Why We Fight

Why do we join competitive clans? Why do we play games like Team Fortress 2 in such a way that we know, for the majority of the time, won’t be fun?

Why?

For perceived eons of accrued pain and mental anguish, I didn’t have an answer. People would ask me this question of purpose, but I never said a thing. I’d change the subject, or I’d ask myself the same and feel deeply troubled by the lack of any internal response. Why do we do it? Why do I do it?

I was never an athletic competitor in early school or college. I played JV Soccer for 7 weeks during my sophomore year at Stowe High, Vermont. I played T-Ball when I was a 5th grader for a month (tops). Organized team-based events just never held an appeal for me.

And yet, when it comes to Team Fortress 2, I’m the guy that beats his desk with reddened hammered fists when a spy’s knife just clips my shoulders, killing me instantly. I’m the guy that screams indecipherable profanities into the microphone after every failed minigun critical that misses my target. I’m the one that hangs his head in tattered disgrace, covering his eyes with creased knuckles, a troubled line along his brow when the other team scores a single. Winning. Cap.

The question remains.

Through all of the surmounted yet failed practices, throughout the grievances of understandably enraged members after crucial losses, I struggled for a stunning catharsis, a Grand Revelation of why we punish ourselves for an unknown phantom cause. Why am I doing this when I could be playing a multitude of other games? Why am I letting my cherished free time erode to futility though poorly executed matches?

The more I played and managed a faltering clan, and the more I lost players as casualties of competitive disagreement, the more I lost my faith. My drive and motivation teetered on a rusted fulcrum’s edge, ready to plunge into the black abyss of permanent failure looming so close beneath.

Know what? It’s funny: the minute I stopped looking for an answer, the minute I stopped seeking a concrete justification for my masochistic TF2 habits, was the same minute I received an answer.

And it turns out, it’s pretty simple: why do we fight? We fight because when everything miraculously comes together for that impossible perfect win, when everyone on the team finally ebbs and flows like a fluid body of crystal clear water, it’s worth it. Nothing compares to the ecstatic exultation gleaned from a last-second point-capture in over time. Nothing causes your heart to pound faster, ready to squeeze past your ribs and explode out of your chest in excitement, than watching a teammate leap over the scrambling soldiers and medics snagging victory from under their hanging jaws. And once you feel it, everything makes sense. The pieces fit.

Our team got crushed the other night. No: we got pulverized into particles. The fluid body of water hit a concrete dam. The miracle evaporated. You’d think I’d lapse back into panic mode, begin questioning my competitive faith all over again. Full circle. But I haven’t. Now that I know the feeling of aged perfection, now that I’ve sipped from the golden chalice, if only briefly, it’s worth waiting an eternity for it all over again.

It’s worth fighting for.