little legs would tire, but eventually you got better. Before long, you were making hurried laps around that table, but you were still crawling when you had to go somewhere else. Realizing this, one day, you decided that had to end. You took your first steps.
It didn't go well. Accounts vary, but in all likelihood you fell flat on your face. Maybe you even caught a piece of the table to your forehead on the way down. Falling hurt. The sensation of falling was confusing and terrifying. It was frustrating to have shown yourself unable to do what you wanted. Make no mistake, infants can feel all of this. It was a wholly negative experience for you, but you had one ace up your sleeve: No one ever told you that you could just quit, so you didn't.
Next time, you failed, but you failed a little less. And then a little less than that. So it went for trial after trial, with all the bumps and bruises that came with each. Eventually, "big failure" became "small failure," became "small success," became "big success." And within a few weeks, there wasn't a single part of your brain or body that remembered not being able to do this.
This is learning. This is how it is done. Learning is coming face-to-face with something you can't do or don't know, with which you are not comfortable or proficient, and doing battle until you've added it to the list of things you can do. It is the arduous trek from "awful" to "great," and the gulf that separates the two is only crossable on a bridge you construct from your failures.
Failure, however, is not the enemy. When failure comes to us, it can only do one of two things. It can teach us, or it can stop us. At first, we aren't aware of the latter, but somewhere along the line, we learn life's worst lesson: "If something gets too hard, you can just quit and go do something else. No need to endure the discomfort, the pain, or the embarrassment of what you can't do. Just go find something else to do." This lesson is what can turn failure's stepping stones into stumbling blocks.
There are three ways in which we teach our children this awful lesson, as parents or as teachers.
1. We protect them too much. We work so hard to shield them from any pain or discomfort, both physically and emotionally. It's for their safety, but also because we'd rather believe they can go through life in an entirely positive way. Sadly, that's just not how it works. No one wants to intentionally put kids in negative or hurtful situations, but there are times where you have to let them happen. Because eventually hurt and failure are going to find them.
Think of this like the chickenpox. It's out there, we recognize it will find our kids eventually. And we know that it is far less dangerous to a child than to an adult. So what do a lot of parents do? They find a kid with the chickenpox and send their own child to play with the sick one. Why? To get it out of the way early, when it can't do as much damage. We do this to allow their immune systems to develop strength early on, even if we don't understand it in that way.
Beyond this, medical studies are finding that kids who never get dirty, like those in our hyper-sanitized environments, tend to develop more allergies (which are just our own immune systems over-reacting to normally innocuous things) because their immune systems don't learn how to handle these things early enough.
If only we could apply this same logic (though in a careful, judicial manner) to their emotional and social "immune systems"--the mind's defense when dealing with negative input from the world. If you shelter and "hyper-sanitize" a child's world, they never learn to develop any sort of immunity to it. And when (not if) it hits, it will hit harder.
2. We play too often to the child's strengths. Kids will inevitably develop strengths and weaknesses based on combinations of genetics and development (though I tend to favor development). "Well, Billy is good at reading, but he's not very good at math." This may be an accurate statement, but the difference comes in how we use that information. Does it mean we pile on the reading, and we marginalize the math? Or does it mean that we put a bit more focus, from time to time, on where he's weak?
If a child is found to have a "lazy eye," it simply means one eye is weaker than the other in terms of its ability to focus. One eye is dominating, and the other eye becomes increasingly weak. You see the same kind of thing happen in countless pairings where one side is strong than the other. The highly-complicated and futuristic way in which they deal with a lazy eye early on? An eye patch. On the good eye. This forces the weaker eye to develop the strength to do what it needs to do and bring it up to the same level as the stronger eye.
We use the same logic when someone has an injured leg. Yes, you keep the weight off while it's healing... but as you get toward the middle and end of the process, you've got to start putting weight on it, bending it, gradually increasing the capabilities of the "bad leg." If you don't, muscles won't be ready, stitches can re-open, and bones won't be able to handle the stress. If you always avoid putting weight on a weakness, it stays a weakness forever. Sometimes you have to steer a child away from a strength (just momentarily) so that they can develop other strengths, and so that they can learn that weakness don't have to stay that way--they're a sign that you've got a harder road, not a dead end.
3. We just don't care enough, sometimes. It can really be that sad and simple. #1 and #2 teach our kids that they should quit, and this is how we often teach them that they can. The child tries something new, finds that it's harder than they thought, and they want to quit. Without even looking up from what we're doing, we just casually wave them off, "Sure. There's plenty of other stuff you could do." (Personal testimony follows. Feel free to skip to cut some length from this post.)
I teach middle school band. That is to say, I teach children in their first years of playing a musical instrument--flute, oboe, clarinet, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, baritone, tuba, french horn, percussion, and so on. Kids get into band for mostly similar reasons--they saw or heard someone play it once, and thought it was awesome. They wanted to do that.
Then they get to the first day of class, making the first few sounds. Even for the best future musicians, it doesn't go well--when compared to the image they had in their minds. I know and understand the growth that needs to happen, so I'm doing my best to encourage them... but there's a gulf between what they thought it would be like and how it actually is. It's not like other things (easy to start, hard to master). It's hard from beginning to end. Part of this is because it requires a lot of work from both the mind and the body... and the mind is so rarely patient with the body.
Different instruments become harder at different times. Clarinet seems easier at the beginning, but becomes a lot harder a few months later, for instance. But every instrument has "the wall"--the point at which the ease of the first few notes vanishes, and it takes real work to progress any further. The mind learns rapidly, but the physical coordination falls behind. And nearly every child, at some point, will utter the phrase, "This is too hard. I don't want to do band anymore."
I know it's coming, and I'm always prepared to handle it. You help the child around the wall, and they'll realize that, though it was a mile high, it was only an inch thick. They learn not only how to get better on the instrument, but how to stand up to a challenge. The problem comes from the parents. A parent will call and say, "Billy wants out of band. How do I get him out?" I'll try to let them know what's going on, the way this all works, and what we can do about helping him stay. Often, it works. Other times, I get the old, "Well, I just don't want to force him to do something he's not interested in."
Wrong. You know he's interested because he joined it. How interested is up for debate, sure. But this goes beyond that. If he doesn't want to come back next year, hey, that's fine. It happens, and I don't take it personally. But what he's "not interested" in right now is being "not good" at something. And he's going with his first instinct, as learned at home--run from discomfort, avoid failure.
But this is our chance to teach Billy how to meet a challenge and succeed. It's not about playing the trumpet. I'm under no illusions that all of my students will play these instruments 'til their dying day. Most won't pick it up again after high school. But what they learn about themselves, that's the real value. They learn that you can never be good at something if you're not willing to be bad at it first.
Most of the time, I can keep the kid through the year. About half the time, those kids will come back the next year. But too often, the parents take them out regardless of what I say. Why? Because there are so many other, easier things the child could be doing. The parent isn't interested in hearing the instrument, bringing the child to concerts or extra rehearsals, providing encouragement in the home... it's easier just to take him out and let him try something else. And usually, the kid will quit that, too. Because that's the lesson he learned.
THE BOTTOM LINE Growth can never occur in a state of comfort. As a child, you know you're growing when your clothes fit funny, your legs hurt, your voice gets all crackly, and a million other uncomfortable things. Growth requires a certain amount of discomfort, and we've got to be willing to endure it--and hold our kids and students to the same task.
Video games fall into the same trap. They can't be "too challenging," because there are tons of simpler games out there for people to run to. You've got to make the player comfortable, because challenge breeds discomfort. It causes the player to face what they're not good at (which should be read "not good at yet"), and most can't handle that. Games are supposed to be "fun," right? And facing your weaknesses, even a little, just isn't fun.
I know that the content I've read in this issue so far mostly speaks to failure as a developer, but I think the issue extends to how the player handles failure, and the implications of that on how games can move forward.
If you made it this far, I commend you. Go have some coffee. Or a nap.
I know when I was older I stopped trying.
When I was younger, I just struggled, and struggled with certain things, but I was also considered some kind of genius.
In any event, at some point I was doing all the work given to me flawlessly, and still getting bad grades because my teacher thought I should be enthusiastic about my work.
But then... If getting things perfect isn't good enough, how is that supposed to do anything for your enthusiasm?
If doing your best doesn't accomplish anything more than making the bare minimum of effort, who would continue to put in the effort exactly?
So, it shows how easily you can fall into this trap.
And unfortunately, I'm suffering for it now, because I find it very difficult to manage things which are an actual challenge.
And it's not so much giving up when things get difficult, as giving up before I even start.
It took a handful of years to learn that it wasn't worth making an effort...
10 years to learn why that was wrong...
And 8 years of trying to undo the damage this has caused, with only limited success.
But, as we're talking about here, the only way forward is to learn from your mistakes, and try and improve on them.
And that even applies to learning to overcome the 'I give up' mentality.
I think what you're experiencing is how learning the wrong lessons about failure can have an impact. Mostly, it can lead to bad habits of the worst kind--when we learn something one way (You failed even though you tried very hard) and our mind begins applying it in reverse (Don't bother trying hard, because you'll just fail).
In this case, you learned that you "failed" at being perfect. Not much of a failure, mind you, but if you're taught that it's a failure, that's where your mind will file it. So, despite your best efforts, 99% is the best you got. And one of the dangers of being a perfectionist is the risk of constant disappointment... 99% is viewed as a failure, but a failure that took staggering effort to attain, and you're forced to look at that 1% with envious eyes.
Over time, if no one helps you get a different perspective, you begin to feel like Sisyphus--shoving that boulder with all your might, never quite reaching the top, the very portrait of futility. But because you are capable of viewing the situation from the outside, you're able to see that futility, so you (quite reasonably) decide that if you can't reach the top, there's no point starting the climb.
Of course, just because you can view the situation from the outside doesn't mean you're viewing it objectively. Perfection is desirable, but not the requirement. Each time you fall short, the idea is to fall a little less short. And that's all--that's success. Our efforts move us along an asymptote to perfection, approaching nearer and nearer but never quite reaching. And that is alright.
You can never be good at something if you're not willing to be bad at it first. For instance, I am awful at golf. Absolutely foul at it. And when I visit home and my Dad wants to go golfing, I know that I'll be spending over $40 to go and be bad at golf. I do this because I love my Dad. But also, I know that unless I go "be bad at golf," I'm certainly never going to get any better. Each time, I'm a little less awful.
The trick for me? I stopped keeping score. I live swing by swing. "I feel good about that swing." or "That swing was a little wobbly. I think I looked up at the end." See, if I kept score, I would see that my "good shots" were in a sad little lonely minority. Rather than seeing them as the goal, and as momentary brushes with meeting that goal, I'd be seeing them as the scattered exceptions to the greater rule--I suck at golf.
You've got two voices in your head. The "yes" voice, and the "no" voice. The "no" voice is the one that focuses on the negative. It catalogs your mistakes, minimalizes your successes, compares you unfairly to others (or to an unattainable ideal), and generally holds you back. It's your pride's self-defense mechanism--"If I can keep you from trying, we'll both save ourselves a lot of embarrassment."
It all sounds a bit hippy-ish at first, but the principles behind it are sound. Tell that voice to shut up and get out of the way. Focus on your failures just long enough to learn something, and then move forward. Don't over-analyze your successes to the point that you get in the way of repeating them. Go into a task focused on what goals you want to accomplish, not what mistakes you want to avoid. Let the "yes" voice be louder.
For a short book that does a good job of exploring this dynamic, I might recommend W. Timothy Gallwey's The Inner Game of Tennis. I don't play tennis, but I actually found that helpful when reading this book, because I wasn't focused on the subject. Just the process. Since I wasn't failing at tennis, I didn't have that subconscious need to second-guess the advice the book was giving. If you get a chance, give it a go...
I think what you're experiencing is how learning the wrong lessons about failure can have an impact. Mostly, it can lead to bad habits of the worst kind--when we learn something one way (You failed even though you tried very hard) and our mind begins applying it in reverse (Don't bother trying hard, because you'll just fail).
In this case, you learned that you "failed" at being perfect. Not much of a failure, mind you, but if you're taught that it's a failure, that's where your mind will file it. So, despite your best efforts, 99% is the best you got. And one of the dangers of being a perfectionist is the risk of constant disappointment... 99% is viewed as a failure, but a failure that took staggering effort to attain, and you're forced to look at that 1% with envious eyes.
Over time, if no one helps you get a different perspective, you begin to feel like Sisyphus--shoving that boulder with all your might, never quite reaching the top, the very portrait of futility. But because you are capable of viewing the situation from the outside, you're able to see that futility, so you (quite reasonably) decide that if you can't reach the top, there's no point starting the climb.
Of course, just because you can view the situation from the outside doesn't mean you're viewing it objectively. Perfection is desirable, but not the requirement. Each time you fall short, the idea is to fall a little less short. And that's all--that's success. Our efforts move us along an asymptote to perfection, approaching nearer and nearer but never quite reaching. And that is alright.
You can never be good at something if you're not willing to be bad at it first. For instance, I am awful at golf. Absolutely foul at it. And when I visit home and my Dad wants to go golfing, I know that I'll be spending over $40 to go and be bad at golf. I do this because I love my Dad. But also, I know that unless I go "be bad at golf," I'm certainly never going to get any better. Each time, I'm a little less awful.
The trick for me? I stopped keeping score. I live swing by swing. "I feel good about that swing." or "That swing was a little wobbly. I think I looked up at the end." See, if I kept score, I would see that my "good shots" were in a sad little lonely minority. Rather than seeing them as the goal, and as momentary brushes with meeting that goal, I'd be seeing them as the scattered exceptions to the greater rule--I suck at golf.
You've got two voices in your head. The "yes" voice, and the "no" voice. The "no" voice is the one that focuses on the negative. It catalogs your mistakes, minimalizes your successes, compares you unfairly to others (or to an unattainable ideal), and generally holds you back. It's your pride's self-defense mechanism--"If I can keep you from trying, we'll both save ourselves a lot of embarrassment."
It all sounds a bit hippy-ish at first, but the principles behind it are sound. Tell that voice to shut up and get out of the way. Focus on your failures just long enough to learn something, and then move forward. Don't over-analyze your successes to the point that you get in the way of repeating them. Go into a task focused on what goals you want to accomplish, not what mistakes you want to avoid. Let the "yes" voice be louder.
For a short book that does a good job of exploring this dynamic, I might recommend W. Timothy Gallwey's The Inner Game of Tennis. I don't play tennis, but I actually found that helpful when reading this book, because I wasn't focused on the subject. Just the process. Since I wasn't failing at tennis, I didn't have that subconscious need to second-guess the advice the book was giving. If you get a chance, give it a go...[/spoiler]
That's pretty good. Like I said, I've been working on dealing with failure better when I figured out what I'd gotten myself into.
And like you say, a large part of it is not spending so much time worrying about if everything's perfect or not, and just accepting failures as they happen, rather than avoiding situations that could go badly.
I've certainly made progress, so it's not all bad, things just feel a little messed up sometimes when I'm reminded pf what people expected me to be capable of.
Anyway, if you give up before you even begin, you'll definitely fail.
Without a doubt, the most interesting, entertaining, and- gosh!- educational classes I've taken are the ones that utterly kicked my straight-A ass.
Which makes it all the more of a pity that our education system is screwed that way. We treat people who take classes that they breeze through without effort like superstars and fill people who have to struggle with dread. It often looks better on your transcripts that you got 'A's in bonehead Geometry than that you struggled your way up to a C- in honors Calculus.
Western culture, and American culture in particular, celebrates victory far more than struggle. We often seem to love our software billionares not so much because they worked hard to get where they are, but because they make it seem so easy- we imagine that if we had had the same "right place, right time" serendipity, we would be the ones in their place. Sure, we love a "self-made man" story, but there's little respect for someone who works twice as hard just to keep food on his or her family's table working two minimum-wage jobs.
Employers don't look for "tried hard" on a resume. Scholarships are more likely to fall into the hands of the A-cruiser than the honors-level-C-struggler. And the guy who self-promotes and takes credit for others' work is at least as likely to get the promotion as the one who actually stays late.
A shame, isn't it? We practically school ourselves not to become better people.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
