A few years ago, I was working in Stockholm, Sweden, teaching writing for television. One point I taught was that every good TV story and scene has a clearly defined character "want," an identifiable desire that tells the audience what the characters hope to achieve and why they do what they do. Nailing the characters' wants, it turns out, is key to nailing the story or scene.
My own ongoing want, of course, is to play as much poker as humanly possible, no matter where in the world I happen to be. This was tough in Stockholm, where poker wasn't legal, and the only available games took place in the sort of "Joe sent me" private clubs where you have to know somebody who knows somebody in order to get in. Fortunately, I knew somebody who knew somebody, so one night I ventured out into the wilds of Stockholm, looking for the game.
Traveling by subway, I made my way to what I guessed was the closest stop. I came up from underground and emerged into a large plaza with streets radiating off in all directions like some sort of mad Swedish sundial. Though I had a map of Stockholm, a scrawled address, and a set of instructions on a crumpled piece of paper, these things were all in Swedish, a language only marginally more accessible to me than the ancient Rosetta stone language of Demotic hieroglyph. Nor were available street signs any help because, again, Swedish. So I stood in the middle of the plaza, turning in slow circles, trying to correlate my scanty data. I literally couldn't make an informed step in any direction, and as I struggled to get my bearings, I realized something shocking:
I was in bliss.
Does this strike you as strange? It struck me as completely bizarre. Why was I so thrilled to be so lost? As I pondered the question, I grasped that it wasn't being lost that turned me on so much as the happy challenge of trying to get found with so little hard information to go on. And it hit me with the force of revelation that this was not only why I intentionally wandered around strange cities with inadequate maps, but also why I love poker so much: Poker is a game of incomplete information, and it turns out that the challenge of making correct choices with incomplete information is a challenge my brain adores. This, thus, was my want. It's what brought me to poker in the first place, and what keeps bringing me back again and again and again.
Of course, what brings me to poker may not be what brings you, or any other player, to the game. Many couldn't care less about the intellectual challenge of incomplete information. It's money that gets them off, and if playing every hand correctly were as simple as finding their toothbrush in the medicine chest, that would suit them fine. For others, nothing matters but competition, proving their alpha dog ascendancy over the rest of the pack. Still others see a poker game as just that … a game, the opportunity to annihilate idle hours in the company of friends or genial strangers. Or a place to hide from the spouse. An excuse to drink. Whatever. What these players may not realize - what you and I can therefore use to our advantage - is that their underlying want will shape the way they play the game and shape, in turn, how we can play against them. Nail your foe's want, and you can probably nail your foe.
Take the bubble phase of a major multitable tournament. Suppose everyone has folded around to you in the small blind. You have the big blind covered and you're thinking about running a naked bluff. Wouldn't this be a great time to know his want? If all he wants out of the tournament is to make it to the money, you can raise with impunity because you know that his fear of bubbling off will keep him from calling. However, if he's in it to win it, he'll be more willing to put his tournament life on the line. Against the former want, you'd go ahead and fire; against the latter, you'd wait for a better spot.
A player's want, then, becomes a filter through which you can analyze his game and interpret his actions. Timid players want to stay safe. Maniacs want action. Drunks want drinks. Know a player's want and your halfway home. And how do you get this information? The easiest way is to ask. Players who would never reveal real strategy will happily tell you why they're there, for they can't imagine your using such information against them. So do some outreach. Interview your tablemates, or even just listen attentively. If the guy to your left lets slip that he's planning to play until traffic dies down, you can expect him to adopt a tame, timid, low-variance style of play. He's not there particularly to win, he's just killing time. If you put him to hard choices for big bets, he'll back down, because the last thing he wants is to see his rush-hour respite turn into a catastrophic session loss.
But remember - and this is key - that while you're studying the wants of others, you must also study your own, for you'll be guided by hidden motivations just like anyone else. Say, for example, that your normal desire for a poker game is to do your best and take pride in making good decisions. That's a healthy enough want, but what if you get deeply stuck in the game? Without even realizing it, you might shift from a desire to play your best to a desire to get unstuck. Now you're controlled by a toxic want - the kids in my neighborhood call it tilt - and your game must necessarily go downhill.
Those familiar with the
Killer Poker approach to the game know that I'm all about relentless introspection, honesty, and self-awareness. It does no good, really, to analyze your enemies' play if you're not willing to bring the same keen analysis to bear on your own. So the next time you're playing poker, keep close track of your foes' wants, for this information will help you beat them. At the same time, keep very close track of your own want - and be aware that your want can shift at a moment's notice. Maybe it'll take only one bad beat to move you from
I want to play great poker to I want to make that luckbox pay! Seeing others as they truly are is useful in poker, but seeing yourself as you truly are is absolutely crucial to success.
John Vorhaus is the author of the Killer Poker series of books. He resides in cyberspace at www.vorza.com.
