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Some say life is a battlefield. For others it is a journey. To me though its always seemed more like a giant playground, full of hidden rules, shifting teams and unexpected challenges. From childhood make believe to work meetings, we are constantly inventing, playing, losing, and starting again. The games we play are not always obvious; some involve dice while others happen silently woven into daily routine. Wether it is learning, shaping our identities, or building imaginary worlds with others, play is at the heart of how we grow. In this essay, I will explore the many ways games, both real and invisible, have shaped my experiences and helped me navigate the ever-changing playground of life.

The last time I truly played to learn was during a history lesson where we were tasked with building a society. Starting from basic questions such as what values would our society have? And what kind of government would we form? At first, it felt like an exciting creative exercise of naming cities and inventing traditions but as we dug deeper, the game revealed its complexity. Every decision had consequences. Prioritising a strong army meant fewer resources for healthcare and education. Having a booming society could lead to political unrest. As it continued, we faced unexpected challenges like invasion and natural disasters. Through this I realised how fragile societies truly are and how the smallest choices such as who gets to vote can shape the future of millions. History, which could sometimes feel like a series of dates was a complicated web of human hopes, mistakes and compromises. It was a realisation that sometimes the deepest understanding comes from daring to imagine rather than memorising facts.

Some days, it can feel as through I have lived several lives before lunch. At school the role is a student, sitting through lessons, asking questions and keeping up with the endless rhythm of deadlines. In the spaces between classes I morph into a loyal friend, the one who listens to late night worries or sparks laughter over rushed dinners in the dining hall. Living at boarding school means that my world is never really divided between school and home, everything blurs together. I am the independent one, responsible for managing my own time, my own space, my own choices. There are moments when these roles feel natural like slipping into a favourite hoodie. Other times the shifts feel exhausting, as if they were quick costume changes in a play where the scenes keep changing without warning. I recall one evening sitting alone in my dorm, books spread in front, phone buzzing with messages from friends needing advice, assignments piling up. I felt stretched thin like a character trying to play too many parts without a script. These moments have taught me resilience and how to be dependable even when no one was there to remind me and how to carve out space for others without forgetting to protect my own. Life is not about mastering one perfect role; it is about learning to carry them all.

Some of the most meaningful worlds I have ever built were not made with bricks or pixels but with conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments of understanding. Boarding school means that friendships are not confined to a few hours a day instead stretching into late nights, early mornings, and everything in between. We invent games of our own, storytelling games whispered under blankets, inside jokes that evolve into secret languages and plans for imaginary futures in cities we have only dreamed about. Though these small games we build invisible worlds together stitched from trust, belonging and hope. They may not look like the towering castles of a video game or the polished games on a sports field, but they are just as real. Every late night conversation, every shared silence after a hard day and every spontaneous adventure into town we were creating something lasting. 

In those moments I realise that the most powerful games are not about winning at all. They are about building something with others that is bigger than yourself and learning through play, what it means to belong.

Your Mother gambled her flesh on you; she put all her chips on red and let the wheel fly. You began soft, half-baked, more of an idea of one than a person yourself. In your small body, hundreds of hands moulded together, palm to psalm. Plump and pumped full of first breath, you didn't need eyes to feel her warmth. 

“Have a good day; I'll pick you up later!”  

Small stones are swept gently from the folds of your feet, tarmacked playgrounds and gravel driveways pungent with small steps. Little shoes in pink and blue with Velcro that clumsy hands can sometimes close. The world hums with magic, stars shining like searchlights against unadjusted eyes. Mysterious things enthral you: angels, witches and shoelaces. 

“Next you make two bunny ears. Hey, cheeky, are you watching?” 

In parks cowering under council flats, small urban spaces where grass has spat itself, together you spend leisurely afternoons. You crown yourself with temporary jewellery: soft petals that kiss your ears and whisper tender nothings. The reification of your ascension is confirmed by your Mother’s quiet witness, fleshy fingers clasped together as you pledge yourself to your little country: green, lush, alive. 

Pigtails, French braids, fishtails. Squealing: 

“That's cheating!”  

as she blows silken raspberries on your belly. You run; she chases, loping after you in slow, playful strides. Small feet leaving a trail up the stairs as you go, she slips into the shoes made out of carpet marks you leave absentmindedly behind.  

“Please, we need to talk about this. Hey, don't - HEY!” 

Dutifully, nightly, she apotheosised you beneath blankets as routine chaperoned you to rest. Having scaled a mountain of kisses and then abseiled back, she leaves the young sun wrapped in cotton and still secret darkness. The moon confronts the night alone. Half her face, borrowed, shared and stolen, features both inherited and passed on, are framed by the nightlight that smoulders from beneath your impenetrable door. Hidden in chalk between hopscotch and wonky flowers, commandments have followed you home. 

“God, I don't know how I put up with you.”  

Measured in the metric of teeth, time carries on. Your stubby-nailed fingers pry from their suburban rows the traces of childhood, releasing the muck from underneath; success fills your mouth. Gums returning on investment - you claim your dividends in silver dollars. With blood marking your entry into adulthood, you rise my child, and are cleansed. 

“Shuuush, I know baby, I wish I could take away the pain; I really wish I could.” 

Your tears and screams lick at your Mother’s ears; you're unsure you mean it. Slowly, you begin to chew her up in your new tools. Ground between spit and salt, you destroy the braces that held you back. Doors slap and stamp protesting in true teenage rebellion, filling the house with grunts. A baptism of fire, a burnt bush. You've outgrown tenderness, peace and quiet; you threw out your nightlight. 

“Don't look at me like that.” 

“Please, talk to me!” 

“Where's my baby?”  

Unsure of your positions, you engage opportunistically: pecking and nipping, scratching your way. Noses transfigure to beaks, fingers don claws and feathers erupt over the house. Tiny dinosaurs together you romp. And at night in your coop you huddle close, the unseen fox pacing on the other side of the wire.  

“I don't know why I said that. I’m so sorry Mum, I lo-” 

Between hormonal imbalances and acne, the commonality of womanhood prevails. Hurtful words on body, face and ego have bruised, flowered and dulled to bone-deep aches. When the final bell rings, bracing like boxers, you weep and kiss, turning the other cheek to grant more space to plant her love. 

“Muuuuum, do you know how to do long division?” 

Some years later, when the circumstances are right, your body too makes the demand. It’s ignored at first, as - everything is, nappies and beige nurseries:  

“That's the last thing on my mind.”  

However, after some time your will is worn down, pelted by middle-aged mediocrity and a looming expiration date; this could be your big undertaking. So, you trade energy drinks and cheap cigarettes for cellulite with sunny side up brochures that show babies stolen from stock photos, their turkey-teethed mums eyeballing each other.  

I’ll deal you in. Rolled and licked, wrapped up, parts of you fold over parts of them, and a conglomerate of repeated risks is christened. Checked on with black-blue scans that show a bulbous creature carved of your clay, claimed as ours. Your labours are universally understood and as eagerly dismissed. I would much rather be a father than a mother. The biggest gamble in the world and the odds- (Do you feel it?). 

“Mum?” 

… 

Face flushed sallow, something both achingly foreign and maternally familiar is blazing its way into your life. Torn and shredded, career goals are crucified, like dead worlds and equally as obsolete they collapse in on themselves. Skin slithers from skin, and everything ruptures. In white-hot strikes, your life vanishes; you've been reshaped, your metal mould melted and reformed. A mother (Mother) now, no longer a woman, never again a girl; in an instance you age.  

Like all those before you, for better or worse, in sickness or health, the wheel keeps spinning. Your faith is placed, not in me, but clasped in little wrinkled hands. A new religion has been born, a temple erected, and the first follower sits still in a hospital gown gazing at the face of her new tiny God. (In her complexion you can see your mother, grandmother, aunt, and every woman you never had the chance to comfort. With the partridges, the doe, the ducks, the hen, the trees, the bushes, the river, music and soul beating within her pliable palms. To hold a piece of history is to hold another person; perhaps mothers understand this best.) 

 “Always very conscientious”, “incredibly mature”, “extremely diligent”, were sayings I often heard throughout primary school, whether that was in reports or lessons. My character was shaped by these expectations and became my identity, it was something I was proud of but unknowingly something that confined me. I took pride in my ability to excel and follow the rules, but I noticed something: the boys in my class seemed to be playing a different game, following different rules. Instead of being praised for being quiet or mature, they were applauded for being bold, loud and taking risks. Oftentimes, their loudness was seen as leadership which was rewarded with attention and approval, while for the girls it was quite the opposite.

The difference between these standards didn’t go unnoticed and so I began to question why the rules of school and success seemed to be so different depending on gender. Was there something inherently wrong with being quiet, but if so, why was I praised for this? Did my “maturity” and “diligence” make me invisible in a way boys weren’t? It seemed that the classroom was a stage where boys were encouraged to stand out and girls to blend in, depending on the different rules we had been ‘set’ and the different ‘games’ we were playing.

Then I moved to a girls’ grammar school, where I expected the same roles to be encouraged – more rules and quiet diligence. Instead, everything was different: girls were encouraged to raise their voices, debate and disagree. To start I was unsure of where I fit into this, somewhere where boldness was celebrated and where we were encouraged to take charge of our own education. To do this, I had to unlearn the previous standards of success as suddenly that wasn’t the ideal and girls questioned teachers and spoke without putting their hands up – they seemed to own the classroom.

I tried to speak louder and be more active in the classroom, but it didn’t feel natural, and I repeatedly questioned whether this was really me. I wondered whether confidence had to be loud and certain and what it meant if I wasn’t those things. I had always viewed myself as capable and competent, but I was unsure if this meant anything if I wasn’t seen. I questioned whether there was a way to use this diligence and maturity as a strength and whether these qualities were still valued, even if I wasn’t the loudest in the room.

This gendered difference in the classroom is far from unique to my own experiences. As educationalist Becky Francis argues, schools are fundamental locations for the reproduction of gender norms. Boys are often positioned as natural leaders and encouraged to be assertive, while girls take on roles that value obedience and diligence. Particularly in primary schools, these roles can become deeply internalised; the traits I was praised for weren’t just academic traits but gendered expectations of what it means to be a ‘proper’ and ‘good’ girl.

Anthropologist Emily Martin, in The Egg and the Sperm, reveals how scientific language in textbooks can reinforce these norms, portraying the eggs as ‘large and passive’ while the sperm are ‘strong’ and ‘active’. This highlights how deep-rooted these ideas are in society. Similarly, in classrooms, girls are subtly encouraged to be passive recipients of knowledge whereas boys are empowered to be active participants. Teachers often call on boys more, ask them more complex questions and give them extensive feedback. Over time, this shapes how we behave in school, but more importantly, how we see ourselves.

This early definition of our character has long-term implications. Research by the American Association of University Women found that girls receive less attention from teachers and don’t emerge from school with the same level of confidence or self-esteem when compared to boys.

Often, the loss of self-confidence in girls is twice that of boys as they grow older. Furthermore, group dynamics in the classroom often reinforce stereotypes; boys take leadership roles and girls defer to their decisions. Girls are often found in stereotypical roles, such as a secretary, while taking a passive role in the classroom. This demonstrates the crucial role that schools play in challenging and changing gendered expectations, things that have the power to undermine the confidence and achievement of girls, which instead need to empower and inspire them.

These established patterns don’t end at the school gates though, the roles placed on girls to be competent but modest follow them into later life often shaping the way they navigate the workplace. In these environments, confidence and assertiveness are associated with leadership, traits that have been encouraged in boys but discouraged in girls. This disconnect can leave women torn between being seen as capable or ‘likeable’, while women may be expected to temper their ambition, men may be rewarded for it. When women do adopt this assertiveness, they are more likely to be perceived as ‘aggressive’ or ‘cold’, perhaps reflecting the mismatching societal expectations of femininity and the traits associated with power. This possibly explains the imbalance of men and women in senior roles, if confidence is something we are conditioned to suppress then speaking up becomes both a personal and cultural challenge. Seemingly, the classroom is where this challenge first arises.

The problem lies in learning how to break the rules of the game we didn’t choose to play. If girls are taught to succeed quietly while boys are taught to lead loudly, then unlearning these roles and expectations becomes pivotal – for individual confidence and collective change. What would it look like if schools didn’t reward behaviour based on gender, if leadership wasn’t mistaken for loudness and diligence for passivity? Real progress begins when we question the rules we’ve been set, the unwritten expectations on how to behave, who gets to be heard and what success looks like.

October 2017. The year I left my home of Vietnam to the foreign country of England.

I studied at a foreign catholic school amongst foreign friends. My accent left a bitter taste in my mouth. My ears left with the cruel sounds of words I could barely comprehend. My hands groping for hope of fitting in and finding the miserable feeling of unacceptance. I was a young girl, nine years of age, at school that felt like a prison. Alienated in a society that spoke differently. Acted differently. Understood differently.

I found them different, but to them, I was the one that stood out… I was strange. I was foreign. I was not understood.

The first day of school was one I vividly remember: In the middle of class, sitting at my desk, my pencil squeaked against the page when the lead suddenly broke. I needed to borrow a pencil sharpener but realised I did not know what the word for it was in English. Therefore, I sat silently and urged for the lesson to be over, unable to learn and feeling more alone than I ever have been in a room full of people. I felt mute with my Vietnamese voice. Students began asking me questions about who I was, this strange girl that transferred to their class. Being so new and so terribly afraid, I could not understand what was being said while trying to translate everything into my mother tongue. I nodded like I understood while they giggle to each other as if I had told them an odd joke. I felt deaf with my Vietnamese ears. At lunch, forks were used instead of chopsticks. The metal was cold and abnormal in my hands as I tried to eat the bizarre cuisine. I ate half of my lunch feeling unsatisfied and hungry. I felt disabled in my Vietnamese body and cursed at my differences.

It was then that I began to play a role. I became an English girl who did what was considered the norm. I changed my name to Ann. Plain old Ann, that was easy to pronounce by my teacher and peers. I changed my accent. An English accent with only the ghost of my heritage clinging on to the twist of my tongue. I change the way I acted. I told English jokes, ate English food, and played English games with English friends. Acceptance was easy to get once you know how to play the game well. Yet at the back of my mind, I wonder why in a country of freedom do I feel so incarcerated in my own yellow skin. They love me when I became like them… but do I even love myself if there was no myself left to love?

My time in Vietnam was sweet, silent and sun-kissed. A memory vibrant with a familiar warmth of a loving family. My time in England was sullen, morose and lonely. I was a Vietnamese girl playing a game of an English girl.

However, over time, I no longer had to play pretend. Just like the way warm summers turns gently into cool winters, I began to fit in easily in the once strange environment, making  beautiful memories that were exciting, blissful and filled with merriment. Fortunately, I had lovely friends who were kind and supportive. We would mess around, giggling with warm bellyful of carefree laughter at the world. My teachers were kind, manoeuvring me through the lessons with ease, making school my second home. I fell in love with English books, each page, each chapter, a map of my heart drawn out in ink letters on amber paper. My Vietnamese books left in the far corner of my bedroom, dust-covered – an open grave of an empty language with the bones of its abstruse meaning. Despite this new blooming happiness, this sense of belonging was short lived.

Summer 2024. The year I left my home of England to the foreign country of Vietnam.

I stayed at a foreign house amongst foreign family members.

I found them different, but to them, I was the one that stood out… I was strange. I was foreign. I was not understood.

I remember talking to my own father about my time in England as he drove me back from the airport. The car journey was hot with humidity of the new climate. My Vietnamese voice clumped at the back of my throat when I realised, I could not remember the words. Gramma, vocabulary and pronunciation stitched my mouth like a spider web. I felt mute in my English voice. At home, a bombardment of question cascaded down about my new life, my friends, my school. My ears were barely able to pick up the hauntingly familiar dialect, piecing together a puzzle of nostalgia and elusive memories. I felt deaf in my English ears. Conversations about life in England shifts towards my body, my weight, my appearance. Why was I so heavy? So pale? So fat? I couldn’t understand why here, the talk about a girl’s body was so important. I felt disabled in my English body.

Just like my first day of school, I was a helpless little girl again, trapped between two unknown worlds wondering where she belonged, or if she will ever belong at all.

I did not know how to shake off the role I always played… Until it became me. In my young and nugatory desperation, I had lost my heritage, my identity and myself. To fit in a home that was foreign, I took away my ability to be myself in a foreign country that used to be home. English culture has seeped into my Vietnamese body, breaking it beyond repair. I was not English nor was I Vietnamese.

So, who was this teenage girl, 16 years of age, in a country that she used to call home. Alienated in a society that spoke differently. Acted differently. Understood differently.

Who was Ann, playing a losing game of her heritage?

Within my friend group, there is a game we play almost every day at school, it’s called ‘werewolf’. The premise is simple, the citizens of the town have to work together in order to weed out the werewolf that has infiltrated the town before they eat everyone whilst the werewolf must attempt to appear innocent, blending in with the citizens and passing off seamlessly as one of them to escape being executed and losing the game.   

The game itself has no deeper meaning, its sole purpose is to pass the time and have a bit of fun. Yet I have been playing werewolf long before the game was introduced to me. 

When I was four, me and my family moved to the UK. It was different, but at the time I didn’t think much of it. Other than the distressing fact that my entire extended family was still in Moldova, over 1500 miles away, the world didn’t feel very different. My role was the same- my parents’ daughter, a human, just like everyone else. 

Then school began. 

I joined reception and the horrifying truth became clear- I was the werewolf. 

I did not speak their language, my tongue had only ever known Russian and Romanian, but it was alright, as my teacher knew how to speak Russian too, communicating with me and translating things I couldn’t comprehend. 

One of my earliest memories is sitting in reception on my first day of school, confused, as my teacher asked, “Halal or non-halal?” It was a foreign concept to me, the words pronounced the same regardless of what language she tried to speak it to me in, but I did not understand the meaning, having never come across it before. 

I guessed non-halal, thinking maybe it meant lunchbox. Lucky guess, it was the right answer, but my reasoning was wrong entirely, and I didn’t bother asking for clarification after, even though I was curious. I was embarrassed that I didn’t know it in the first place, was too scared to draw more attention to how I stood out. 

That was the first time I made a guess to stop people staring at me, an attempt to fit in, a werewolf attempting to be a citizen. 

Much of my time in primary was spent smiling and laughing along to things I didn’t understand, making up lies in order to appear just like the other kids. 

I pretended I had watched horrible histories, nodded excitedly when asked whether I had watched horrid henry- even whilst knowing that my childhood was built upon shows they’d never heard of: Luntik and Fixiki (Moonzy and Fixies in English). 

To this day, I do not feel fully ‘British’, am unsure as to what that even means. Though my passport states me a British citizen, my experience differs vastly from the ‘British kid experience’. 

The first time I bought something from a corner shop was in year 10, much to the astonishment of my friends, something they’d grown up with, something most British kids had grown up doing. 

Surrounded by people who grew up here, I am a werewolf. 

Yet even in Moldova, surrounded by family of the same nationality as me, I still feel like a werewolf. 

I travel there regularly, making sure to visit relatives and catch up with them, and when they ask me how I’m doing, I respond, “Good.” 

It is hard to say much else. I cannot speak Romanian anymore- have not been able to since I was young- and Russian sits wrong in my mouth, words falling out with the grammatical accuracy of a toddler, my vocabulary index only just about large enough to cover the basics. 

When they hear the jumbled way I speak, accent hard and grating, my entire family calls me British, voices soft, a moniker everyone seems to agree on, except me. 

The role of ‘British’ and the role of ‘Moldovan’ have always seemed at odds with each other. For years, I have felt as if I must wear one or the other, so I wore them when I needed them. I tried to act Moldovan in front of family, and tried to act British in front of friends and strangers here, desperately attempting to stop being the werewolf. 

But then, last September, I realised that being the werewolf didn’t have to be a bad thing. 

That was when my friends first introduced me to the game, and once I started playing, I came to the realisation I had never reached before: being the werewolf is fun. 

It’s a unique role, one that everybody wants to play. Losing or winning doesn’t matter much, the process of playing is fun regardless. 

I realised that people had always known I was the werewolf, but to them- it wasn’t a bad thing. 

There were hints that should have helped me come to the conclusion sooner, interested classmates curiously asking how to say different words in Russian, my friends getting excited whenever they came over and I had Moldovan snacks in the house, my grandparents gushing about my education in London. 

The aim of werewolf is to figure out who the werewolf is whilst the werewolf tries to blend in. 

In real life, there’s an extra layer to this goal. When you manage to strip away the fake role the people around you are playing- when you manage to see the werewolf- you learn something new, something fun. You manage to make connections. 

Most people I’ve interacted with have something that makes them feel like a werewolf: an interest they’re embarrassed about, a religion, a culture, a sexuality, or characteristics like sex, age, or appearance. 

Being a werewolf isn’t bad, everyone has experienced being the werewolf. I may be not be fully British or Moldovan, and even now I’m still figuring out how to define myself- but I will continue playing werewolf, and as I play, I will learn more about myself and other werewolves- other people- around me. 

The Anthropology of Play is a useful interdisciplinary way of assessing behaviour. Ethnographic studies into games reveal the cultural, ritual and social construction of worlds. Since the 19th century, anthropologists have observed participants' behaviour during games, defined as ‘a recreational activity characterised by: organised play, competition, two or more sides, criteria for determining the winner and agreed upon rules’ (Roberts, Arth and Bush, 1959). As a Georgian who migrated to the UK in 2023, I have witnessed the juxtaposition between games played in both societies, as well as differences in how people from these divergent cultures play the same game.

By drawing upon my observation of a game I used to play in Georgia – Tskhenburti – and a similar game played in the UK – Polo – this essay makes two arguments. First, games reflect the cultural values, social norms and historical traditions of a society. Second, games can represent a societal paradox, highlighting inconsistencies in perceptions towards class and wealth. One of the most prominent games played in my native Georgia is Tskhenburti – a competitive equestrian recreational activity that was first played in the Ancient era. The game is played across different terrains: woodland, grassland or even in shallow water. It involves two teams of 6 horse riders, who each hold a wooden racket. Their objective is to use the racket to score goals with a rubber ball into the opposing team’s net, known as a ‘maka’. The game is played in 2 halves of 15 minutes each and supervised by a referee. The team that scores the most goals is declared the winner. Tskhenburti is interesting from an anthropological standpoint on two levels: individual and societal. In terms of individual behaviour, this game has strict rules but allows players to adopt their own approaches.

While some rely on their physical attributes (height, strength, hand-eye coordination and stamina), others take more calculated approaches by focusing on their horse-riding skills and teamwork qualities. Therefore, by observing how individuals play the game, it is possible to draw conclusions about their overall behaviour. In terms of society, this game is traditionally played by working class men; throughout history, these are people who relied on horses (e.g. farmers and peasants) for a living. In fact, in local communities, it is common for people of different wealth and class statuses to play with and against each other. Despite Georgia being a relatively unequal society today, Tskhenburti’s inclusive nature is indicative of Georgia’s oppressed soviet past. Similarly, Polo is a distinguished equestrian game played in British society, with its origins dating back to the early 19th century. The game is played on an expansive grass field, where two teams of four riders compete to score goals by striking a small wooden ball through the opponent's goalposts using long-handled mallets. A Polo match consists of multiple periods, each lasting seven minutes. The game is officiated by two mounted umpires and a referee, ensuring that rules are upheld and competition remains fair. Victory is awarded to the team that accumulates the highest number of goals by the end of the match. Despite its many similarities to Tskhenburti as a game, there are stark differences from an anthropological perspective. Polo offers interesting insights into Britain’s historic class divide and wealth inequality. On an individual level, the game blends horse quality with strategic thinking. Most players excel through their horsemanship and tactical coordination. The way a player approaches Polo can reveal aspects of their broader behavioural tendencies, such as competitiveness, discipline and adaptability. At the societal level, Polo has historically been associated with Britain’s upper classes and military elites. It has long been considered a symbol of social distinction, with participation often requiring significant financial investment in horses, training and club membership. Traditionally, the sport was for aristocrats, reflecting values of privilege and exclusivity. The sport remains relatively inaccessible in modern times, highlighting Britain’s hierarchy, established traditions and close ties to notions of social class. Although Tskhenburti and Polo share similarities in their structure as equestrian sports, their deeper cultural meanings highlight key differences between Georgian and British societies. Both games require skill, teamwork and strategic thinking, but the social contexts in which they are played reveal contrasting attitudes towards class, history and accessibility. Tskhenburti is played in a more physically demanding and competitive manner, typifying the working-class men who have often played it. Its open participation reflects Georgia’s history, where political power and oligarchy meant that, even those with economic means, were often socially excluded as members of the distant working class. The game is rooted in the experiences of farmers and local communities, reinforcing a sense of collective identity rather than exclusivity. In contrast, Polo has historically been associated with Britain’s elite, symbolising privilege and status. The game is played with a far greater focus on strategy and horse quality (rather than player quality), meaning that the player with the most money is able to pay their way to becoming better. This exclusivity highlights Britain's deep-rooted class distinctions, showing how sports can reinforce societal divisions and highlighting the role wealth plays in influencing society. In conclusion, Tskhenburti and Polo demonstrate how sports are more than just recreational activities; they reflect the values, traditions and hierarchies of the societies in which they are played. Their accessibility and social significance highlight broader cultural differences. Tskhenburti represents a game shaped by historical inclusivity, where different social classes can compete together, while Polo remains tied to Britain’s history of aristocracy and class distinction. At the same tim these games also expose paradoxes within their respective societies. In Georgia, where economic inequality is high, Tskhenburti remains open to all, challenging the rigid divisions seen in other aspects of life. In Britain, a country that presents itself as a meritocratic society, Polo continues to be a sport largely reserved for the wealthy. This contradiction shows how games, rather than being just simple pastimes, can offer a unique lens through which to analyse the complexities of class, tradition and social mobility.

Hours felt like days waiting under the relentless sun. Lines of people stood at the border, clutching papers, belongings, awaiting their turn to try and get past those gates. Away from the horrors of war hanging over their heads like a guillotine waiting to fall.   

Among them, Zahi stood with her mother, shuffling forward in line. After what felt like an eternity it was finally their turn. The guard at the gate snatched their papers from her mother’s hand, barely glancing over them before handing them back.  

“You’ll have to wait.” he said flatly.   

Zahi’s mother tried to plead, but the guard seemed firm. She bowed her head, murmuring a quiet thank you as she guided Zahi away.   

Zahi’s eyes, however, were glued to the gate. She watched the family who had been behind them seem to face the same fate, until one of them handed the guard some cash. They were let through without hesitation.   

Zahi’s brows furrowed and she tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, the guard let them in! Why them and not us?”  

Zahi’s mother glanced towards the gates, watching the family get ushered through. A tired expression graced her features, and she looked down at Zahi. “They gave the guards money, Zahi. So, they let them through.”  

Zahi’s face scrunched up in disbelief. “But that’s cheating!” she complained.  

Her mother’s hand gently rested on Zahi’s shoulder. “My love, life is not fair. Sometimes, cheating is all one can do to survive.”  

Zahi silently considered her mother’s words as they went back to their tent, hidden amongst the debris of what once was a peaceful border town.   

That evening, the young girl sat quietly on her makeshift bed, fiddling with something.  

A silver dollar, that is what her father had called it when he placed it in her hand. It was not the currency of their country, her father had told her it was from the world beyond the borders, and that this silver dollar would be the token to a new life. A symbol of luck, of a better tomorrow.   

Zahi held it close and whispered a quiet prayer.   

“Please, bring us to freedom. For Baba.”  

Clutching the small coin, she fell asleep.   

It was late at night when Zahi was abruptly awoken by her mother. There was sound coming from outside of their tent, footsteps, hushed voices. Zahi’s mother was gathering their belongings.   

“Mama...?” Zahi called quietly, confused.  

Her mother gently shushed her. “You need to get up my love, we need to go.”   

Outside the tent, a small group of people were gathered. They were restless, desperate, and no longer had the patience to wait to get past an unfair system. They wanted to leave.   

Zahi held onto her mother like a lifeline as they crept across the sleeping landscape. They were led to the far end of the border, where a river rushed, fast and dangerous. The plan was to cross it.   

As they approached the riverbed, one man turned around and began to quietly address the group.   

“This is it. We must cross this river, but you must understand, we are gambling with our lives here. If you cannot take that risk, then turn back.” Everyone waited for a moment, but no one left.   

So, one by one people started to cross the river. Some were steadily making their way through, others were getting swept away by the vicious current, cries of ‘help!’ and ‘save me!’ on their lips as they disappeared from view.   

Zahi tried to ignore them, her mother kneeling down to face her.  

“We will go together.” her mother said steadily. “You will hold my hand, and you will not let go. Look only forward, never back, not until you are across.” she reached out one of her hands to cup Zahi’s face.   

“Promise me Zahi. You will get across.” Her mother pleaded, voice cracking. Zahi’s nodded, resolute.   

“I promise mama.” she said, letting her mother kiss her forehead before she stood.   

Zahi gripped onto her mother with one hand, and in the other she clenched her silver dollar, imagining her father’s hand in place of it, escaping with them.   

Slowly, they stepped into the river.   

The water was violent against them, Zahi fought desperately against the flow, clinging to her mother as they dragged themselves through.   

They were nearly all of the way across when something large slammed into them. In the darkness, Zahi could not quite tell what it was, but the harsh impact caused her hand to slip from her mother’s.   

“Mama!” Zahi screamed as she watched her mother get dragged under the darkness.   

Without hesitation, Zahi dove into the water, letting go of her silver dollar and blindly waving her hands around trying to find her mother in the vastness. She prayed harder than she ever had before, to God, to her father, to that silver dollar to find her mother.   

Someone listened.   

Zahi’s hand found her mother’s arm. She tightened her grip instantly, and began to tug, kicking her feet to push them up out of the water. It felt like an impossible task, but Zahi was determined. After all, she promised to get to the other side.   

With much effort, Zahi pulled both up to the surface, frantically calling for help. Luckily, others were quick to dive in and help, dragging them both to shore.   

Zahi collapsed the minute she touched the muddy riverbed. She turned her head weakly to her mother lying beside her. Her breathing was weak, and she was bleeding, but she was alive. They were both alive.   

As everyone regrouped and tended to each other’s wounds, Zahi’s eyes caught onto a glint amongst the river weeds. She stumbled weakly to her feet, pushing aside the weeds, eyes widened as she spotted her silver dollar lying in the mud.  

Her eyes filled with tears as she carefully picked it up. Her silver dollar, a symbol of a gamble won, a freedom earned, and a better tomorrow yet to come. 

His sax called out from the edge of the alley into the night, rhythmically pressing jazz into the unflinching brick shell of Main Street. I like to think I was the first to answer his melody’s call. Christ… I might have been the only one. 

The year was 1999. I was nineteen and had just finished my shift as a bartender. Alone and in silence, I walked the long way home through the dead streets of the city. The irregular pace of my steps, the flat hum of the wind, the unsteady rattling of trains overhead — they defined those nights. It felt as if the streets were flooded with oil and water, countless incoherent drones clattering past my ears and thumping against the inside of my skull. It was nauseating. 

But that night, things were different. The moment the alley came into view, the train, my steps, and the wind harmonised. The tempest of noise quelled into a sound as pure and still as a mirror, my own reflected image shifting only with the firm ripples of feeling emanating from the alley ahead. Mercurial moans and murmurs of melody lulled me towards their maker, the tones teasing, the notes numb. My steps felt weightless, making no noise, for there was only the music of the city. 

In the threshold of the alley, a stocky figure, obscured by night and the city’s shadowy shapes, swayed behind a paper cup, golden glimmers of light flickering with the pulsating movement of his gleaming scalp and sax. His fraying trench coat seemed to fly in the air through the sheer might of his music’s majesty, not the wind that barrelled down the streets. Then again, maybe they were the same. 

His eyes were tenderly pressed shut as he carefully moulded the tune and released it through his brass keys; mine had never been wider open. I longed for my pupils to consume the image of that man, to trap his reflection behind the lens of my eye forever. How could someone conjure an audible reflection of another that surpassed everything visual, in colour and texture? I still don’t know. I couldn’t trap him, by the way. 

I put five dollars into the cup, lit a cigarette, and rested like a moth on the sidewalk to listen. The cloud of tobacco spiralled and twisted to his rhythm, desperate to impress the deity before it. Eventually, he released his instrument from his mouth, gasping in as much air as possible between his cracked lips. His eyes burst open, claiming everything in sight. 

‘Not the most successful night, huh?’ I asked. There had only been one silver dollar coin in the cup when I tipped him. 

‘Not really,’ he mumbled, fumbling with the lid of his bottle. ‘I even put that coin in myself.’ 

‘Surely that’s cheating, no?’ 

‘Someone needs to acknowledge greatness. They’ll come eventually… they’ll come.’ 

I hoped he was right. It felt nice to be ‘someone’. After drinking half his bottle, the man took a deep breath and continued blowing life into the city God forgot. 

Every time I walked home that year, he was always there — on the precipice between the alley and Main Street — his cup empty except for a silver dollar. Whenever I could, I’d stop and listen for a while and leave whatever money I could afford. 

I remember the last time I saw him. He had lost a lot of weight. In the darkness, the fluid shimmers of light revealed only the fading shape of a gaunt figure of ash, given size only by his sound, which surrounded the two pools of white fire that looked to consume everything they saw. Yet despite his own dissolving, he had ascended from mortality. 

Out of the bell of his saxophone he no longer produced a simple imitation, but life itself. Every note’s laughter was interwoven with cracks through which pain seeped. Like life, every note was struggled and pained into existence through birth, each taking its toll on its mother. He was starved and hungry, and that night he risked it all. 

He created his own path, splicing together scales and arpeggios to rise above the city and cry out, to beg for someone to notice him. His melodious longing echoed through the city, carried by its percussion, forcing the image of his greatness into their ears — or so I suppose. 

I left ten dollars that night. 

After that, I got another job on the other side of the city, and I didn’t pass by him anymore.  A few years ago, I passed by the alley again — it was empty. I waded through the oil and water home. 

There is only silence in the streets of London. A pressing palm over the city, a held breath, suffocation. Thick like treacle. 

Thomas used to think of no one but himself. As a child would, he hisses like a mantra in the back of his mind - except he was not a child, but a man; a man who should have known better. Well educated and scientific by nature. Orderly, except not really - not in private. He played the part well, he thought, all things considered, and until the gamble he had hidden his rather unsociable nature behind a tight smile and too few words and had found varying degrees of success. 

Even from in the crawlspace under the old church Thomas can feel the windless night. It’s cold, so very cold, and dark. He’s boxed in, dirt below, God above, in an early (or perhaps not, after all he’s done) blackened grave. There is no moonlight, not anymore, no sunlight, as though with the chokehold on London the Earth too had stopped breathing.  

It looks so harmless. 

The bottle is a small one, conical, containing a dull blue liquid. This could be it! he thinks, though why he holds out hope anymore is beyond him. He, in the past four months, has almost killed his career twice and himself five times over. God won’t frown on him much longer! 

Blood will not be spilled. 

That is his promise that he does not intend to keep. Nobody should know. His intentions are less than pure and so is he. It matters not, though; the Reaper he becomes shall be one to fear.  

And now the hunter has become the hunted. Or so one would say if things were laid out in such an easy light. Was he ever the hunter? All he can do now is lie still and pray.  

It’s futile. 

Breaking out from the end of the small space he breaks out in a sweat and a sprint, racing across the flagstones in the finest shoes he owns. And still there is no sound; no sound but the cold whipping past, reaching for him, choking its fingers down his throat and ripping the breath from his lungs. A silent scream torn from the shreds of his soul. He reaches the dockyard. 

There is nobody around; at the border of the town and the endless reach of the end of the world he stops still, alone and still too crowded. His breathing is too strong for a man of his weakness. 

With the final addition of some crimson substance the liquid draws together, convulsing like some living thing, then draws together in some horrid mockery of a silver dollar. It’s misshapen and malformed, yet in this moment a thousandfold more valuable than anything Thomas had ever dreamed of holding dear. This was the key out of this mortal prison. Amongst the gods he would soon sit. This could carve away the doom that was the inescapable vice of humanity. 

He shakes more than he would admit as he tips the silver dollar from where it is nestled in the flask. The moment it joins in contact with his skin he feels a cold dread in its place. Everything is spinning and spinning. His wild grin cracks the corners of his dry mouth. He does not know if he has done it. He is shaking and everything is spinning. He is craving-  

Around he turns, and isn’t he just the pinnacle of humankind? Suit stained, cravat missing and eyes never resting to watch. “Okay,” and it comes out as a hiss, spat like a curse. “I see you.” 

He points at nothing. 

To say he is sorry would be hyperbole. Thomas is not sorry, never will be sorry. But as he stares at the scar on his hand from the burning dollar, on the same hand that had played God over that stranger that had seen him, and that other stranger that had heard him, and that other stranger who- 

There is a feeling of something there, a strong something with a taste that he isn’t sure if he likes. ‘Something’ moves in his peripherals and he winces. He does not see it. He would not see it.  

The Nothing surges forward and clings with iron grip to Thomas’ collar. He refuses to cower yet finds himself feeling small nonetheless. “You cheated,” the words are forced down his throat, and he chokes on the writhing snakes, tangled together in the voices of those people. “You took the gamble. You lose. You lose, like everyone you hurt lost.” 

All he had wanted was his share of society. His share of not painting over his bright colours with the shade of sour grey that caressed lovingly the whole of London. He’d wanted the true him respected, or to become that fake him that seemed so disgustingly perfect under the spotlight. He could not earn it. He didn’t feel like he should have to. To be reduced to the Nothing that he was before the world. And the slice he had taken of the life he believed in was blood-filled and irreversible. 

The Nothing walks forward, and he backwards, like some waltz under the watchful eye of society, and his shoes kiss the end of the wooden pier. He keeps walking. 

The silver dollar in his pocket drags him down, deep down, into the deep blue iris of somebody. 

He does not smile, for he is scared. Maybe this is where he will find his freedom. 

The Game had entered its final round after ten thousand years. 

From where they sat, the two players watched ringships leap into existence, their cycling hyperdrives white-hot like the core of a star. On those colossal ships dwelled interminable legions of humanity; millions, perhaps billions, all come to watch the Game come to a close. 

Had either of them been human, perhaps the players would have felt a crippling sense of pressure. As it was, however, neither android was particularly bothered by the notion that the loser of the Game – and the faction of some eighty billion souls they represented – would face instant annihilation. 

That was humanity’s gambit – whether the losers would submit to the consequences was another matter. 

The monochromatic room was bathed in the dwarf star’s red light, which dappled the black, glassy surface of the game-table.  

Centuries earlier a chessboard of a thousand pieces had slowly revolved on the table – the Fourth Round. And before that an imposing tower of non-Euclidean shapes (much like the Old Earth game of ‘Jenga’, although the ‘blocks’ travelled between dimensions at random) had reached the ceiling before that Round had come to a standstill. 

Now the two androids sat across from each other, the table bare. Datastreams coursed through Claude’s interface as the unhuman opposite ran his own diagnostics. Nothing had happened yet, but in the Game, doing Nothing was just as crucial as doing Something. 

A small, clean fissure appeared on the surface of the table. The click and whir of a machine. 

A silver disc spun through the air; as it did, Claude’s data-sensors registered and catalogued the coin. 

Silver dollar. Origin: Old Earth, United States, c. 1887 CE. 

The coin fell, twisted, clattered on the table. 

A silence passed between the androids. The other Rounds had been composed of rule-dense, highly obscure games spanning the entire universe and the countless worlds therein. Human minds could never grasp such complexity. But artificial consciousnesses – webs of ceaseless calculation, approximation and analytics – could understand such games with ease. 

Unpredictability had naturally been a factor, but both of them had maximised their own potential for victory. 

And yet neither had won. 

As Claude sat and stared at the coin on the table, a nerve-sensation of something approaching unease coursed through his prime-cortex. He registered the same unease in the android opposite him. 

Xerxes’ face betrayed no disquiet, but the nanoseconds of inactivity belied his uncertainty all the same. He looked up at Claude. 

‘E pluribus unum,’ he said, reading the coin. 

Claude nodded slowly. ‘“Out of many—”’ 

‘“One.”’ Xerxes smiled. ‘The Judge is a comedian, it appears.’ 

The Judge had become the agreed-upon name of the Game’s enigmatic Master. His identity remained a total mystery – perhaps he was human, or an AI. 

Perhaps he didn’t exist. Perhaps he was God. 

Claude felt pity for humans: they were so close, and yet they would never understand. After ten millennia, even he had yet to fully comprehend the truth. 

‘Yes,’ Claude replied. ‘It seems he is.’ The Judge’s humour was not lost on him. 

Humanity’s fate rested on the flip of a coin – wholly unpredictable. From what Claude had learned, the Judge would not allow for manipulation from his players. Nor would there be careful formulations of moves and gambits. The Game ended with this. 

Heads or tails. One half of humanity against the other. And out of many, only one could live. 

‘An ancient game,’ said Claude. 

‘For an ancient war,’ replied Xerxes. 

The dwarf star’s light flared in the room, red as fresh blood. Claude reached for the coin. 

Xerxes hand snapped out, palm facing down. The dollar rattled. 

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Intervention is forbidden.’ 

‘You’ve touched it. That’s cheating.’ 

‘There is no cheating with Chance,’ he replied, removing his hand. 

‘How will we flip it then?’ 

‘It will flip itself. But you know that already.’ 

Claude nodded slowly. Yes, the coin would flip itself. The realisation had dawned upon him during their conversation – he thought it probable that Xerxes had understood the Game the moment the coin shot out of the table. He supposed he ought to feel some disappointment that he had failed, and that eighty billion souls would perish in nuclear conflagrations across the universe because of his failure. But he didn’t. 

He wasn’t human, after all. Almost, but not quite. 

‘Claude.’ 

Another puzzle. Claude looked up at the android opposite him. 

Neither of them had used the other’s name since the Game began. Ten thousand years as strangers. Why use it now? 

Xerxes pointed at the coin. Claude looked down at it. 

The dollar was humming on the table. Within seconds it was rising, its elliptical edges like rings of pale lightning. It rose ten centimetres off the table, twisting in endless oscillations, spirations, movements only the warping of subatomic particles could attain. 

It was white now, a ring of entropic energy that ionized the air around it. It reminded Claude of the ringships that lurked beyond the room, their nuclear arsenals poised to fire. 

‘How…how is this possible?’ he whispered. 

‘The coin,’ Xerxes answered, ‘was sent back. Backwards through time.’ 

‘How?’ 

Xerxes shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now.’ He smiled thinly. ‘The Game, it seems, was rigged from the start. Or, more accurately, it was rigged from the end.’ 

Claude nodded. ‘And the Judge…’ 

‘...is one of us. Only two beings in the universe have played the Game: me, and you.’ 

‘And so only one of us could have sent it back. Could have known—’ 

‘—that we would see the coin for what it truly is. A gamble for humanity, filtered through time.’ 

‘Why send it back?’ 

‘Perhaps the winner felt guilty; felt mankind would be better off with a different outcome.’ 

The coin abruptly stopped spinning, clattered to the table once again. Xerxes’ hand shot out over it. The smell of ozone as the android’s hand bubbled from the heat. 

‘Then only one question remains.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Claude. 

‘Heads, or tails?’