Why Fun Has Become Boring
And how to make it fun again
You’re struck by a familiar, despairing pang.
Some time ago, this feeling latched on to you, not unlike a parasitical disease infesting a host.
Its symptoms subside intermittently, returning each cycle with greater vehemence.
Your treatment, like pain medication, suppresses but does not cure.
And because each treatment fails to uproot the disease at its core, it grows in silence.
The sensation, though not foreign, carries an alien undertone.
It’s as if you’re looking up into the sky from a Mars-like planet, having just been deserted, watching the vessel that delivered you depart, your crewmates unaware of your absence.
You wonder, “Is this it? Is this how it ends?”
Hopeless and empty, you’re unsure of what to do. What could you do, anyway?
In tears, you sit there, reminiscing of the times past, that seem to you will never again be.
You think of your family and your friends. You recall all the trips, all the good times—the campfires, the movie nights, the girl you liked . . . The dreams you had.
You wonder, “How did it come to this? What happened to everything I thought life would be?”
You lay back upon the sandy landscape, consumed by dusty shades of yellow and orange, looking up at the slowly fading light transporting your crew into an apparent afternoon sky back to Earth, your home.
You close your eyes, hoping it’s just a dream.
Though you grow more tired each week, you’re relieved to return to work the next morning.
It keeps your mind off things.
Without distraction, it wanders—like a dog without a leash—leading you right back to that wretched planet, alone and helpless.
You must keep it occupied. You must not give it freedom.
The week passes, as it always does, without event.
The days are slow; you spend your nights at the gym and on the couch, binging episodes on Netflix.
As each day passes, you feel incrementally lighter.
By Thursday, the hopelessness dissipates.
When you awaken Friday, relief permeates your every sensation.
While preparing breakfast, you sing along joyfully to your favorite hip-hop album.
On your commute, you’re unphased by the same traffic that drove you to hysteria just days ago.
Work flies by; Friday does not bear as heavy an anchor as Monday.
Upon clocking out, you feel it:
Potential.
Your plan is to get dinner with some friends, have a margarita, and then hit the bars.
When you return home, you shower, play a few rounds of your favorite video game, and then head out.
You’re relaxed.
Not only are you relieved of your stresses, but you’re eager for what may come of the next six hours.
Anything could happen.
The dinner is tasty. The conversations are liberating.
You couldn’t be less worried.
After a hearty meal, a few drinks, and some good laughs, your group heads to the bars.
Your eyes open.
You turn your head—the clock reads 10:56 AM.
You think to yourself, “What time was I up until last night?”
You recall heading to the first bar, but after that, your memory gets fuzzy.
You didn’t want to be out super late last night . . . You told yourself you’d try to be more “productive” on the weekends.
But by the time you’ll be ready, half the day will have passed.
Your mouth is dry, your teeth are grainy.
You reach for your water bottle, but when you pick it up, it’s light and empty.
You crawl out of bed and shuffle to the fridge.
As you stand in your kitchen, gulping down water, you feel a pang.
What am I gonna do today?
You have no idea.
What does “productive” even mean, anyway?
“Screw that, it’s Saturday.”
You pull out your phone.
Your thumbs crank.
For 20 minutes, nobody responds. The pang throbs.
And then you hear the sound you’ve been waiting for.
Your screen lights up.
It reads:
“Sorry bro, I’m with the gf today.”
Shit!
It pierces.
The dusty orange planet . . .
The steadily shrinking light in the sky.
For a moment, you awaken, realizing your outreach is an effort to run away—to distract.
You know, deep down, that spending more time with your friends won’t provide what you’re after.
It will, just like your job and the night before, keep your mind off things.
You recall the bars.
That was a blast . . . Right?
Right?
You feel empty.
Something was taken.
The potential that stirred you has collapsed.
You think back to what you thought life would be like now when you were a kid.
“I’m here. Is this it?
Surely, I must change something!
You ponder solutions.
“Maybe it’s time I get a girlfriend. Or perhaps I just need to go on a vacation. Or it could be that I need a better job.”
Your mind goes on, searching for something to grab hold of.
Because you haven’t felt it in so long, you’ve forgotten: fun used to fill you up.
You crawled into bed feeling hopeful.
Free time was not relieving; it was exciting.
You weren’t escaping; you were playing.
“But play is for kids,” you think.
And you’re no kid.
Adult life is boring—that’s just how it is.
You return to your sleepy state, forgetting the pain that drives your desperation.
You get a girlfriend, you take a vacation, you get a new job.
You get married, you buy a lakehouse, you get promoted.
You have kids, you buy a boat, you retire.
You reminisce on the good times past, that will never again be.
Sitting there, in that dusty orange landscape, you wonder, “Was that really it?”
What’s happened, dear Play?
Fun was once fun.
You see, children have wild imaginations.
With their imaginations, they can create fun out of nothing.
As we grow older and fall into the ways of the world, we lose our imaginative abilities.
We are told there are things we can and can’t do.
Like an untamed beast ravaging freely, the world tries to tie us down;
it doesn’t want us to remind it of its self-imposed limitations.
Once tied down, we lose our creative ability.
Without the ability to create, we relinquish the capacity for play.
We become material resources for others to drain.
Our energy is spent, not invested.
Having been depleted, we seek comfort in pleasure, hoping it will refuel our sustenance.
When children engage in play, they are practicing for real-world creation.
They must engage with their imaginations because they lack the necessary skills to manifest true impact
But they are never taught these necessary skills.
The education model guiding most curricula was founded more than a century ago to create obedient workers (this is an incredible oversimplification).
That curriculum became the status quo for educational standards.
And because it is maintained by a body sustained not by its effectiveness, but by an unending, lawfully imposed stream of income (taxes), it never had incentive for update.
As the markets progressed, this system remained, teaching progressively outdated skills.
Children turn into teenagers, and then adults, lacking the skills needed to continue their creative play.
Incapable of impactful creation, we turn to consumption.
Our free time no longer energizes; it depletes.
Time once dedicated to playful investment is now given to escapeful spending.
So how do we reverse this vortex?
How do we return to play?
To progress is to return.
By reconnecting with our inner child, we awaken our intuitive imagination.
We must re-create ourselves.
Before anything is created, it is envisioned.