You see straight to the heart of games.

You are able to hold, fixed in your mind, the paradox of their simultaneous existence as both systems of mathematical purity and as living, breathing emotional entities. This either makes you a genius, or insane, or both. Such distinctions are irrelevant - you're down to earth like that.

You're not merely a critic or a dabbler, though. You create these things. Combat resolution, exploration, resource management, character building, and dozens of unique mechanics that belong to no single paradigm - these are the materials of your craft.

You know that even wildly successful games actually sit on the knife edge between "too easy" and "too difficult", and that a single number can tip the balance either way. On any given game, you can find that number and keep it on that edge. You know when to delegate to the designers under you, and when to roll up your sleeves and take ownership of something critical.

You realize that as the architect of a game's interactive layers, you are in effect defining the Meaning of Life for the world we are creating. You take this duty seriously, but without putting game design on a pedestal above other disciplines - after all, part of game design is figuring out how they all fit together.

You understand that it's your job to translate the impossibly high level hand-waving of a room full of creative people down to the level of a concrete formula, in a way that preserves the essential soul. You don't
bat an eye at the thought of doing this, even for a game that is, in essence, an orchestral arrangement of systems that lives or dies based on how well-integrated everything is. Big picture, microscopic scrutiny. You dream with the gods and design with the slide rule.