A theological-ontological critique of games as participatory abstractions that risk distorting mastery into rivalry and relational displacement.
This essay is a continuation of From the Stadium to the Sanctuary . There, the focus was on the logic of spectacle — how spectator sports and public entertainments offer distraction without encounter, substituting passive consumption for relational fidelity.
Here, the focus shifts from spectating to participating. If the stadium symbolizes ontological displacement through passivity, the participatory arena symbolizes ontological rehearsal through activity. The individual is no longer a bystander but an actor, engaging directly in rule-bound contests, hobbies, and games.
The same hinge, however, remains in view: is participation tethered to fidelity — mastery measured against truth — or abstracted into rivalry, where worth is secured only through the suppression of another? What follows is the participatory counterpart to the stadium critique: a movement from pieces back to people, from rivalry back to relational reality.
Closed systems promise mastery without moral exposure. Unlike the stadium, where spectators indulge passively, participatory arenas invite the individual to act — to strive, to compete, to improve. Yet the appeal is still the same: here one can simulate growth and meaning without facing the confrontation of reality.
This is what we mean by ontological abstraction: games and contests distill the complexity of life into bounded structures of rules, goals, and pieces. They create a microcosm where agency, skill, and outcome can be rehearsed without reference to the full relational weight of existence. In this reduction, players are not dealing with life itself but with a controlled abstraction of it.
Consider chess. For some, it is a discipline of pure mastery — accuracy of calculation, elegance of sequence, refinement of foresight. Strategy becomes almost academic, a honing of the mind for its own sake. For others, the game shifts: victory is measured less by accuracy and more by cunning — outwitting, humiliating, and destroying the opponent’s position. The board is the same, the pieces identical, but the ontological posture diverges: skill as fidelity versus skill as suppression.
Or take fencing. At its best, it is an art of precision, where the joy lies in the mastery of form, the elegance of technique, and the pursuit of accuracy. But the same duel can become a theatre of domination, where the point of the blade is not to refine oneself but to vanquish the other. In one mode, strategies are compartmentalised as learning; in the other, they are weaponised as conquest.
Scripture draws this same line between outward form and inward motive. “All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the LORD weigheth the spirits” (Prov. 16:2). God judges not the appearance of activity but the purpose beneath it. Jesus likewise taught that “if thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light” (Matt. 6:22), calling for purity of intent — an undivided purpose directed to God. And Paul reminds the church that when the Lord returns, “He will disclose the purposes of the heart” (1 Cor. 4:5). The decisive issue is not whether one plays, contests, or competes, but whether the eye is single — fidelity to truth — or fractured by rivalry.
The crucial hinge is this: where does validation come from? If the reference point is an absolute standard — truth, excellence, God’s gaze — then skill can be cultivated as fidelity and worship. But if the reference point is comparative — superiority over another person — then skill becomes suppression, and the neighbor is reduced to a piece.
Disambiguation: Games and contests are not inherently corrupt. Pre-fall, they may well have expressed joy, creativity, and fellowship. Post-fall, they are easily conscripted into rebellion’s logic. The issue is never the form of play but the locus of validation — mastery before God vs. rivalry against neighbor.
Every act of participation raises a silent question: Against what am I measuring myself? The answer reveals whether participation becomes worship or suppression, tethered to relational reality or abstracted into rebellion.
When the reference point is a fixed, absolute standard, participation becomes fidelity. The measure of growth is self-discipline before truth — a honing of skill that could stand even if no competitor existed. The neighbor, in this view, sharpens rather than diminishes: “iron sharpens iron” (Prov. 27:17).
Reference point: Truth / excellence / God’s approval.
View of other: Fellow participant, collaborator.
Fruit: Joy, service, growth.
Biblical anchor: Paul’s race metaphor (1 Cor. 9:24–27) — striving for the incorruptible crown given by God, not at another’s expense.
When the reference point is comparative, participation becomes suppression. Worth is not measured against reality but against another’s failure. The neighbor is reduced to an obstacle, a pawn, a “piece” whose defeat confirms my identity.
Reference point: Rival / comparison.
View of other: Obstacle, foil, piece.
Fruit: Pride, rivalry, reduction.
Biblical anchor: “Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3).
The activity itself is not the issue. The hinge lies in posture. I could pursue this skill alone before God — this signals fidelity. My worth rises only when yours falls — this signals suppression. The same contest, the same craft, the same pursuit can lead to either worship or rebellion.
The ontological mechanics of play, once abstracted from divine reference, inevitably redirect value toward rival participants; it is at this hinge point—where the measure shifts from God to the competitor—that the diagnostic grid becomes necessary
Beneath the visible forms of games and contests lies a deeper ontological mechanism. Participation becomes vulnerable to distortion when it is enclosed within a closed system: a bounded arena where all meaning is internally defined and all success is comparative.
A closed system promises security and clarity:
The rules are fixed, the variables are knowable, the outcomes measurable.
Within such a frame, mastery feels safe because all risks are contained.
This structure is what makes games satisfying — they simulate sovereignty without requiring exposure to divine or relational confrontation.
By contrast, a bounded but permeable system (e.g., craft, discipline, art) allows for skill development while still remaining answerable to external truth and relational fidelity.
Inside the closed system, the measure of success shifts. Excellence is no longer tethered to truth or beauty but to relative performance within the system’s metrics: higher scores, faster times, more wins. This trains the will to see the neighbor not as a person but as a benchmark or obstacle.
Even if neutral in design, the closed system exerts a formative pull:
Others become obstacles: reduced to roles, pieces, or tokens.
Growth becomes advantage: the question is not “what is true?” but “what is winning?”
Worth becomes calculated: identity is reduced to rank, score, or status.
In this way, the closed-system logic becomes a rehearsal of rebellion. It simulates order, meaning, and identity while detaching them from relational truth.
Truth becomes procedure, not Person.
Value becomes ranking, not relationship.
Participation becomes conquest, not communion.
The system itself is not evil, but when cut loose from external reference to God, it ceases to be a playground of skill and becomes a microcosm of suppression.
The closed-system logic is no longer confined to traditional games. In modern culture, entire platforms and practices operate as comparative arenas, training participants to internalize abstraction and suppression.
Digital games and professional e-sports exemplify the comparative frame. Skill is cultivated, but its value is measured almost entirely by rank, kill count, or leaderboard position. The other player’s defeat becomes the metric of my worth. What might have been craft or fellowship is transposed into suppression.
Hobbies like music, art, or athletics can be pursued for the joy of mastery. Yet competitions, awards, and status hierarchies often invert the reference point. The question becomes less “How does this skill reflect truth or beauty?” and more “Am I better than my peers?” The comparative system overlays the craft itself, bending fidelity toward rivalry.
Platforms like Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube extend the same logic into daily life. Participation becomes performance, and performance is measured not by truth or excellence but by “likes,” “shares,” and “followers.” Even creative self-expression is swallowed by the closed-system metrics of visibility. Worth is calculated in comparative numbers, and the neighbor becomes either audience or rival.
Unlike spectator sport, where identity is outsourced to the team or performer, participatory platforms tie identity directly to the self: you are the player, you are the content, you are the score. This makes the abstraction more acute. The game no longer ends when the match closes or the contest is over. The participant carries the comparative identity home, where it quietly reshapes how they view themselves and others.
At the hinge of participation lies a choice: does the self measure by fidelity to truth, or by comparison with another’s loss? This is not a cosmetic difference. It is an ontological fork that determines whether participation becomes worship or rebellion.
When participation is referenced to an external, absolute standard, it becomes fidelity. The craft is pursued for truth and excellence, and the skill itself is received as gift. Others are seen as fellow image-bearers who refine rather than diminish.
Ontological tether: God remains the arbiter of worth.
Moral posture: The neighbor is honored as co-participant.
Fruit: Joy, growth, fellowship, service.
Scripture: Paul’s race metaphor — “Run in such a way as to obtain the prize” (1 Cor. 9:24–27).
Example (Chess as Mastery): Two players meet across the board, not as enemies but as co-students of the same discipline. Every move is a chance to refine foresight, to explore elegant combinations, to test the limits of patience and memory. The victory matters less than the shared sharpening; both leave the table more skilled, and neither reduced.
When participation is measured comparatively, the reference point collapses inward. The neighbor becomes the metric of worth — their reduction is my validation. Skill is no longer fidelity but weapon, no longer craft but conquest.
Ontological displacement: Worth is severed from reality and grounded in rivalry.
Moral posture: The neighbor is reduced to an obstacle, a piece.
Fruit: Pride, rivalry, humiliation, reduction.
Scripture: “Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3).
Example (Fencing as Suppression): The same duel can be framed differently: no longer the art of precision, but the thrill of humiliating the rival. Every strike becomes a symbol of superiority. The neighbor is not seen as co-practitioner but as target, an opponent whose reduction proves my dominance. The blade becomes not craft but conquest.
Suppression says: My worth rises only when yours falls.
The activity may look identical on the surface — the same chessboard, the same piste, the same contest — but the ontological posture makes all the difference. Mastery is worship; suppression is rebellion.
The comparative logic of domination does not stop at leisure or culture. Once normalized, it seeps into spiritual life, creating a counterfeit form of devotion. Outwardly it may look like zeal for God, but ontologically it is still rivalry — righteousness measured not by God’s approval but by superiority over others.
Faith communities throughout history have been tempted by rivalry disguised as devotion:
Who prays longest, fasts most, sacrifices most visibly.
Who attracts the most followers or recognition.Here, piety becomes performance, and the neighbor becomes the foil for proving my own righteousness.
Acts that should express love or fidelity are co-opted into a closed system of comparison. Spiritual disciplines become tools of validation, while others are quietly reduced to competitors. This is the ultimate irony: the forms of holiness are retained, but their posture is inverted.
Jesus condemns public display for approval: “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them” (Matt. 6:1).
He adds, “When you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites… they love to stand and pray… that they may be seen by others” (Matt. 6:5).
Paul exposes the same distortion: “When they measure themselves by one another and compare themselves with one another, they are without understanding” (2 Cor. 10:12).
James unmasks impure motives: “You ask and do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, to spend it on your passions” (Jas. 4:3).
How can one discern whether devotion has been hijacked by rivalry? Three simple indicators serve as warning signs:
Visibility is required for validation. (Matt. 6:1)
Quiet excellence feels wasted. (cf. Matt. 6:4 — “your Father who sees in secret will reward you”)
Another’s growth feels like my loss. (2 Cor. 10:12 — comparing oneself to others as the measure of worth)
Competitive piety promises a crown, but it is a fragile counterfeit. What looks like sanctity is rivalry; what looks like zeal is pride. The real crown is incorruptible, bestowed only by God: “Every athlete exercises self-control… they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable” (1 Cor. 9:25).
If rebellion turns participation into suppression, redemption restores it as encounter. The very arenas that can train rivalry can also become sanctuaries of fidelity when tethered to God’s reality. Participation need not be abandoned; it must be re-ordered.
When skill and effort are oriented to God, they become worship. Excellence ceases to be comparative and instead becomes gratitude — an offering of craft, discipline, and play before the Creator. The true question is not “Did I win?”but “Was I faithful?”
In a redeemed posture, the neighbor is never reduced to an obstacle. Even in contests, the other is respected as co-image bearer, a fellow traveler whose presence sharpens my own. Competition may remain, but rivalry does not dominate — fellowship and mutual honor replace suppression.
Anchored in God’s reality, identity no longer hangs on leaderboards or victories. The self is liberated from the tyranny of numbers and rankings. The participant is free to grow, create, and strive — not as conquest, but as joyful fidelity.
Scripture consistently frames contests in terms of fidelity, never suppression:
The incorruptible crown (1 Cor. 9:25) is bestowed by God, not seized from another.
“Each one will receive his praise from God” (1 Cor. 4:5) — judgment is individual, not comparative.
Fellowship in Christ displaces rivalry: “Encourage one another and build one another up” (1 Thess. 5:11).
In this posture, participation itself becomes a sanctuary — a place of encounter where:
The self is disciplined but not idolized.
The neighbor is honored, not reduced.
God is glorified as the final reference point of meaning.
Here, games and contests are no longer rehearsals of rebellion but exercises in love. No longer pieces, we are restored to people — known, honored, and loved in the sight of God.
Participation is never neutral. Every contest, craft, or game rehearses either fidelity or rebellion. The activity may appear the same, but the ontological posture — mastery as worship or domination as suppression — determines the outcome.
“Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men” (Col. 3:23).
View of the Neighbor: Do I honor them as co-participant, or reduce them to obstacle or piece?
“Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3).
Identity Source: Is my worth anchored in God’s judgment, or in the scoreboard of men?
“Then each one will receive his praise from God” (1 Cor. 4:5).
Fruit of the Pursuit: Does this practice cultivate joy, growth, fellowship — or rivalry, pride, suppression?
“The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light” (Matt. 6:22).
The answer is not withdrawal but re-tethering. Games, contests, and skills can be redeemed when they are oriented to God’s glory, when the neighbor is embraced as co-image bearer, and when the self finds identity not in victory but in fidelity. In such a frame, participation becomes a sanctifying discipline, a place where craft and competition are transfigured into love.
The way forward is simple but searching:
Measure by truth, not by rivals; honor the person, never the piece.
These two essays belong together. From the Stadium to the Sanctuary exposed how the logic of spectacle abstracts life into passivity, training the soul to consume without encounter. From Pieces to People has shown how the logic of participation can likewise be abstracted into rivalry, training the will to measure worth by suppression.
One displaces through watching, the other distorts through doing — but both share the same root: rebellion’s detethering from relational ontology. Spectacle and participation alike dissolve when detached from God — only relational fidelity restores persons over pieces, reality over abstraction
