I love playing bricks with my friends.
When we play bricks, we can’t hide our individual predispositions. It’s like screaming our personalities into a microphone, and it’s both creepy and wonderful.
How so? Let’s observe our methodologies:
One of us made an unlikely bulky construction, piling bricks the size of buildings on a foundation made of two small wooden cows. He finished his construction — the tallest and the roughest — then topped it up with a few rabbits and ducks, and watched as everyone else still worked on their works of art.
And a work of art is exactly what the second one looked like: every piece seemed to have a purpose, each one of them defying the laws of gravity and transpiring a delicate sense of balance. In the middle of a high tower made of pillars and flags and stairs, he placed a tiny figure of a man sitting on a bench: “Stability depends on the power of his mind.”
Player number three’s construction was all about aesthetics: there was this sense of grounding safety about it, and it was perfectly symmetric. The colors all came in pairs, and it brought to mind old Chinese temples, almost inspiring you to look close your eyes and contemplate the beauty of life.
The fourth one adopted a realistic vibe: there was green grass with horses on it, there was wavy water with ducks, and there were trees coming from the ground, just like trees do. After that, player four looked at everyone else’s constructions and built bridges connecting them all. The playground had become some sort of a highly precarious city, something between a square and a round triangle. And then a tower fell, and it was just bricks again.