The Rules of the Game
When readers don't know the rules, they stop reading
I went to my first WNBA game recently, but that’s not what this story is about. The Connecticut Sun play at the Mohegan Sun Arena, a very average looking arena—that, in 2022, somebody voted THE BEST ARENA—buried inside a cathedral of casinos that feel offensively named, except the whole operation is on tribal lands.
In the Casino of the Earth, as I walked the Winter Path from the game—the Sun lost to the referees 71-68—to the Indian Summer Parking Garage, which is free to park in because you have to walk through several miles of minotaurs, crumbling, paper-skinned old people, and approximately seven-thousand screaming and blaring gambling machines, I of course was suckered into playing one game.
The Analogy
I broke a twenty at the VIRTUAL TELLER, who gave me no choice but to play games in five dollar increments. I groped around for a few minutes in the blinding cave of yellow lights and clanging bells and odd franchise dragons gleaming on every machine, until I found a place to gamble far away from the judgmental eyes of crusty expert money-wasters.
The Connecticut Sun did a nice thing and bussed in legions of children from local camps to attend the game—I hope for free—and as I sat down before the machine, a five-foot tall curling iPad out of which preened baby-faced and somehow slightly sexy dragons, I wondered how, or if, the team got all those children into the arena without parading them by the casino floor. I wondered how many WNBA players have a gambling problem and love when they get to play here or in Vegas against the Aces.
Exactly two elements of the machine were clearly labeled: INSERT MONEY HERE and PLAY. I obeyed both. A fictitious dial on the red and gold screen spun. A little Chinese boy next to a purple dragon jumped exuberantly. doodeelurwabp the machine affected. And then it was over. I pressed PLAY again a few times but nothing more happened. The lights just glitzed. In size 8 font, in the lowest left-hand corner, read CREDITS 0. Nothing else happened. The fictitious dial had spun for about 2 seconds—I’ve done a lot of exaggerating in this story but I’m not exaggerating now—and then that was that.
I eventually found a button to print out whatever remained of my five dollars. A white-paper ticket puffed out of one obscure panel on the machine reading TICKET $0.00.
I looked around at the extremely old people melting into the furniture all around me. Their skin was peeling from the lights of those ridiculous machines. The seat I’d sat down on was warm. One of their asses had been sitting here long enough to leave the black vinyl warm.
I threw out the paper, wove through the labyrinth to my car, and left.
I didn’t feel ripped off because I’d lost my money. I’d sat down at the game, hell, I’d driven to the casino expecting I’d lose five bucks on a game—why not? I felt ripped off because I had no idea what the hell happened. I had no idea what the hell the stakes were. I didn’t know the rules of the game.
The dial spun but only three of the five roulettes turned. I have no idea why. They were all misaligned, so I don’t even know what each on landed on. What was I supposed to be hoping they landed on? How would I have known if that had happened? The little Chinese boy jumped. Why? What the hell were the dragons doing there?
There were no stakes for me, and no way to invest because I had no clue how the game worked.
Getting to the Point
It’s the same with books. There are a few things that EVERY good story should do: tell me what’s happening, tell me why it’s happening. Or, if a story doesn’t tell me what’s happening, I should know as the reader, I’m not supposed to know exactly what’s happening.
Let me make up a little story to illustrate. A thief has just broken in to Miss Johnson’s house by the river. The narrator is outside the house, watching the thief exit.
“I heard something fall into the river with a sickening thump.” I don’t know what fell into the river, but the simple choice of the word “something” suggests I probably don’t need to know exactly, because the narrator doesn’t know in that moment. That creates suspense and interest. Maybe it was the thief, or their loot, or a rock Miss Johnson hurled at the fleeing thief. I can infer that eventually I will know what fell with a sickening thump into the river, and I keep reading to find out.
“I watched the thief throw Miss Johnson’s limp body into the river with a sickening thump.” I also have a clear picture of what happened. I know who did what with what. My expectations for what happens next are different than in the prior example. Now I want to know what will the consequences be for the thief? For Miss Johnson? Is she alive or dead now? Will she drown? What will the narrator do? I keep reading to find out.
These two examples work like the basketball game had. I knew the rules. I wanted to keep participating in the story.
That casino machine was bad. I’m not bitter because I lost five bucks. I’m bitter because I have no idea why I lost five bucks. Let’s say instead the story continues like this:
“A splash of water.” Okay. Is this ambiance as the thief prowls around inside the house? Is it something important? Is it the sound of the thief darting across the river? A fish jumping? Did their loot fall in? Did Miss Johnson’s body get flung into the water? I feel unmoored at this point in a story because I don’t have a picture of what happened and I don’t know why I don’t have a picture of what happened. The author has tried to convey a lot to me with very little, but it’s run flat because I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about or why I should care. I don’t know the rules of the game.
I had a fun time watching the Connecticut Sun play because I know the rules of basketball. I said before that the referees won the game. That’s true. There were a lot of pointless calls that went against the Sun, and very few similar calls went against the other team.
And while that’s frustrating, that’s sports. In essence, that’s a rule too: the referees are human and will presumably try to be objective, but can’t possibly always be. The frustration I felt leaving the arena was acceptable to me because I know even that rule of the game. A good story should try to do the same thing.