The Magic Circle and the Catharsis of Fiction

i approach you, smile on my face, and lock eyes with you. I gently wrap my fingers around your wrist, preventing you from unlocking your phone, accessing the world-wide trove of information that would otherwise be accessible to you.

“Can you,” I ask breathing, “define what a Game is?”

Think on it a bit. Spoilers in the next paragraph, but give it a few seconds. Really dwell on it.

Okay. This comes from Games Researchers. A Game has a Magic Circle. The Magic Circle is basically a zone, demarcated in time and space, where all parties agree, where the rules are different inside.

Not the rules of physics. Tell me how that goes for you. The rules of polite society.

Can you stick you ass in someone’s face? Hell no. BUT … if you are a Twister mat, and the person twisting the spinner shouts out “Right foot Red!”, and the only way for you to do that is put your ass in someone’s face – suddenly that is okay. Because you both knew the modified rules of the game when you both agreed to get on a Twister mat. The space of the mat, and the time of the game, define The Magic Circle.

Is it okay to punch someone right in the face? Totally okay. If you’re in a hockey rink, and the game is ongoing.

Games exist to train people in the values that society holds important. From the strategic thinking of chess, to the teamwork dynamics of football. The Magic Circle is key to making the training a safe place, telling the participants ‘it is okay to practice here, the stakes do not extend beyond the Circle”.

Am I going somewhere with this? Welcome to the Magic Circle of my blog, I guess.

I realized recently a different Magic Circle that Fiction creates. An aside.

At work, a minor misunderstanding resulted in a lot of emotions on my end. And I found the part that bothered me the most wasn’t the misunderstanding. It was that, totally unanticipated by me, I felt unsanctioned emotions.

Fiction creates a Magic Circle where all emotions are okay.

Example. Imagine you go into the break room at work, and a colleague is standing by the water-cooler, staring out the window that surveys the massive parking lot, gleaming with compact cars, and deadpans “Did you ever wonder what it would feel like to be a serially killer – that kills other serial killers?”

Now, if you were not plugged into the cultural zeitgeist, this would be a really good opportunity to walk briskly out of the break room before this absolute psycho gets between you and your only exit.

However, since you know about Darkly Dreaming Dexter, and the TV series it was adapted to, you talk about the thrill of the kill, and staying just one step ahead of the investigators trying to nail you, before you enquire about your co-workers mother and her recent surgery, before heading back to your cubicle.

Fiction affords you a Magic Circle. Not just of time and space, which it does, but also inside your heart. It is now safe to indulge in your darkest desires. Power fantasies. Loving an aloof, brooding asshole. Having all acknowledge your heroic talents. Imaging you could somehow improvise your way to surviving a zombie apocalypse.

With fiction, I can safely be terrified, grief-stricken, and swallowed by righteous indignation, and face no social consequences for violation of taboos. It is a safe place for me to feel, without having the consequences extend out The Magic Circle.

Catharsis.