In case you missed all the excitement just two weekends ago (by living under some Magic rock on Mars – minus the glowing blue, ephemeral-at-a-whim form) was host to several Nationals events: the US, Great Britain, and Germany getting the featured coverage.

A distant acquaintance who moved to South Korea a little over a year ago earned the four slot as an alternate on the Korean team. How I wish I could have been there to see it happen.

But I wasn't: if you did catch any coverage of US Nationals you may have noticed my name popping up there. I was offered a phenomenal opportunity to be a part of team to provide coverage in Minneapolis – and gladly accepted it. While traveling halfway across the country to see one of the greatest shows stateside this year was an easy to grok idea, bring thrust deep into the environment of the top names, faces, and minds in US Magic was an entirely different swing.

I'm no expert in who's who.

While the amazing team I was able to join had more information than I could possible absorb (and, thus, were where I turned to for stories, information, and anecdotes) and were certainly capable of handling the event entirely without me, I am glad I was able to earn the tidbits of wisdom they shared.

There's nothing like feeling completely insignificant to bring you to humility.

Railbirds

Let's say you're not into fun, casual, side events – you know, "the other stuff" at Nationals – but you're totally into competitive Magic then watching matches is the way to go. I usually have a distaste for the competitive simply because I've played with far more of the "OMG ur deck is SO BADWHYAMILOSING?!" and "LOLS I just ROLFSTOMPED you, n00b." players than eloquent professionals.

Eloquent professionals were in full stock all weekend at Nationals.

Sure, there's always a few bad apples in a bushel but I was utterly impressed with virtually every player I met. To name names I had the pleasure of watching David Ochoa, the Ocho if I'm allow familiarity I don't feel I have, in two Feature Matches. It took the full first match to really catch on to what he was doing in his games but by the second – the marathon playoff match against Conrad Kolos for the 3 and 4 slots – I was following along.

I don't dare go near the "I know how the deck works." idea, but Ochoa played some seriously tight Magic and, once seeing it working in action, I was hooked. (And, yes, I've been catching up on his work at Channel Fireball.) I don't think I need to elaborate what the feeling of watching someone play exceptionally well brings to heart.

Maybe I do, though. For me, I felt both excitement (What's the next card? Is he going to do that next? Does he have an out against this?) and despair.

Hopeless, complete despair.

I felt, firsthand and without reservation, distinctly just how poorly I play Magic. I couldn't help but wonder as I sat hammering in my laptop whether anyone else watching felt the same way. Excitement, yes, but that feeling of crushing defeat would inexorably creep into my heart.

My hands would shake, my mind reeling at the prospect of being so clearly inferior. No, "prospect" is the wrong word; perhaps the better word is "fact" or "truth."

I wondered if the gaggle of players, professional and amateur, fresh and veteran, felt anywhere near the same. Had they ever felt the same? Was this feeling normal? Acceptable?

And why, with my army of EDH decks, obsessively-constructed cube of commons, and wacky sea-themed Quest for Ula's Temple deck, did I feel this way?

Nate Price, roommate for the weekend and there-is-no-word-sufficient-to-express-my-esteem-for fellow player shared something so simple I've never stopped to consider it: if we're all gamers, who have grown up on video games and strategy guides, what's the point of playing a game if there isn't winning?

It's Come to This

When I heard this discussion brewing, while playing (rather, getting crushed at) Brian Kibler's new game Ascension Sunday night, my first reaction was to protest. I play Magic for at least a half-dozen reasons that aren't "To win."

• The social experience of being with friends
• Sharing a social experience with new people
• Seeing the wacky, different, and odd interactions of cards
• Experimenting with atypical and nontraditional approaches
• Engaging in the nostalgia of Magic of the past
• Teaching and coaching players that I may provide for

But as I held back and listened I began to understand more what Nate, and the others discussing in agreement, were driving at:

Winning is not mutually exclusive from any other objective in gaming. In fact, winning is a driver for gaming whether we recognize it or not.

Social gaming, that is playing with more than one opponent, generally yields fewer winners than dueling: only one player still wins. It's harder to beat multiple opponents since there are more eyes and minds looking for your weaknesses. Politics and temporary teamwork provide avenues for shifting the game away, or for, a particular player.

Wacky and different cards and decks are generally most interesting when they do something effectively and, in terms of Magic, that's usually winning games. The few Limited environments that have hosted viable milling strategies are few and far between in Magic but the appeal of such an avenue isn't "Sweet! Milling!" but "You were beaten to a strategy you did not anticipate which, often enough, is a sufficient means of victory unto itself."

The best way to put it is that sometimes you sit down with opponents to play one game but end up seeing a totally different game in action.

What do we teach new players?

• The need for sufficient, but not too many, lands in your decks
• That creatures or spells that will defeat your opponent are necessary
• Efficiency and the advantages of using less resources than your opponent

None of these are inherently wrong – 99% of all Magic involves these fundamentals which, thanks to Magic being Magic, can be broken in different ways – and I've coached many newer players on looking for these in their decks.

Why do we teach these principles by nature? Is it the social inertia of Magic theory and how we have grown and deepened our understanding of it? Or is it the underlying desire for each of us to win games of Magic and intuitively know that following the veins of theory lead us closer to that?

You're Hot Then You're Cold

I don't have the answers. Without the proper tools to conduct sociological studies I'm not sure I ever will. But know that when my hands were chilled, cut to the bone, it wasn't the abundant cold air flowing about but the wrinkle of passion in my heart calling out "You can do so much more."

I know now, after the luxury of thinking back over the brief few days since then, that it wasn't just me being starstruck or having a flighty fancy for following a fantastic player; it was the sparking desire to win. Seeing the best made me want more than I currently had.

Which, by my count, are the following:

• Poor evaluation of card interactions and synergy
• Lack of focus to attain a proper curve in Limited
• Lack of focus in Constructed win conditions
• Shallow knowledge of players – names, faces, styles, and histories
• Simplistic mana base construction and development

Am I a bad player? Defining "good" and "bad" are entirely dependent upon your value system. In some ways I believe I am an excellent player. The list above applies a competitive prism and the results are obvious.

I don't think I'll give up my wacky tastes, love of all things different and casual, and desire to see players similar to me slide up to events like Nationals. But these things have their time and place – and all-too-often it isn't at the main tables and competitive environments of high level Magic. Dusting off my focus, stretching my muscles in practice, and building up my reserves of skills are things that are vital and worthwhile.

Is it even possible to lead a dual life – both playing as relaxed and free as I can while apportioning my mental capacity and dutiful practice to competitive improvements? Where does one end and the other being? Where does the road lead to?

And, most importantly, do I have the fortitude and discipline to succeed, in relative terms obviously, at both? Are a pair of quivering hands and beading, cold sweat all I will ever muster?