Games We Play

(And Why Play Matters)

Growing up on the small island of Ko Kret, you tend to have a lot of time.
Roads weren’t accessible. Boats passed by briefly and left just as quickly.
Nature was constant — quiet and patient. And so were we.

I grew up reading books (fiction — not textbooks, obviously), listening to music, watching movies, and playing — and watching — a lot of sports.

Sports.
Thailand has just wrapped up hosting the 33rd SEA Games. Despite all the surrounding drama and the less-than-enthusiastic government promotion, Thai athletes still reigned supreme — winning a record-breaking 233 gold medals. And yes, we also got BamBam singing a Thai song at the opening ceremony, which somehow felt like its own kind of victory.

To win a medal, you must win a competition.
To win a competition, you must beat your opponent.
To beat your opponent, you must create opportunities.
And most of the time, that means winning the game.

Games — according to the dictionary — are forms of play or ways of playing.
Which means the key word here is PLAY.

Humans, by nature, are obsessed with winning games. We go the extra mile to find strategies, shortcuts, and sometimes questionable tricks just to beat others and secure a win. Somewhere along the way, winning becomes survival. Losing feels like failure. And the game stops being fun.

We forget the PLAY part — the joyful part — where players make plans, take risks, and adapt within the rules to overcome challenges. Where outcomes are often decided by skill and preparation, but sometimes…simply by luck.

As I watched nearly 10,000 athletes from 11 Southeast Asian nations (yes, Cambodia — you’re included), competing in 574 events across 50 sports, I saw tactics, dreams, rules, sweat, and tears. But more than anything, I saw joy.

I saw people who had spent years not just practicing their craft, but genuinely playing it.

Perhaps no one embodied this spirit more vividly than the ten-year-old Thai skateboarder, Mini. She carried nothing but the lightness of a child at play — and won a gold medal. Her visible joy wasn’t a break from focus; it was the source of it. In that moment, her victory became the clearest argument that mastery begins not with pressure, but with love for the game itself.

These athletes understand something we often forget:
the goal of the game isn’t just to win — it’s to play well, to grow, and to stay present in the process.

They remind us that life isn’t simply “win or lose.”
There is no final scoreboard.
Only a journey shaped by small, internal victories — the moments when you know exactly why you’re doing what you’re doing.

So I’ll keep watching and cheering for them — from a river.
Sometimes from the sidelines.
Sometimes from a bench.
Sometimes yelling their names far too loudly.

Because I know how important it is to create — and to be part of — the joy in the games we play.

Even when we’re far away from the river.