Watching the Games Beneath the Conversation
Years ago, I stumbled across an old psychological theory called transactional analysis (check out the download at the end of this blog), and at the time I had no idea it would permanently change the way I experience human interaction. It was not framed as a solution or a philosophy, and it certainly did not promise peace or clarity. It was simply a way of describing patterns, but once I began seeing those patterns play out in real conversations, in kitchens, living rooms, meetings, and family gatherings, something shifted that I could not undo. Conversations that once felt confusing or emotionally draining started to look less random and more rehearsed, as though people were running scripts they had learned long ago and rarely questioned.
Transactional analysis suggests that much of what we experience as conversation is not really an exchange of information at all, but a series of patterned interactions that follow familiar rules and end in familiar emotional places. These patterns are called games, not because people are consciously manipulative, but because they involve roles, expectations, and payoffs that quietly reinforce what feels normal to our nervous systems. Our brains are wired for consistency and repeatability, and once a pattern becomes familiar, it often feels safer than uncertainty, even when it quietly creates suffering.
After I started seeing this, I realized that holiday gatherings are one of the most reliable places to watch transactional analysis unfold in real time. So rather than dreading these events, I began observing them, and quietly became my own self-proclaimed transactional analysis private investigator.
The best way to describe what I was witnessing is not as a therapist or theorist, but as a sports commentator watching a game play out from above. So let’s do that. Let’s join my favorite commentator as a kid, John Madden, and Pat Summerall in the booth watching the holiday party unfold.
“Alright Pat,” I say as we look down at the house below us, “we’re barely ten minutes into this thing and you can already feel the nervous systems warming up.”
Pat nods, steady as ever. “You’re right, John. People haven’t even finished their first drink and the formations are already taking shape.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “Nobody walks into a room like this as a blank slate. They walk in with decades of film on each other.”
Over by the kitchen island, Linda has the ball. She opens with a heavy sigh and starts talking about how overwhelmed she is, how something really needs to change, and how she is open to ideas. You can see the helpers drifting in almost immediately, offering suggestions with genuine care and enthusiasm.
“Yes, but my boss would never go for that.”
“Yes, but my situation is different.”
“Yes, but I already tried something like that.”
I lean forward. “Pat, this is ‘Why Don’t You, Yes But’ in its purest form. Watch how every suggestion gets neutralized just enough to keep the conversation going without allowing any movement.”
Pat smiles. “Looks like they’re stuck right at the line of scrimmage.”
“That’s the payoff,” I say. “Staying stuck while appearing engaged. No risk, no change, but plenty of attention.”
As that drive stalls, the camera shifts toward the living room couch, where something quieter is unfolding. Mark has been sitting back, nodding along, storing details. Someone begins telling a story about a work situation, and halfway through they gloss over a key part that makes them look just a little better than reality.
Mark leans in calmly. “You know, you always leave out the part where you missed the deadline and the rest of us had to clean it up.”
I tap the screen. “There it is, Pat. ‘Now I’ve Got You.’ This one is not about catching a contradiction. It’s about waiting for a moral opening.”
Pat exhales. “You can feel the room tighten.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “The payoff is righteousness. Being right restores internal order, even if it costs connection.”
Now let’s pan over to the coffee table, because something subtle but important is happening there. Tom knocks over his drink. Again. And before the liquid even finishes spreading, he jumps in with an apology.
“Oh man, I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess.”
I shake my head slowly. “Pat, that’s Schlemiel, pronounced shlə-MEEL, and it comes straight out of Yiddish humor.”
Pat raises an eyebrow. “Give me the background.”
“In traditional Jewish storytelling,” I say, “the schlemiel is the one who spills the soup, and the schlimazel is the one the soup spills on. The humor isn’t cruelty. It’s predictability.”
Here’s the key, and it’s easy to miss if you’re not watching closely, because this game isn’t really about remorse as much as it’s about speed, with the apology coming so fast that it short circuits the group’s natural response. Almost immediately, attention moves to reassurance and cleanup, and before anyone can slow the moment down enough to notice the pattern itself, everything has been smoothed over and put back in place.
“And there’s the cleanup crew,” Pat says.
“Right on cue,” I reply. “The payoff is staying included without changing anything. Responsibility never extends beyond the apology, so the pattern resets and stays in play.”
“A part of me, watching this, wants to jump in and say something, but Pat, that’s not where the real action is right now, because what’s happening on the field is starting to get complicated.”
“Looks like things are spreading out,” Pat says.
“That’s exactly right,” I reply. “This is when the side games really get going.”
Down the hallway, Susan has pulled Karen aside and slipped into “Look How Hard I’ve Tried.” She’s listing years of effort, late nights, emotional labor, and sacrifice, all of it real and heartfelt.
“This one’s about identity,” I say. “The payoff is protection from shame. As long as effort defines the self, failure never has to be examined.”
A few feet away, Dave joins in with “If It Weren’t For You,” carefully explaining how life would have turned out differently if parents, partners, or circumstances had cooperated.
“Agency stays outside,” Pat observes.
“Exactly,” I reply. “Relief without responsibility.”
Back in the living room, Mary warms up “Poor Me,” sharing stories of hardship that draw sympathy and concern without ever landing anywhere specific.
“The payoff here is care without risk,” I say. “Attention without change.”
Someone nearby jumps in with advice that quickly sharpens into frustration.
“That’s ‘I’m Only Trying to Help You,’” Pat notes.
“And when that help doesn’t land the way the helper hopes it will,” I add, “you can almost feel the frustration start to build, because resentment is already standing just offstage, ready to step in.”
Now, Pat, let’s slide over near the dining room table, because this is where things tend to turn sharp in a hurry, especially when certain topics get dropped into the middle of the room like a lit match. Someone brings up politics, or religion, or a public figure who already carries a lot of emotional charge, and you can feel the collective nervous system tense before anyone even finishes their sentence. One person offers an opinion that falls just outside the accepted lane, not aggressively, not even loudly, but different enough to register as a threat to the existing worldview.
You can see it happen in real time. The posture shifts. The jaw tightens. The volume comes up half a notch.
“Well that’s just wrong,” someone snaps, voice rising, words landing hard, certainty taking over the space. The room goes quiet for a beat, not because everyone agrees, but because they recognize the tone. This is no longer a conversation. This is a declaration.
A few minutes of tirade later, after the tension ripples through the room and someone pushes back, even gently, the justification arrives almost instantly.
“I wouldn’t have said it like that if you hadn’t pushed me.”
I lean toward Pat. “There it is. That’s ‘See What You Made Me Do,’ and it shows up right here more than almost anywhere else.”
Pat nods slowly. “That one flips fast.”
“It does,” I say. “Because what just happened gets rewritten on the fly. The outburst isn’t owned as an outburst. It gets reframed as a reaction that someone else caused.”
In this game, responsibility moves mid conversation. The speaker positions themselves as reasonable, even restrained, while the other person gets cast as the instigator who forced their hand. The emotional intensity, the raised voice, the harsh words, all get justified as necessary responses to provocation, rather than choices made in the moment.
“And that’s the payoff,” I continue. “Relief from guilt.”
Pat watches the room. “And the other person’s left holding it.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “They’re now carrying the weight of the explosion, wondering what they did wrong, whether they should have stayed quiet, whether their opinion was the real problem.”
What makes this game especially powerful is that it shuts down disagreement without ever admitting that disagreement is the issue. It sends a clear message. You’re allowed to speak, as long as you agree. If you don’t, the consequences are already lined up, and if things get ugly, you’ll be told it was your fault for pushing too hard.
“And once that play runs a few times,” Pat says, “people stop raising their hand.”
“That’s right,” I reply. “The room learns. Silence becomes safer than honesty, and the game keeps the field exactly the way it likes it.”
Now Pat, let’s take a look over by the window, because a small group has gathered there that might seem harmless at first glance, but this is one of the most reliable games on the field. Someone sighs deeply, shakes their head, and says, “Can you believe how bad things have gotten,” not really asking a question so much as setting a tone.
Heads nod, and the conversation quickly fills with headlines, stories, and familiar conclusions. The system is broken. People are getting worse. Everything feels corrupt or rigged, depending on who’s talking. The tone is serious and concerned, and everyone sounds informed and appropriately distressed.
Pat watches quietly. “Nobody’s disagreeing.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “Because disagreement would break the spell.”
This is “Ain’t It Awful,” and it works because it creates instant bonding without requiring vulnerability or action. The darker the assessment, the more credible the speaker appears, and hope quickly starts to sound naive.
“And notice,” I add, “how nothing ever turns inward.”
Pat nods. “It’s all out there.”
“That’s the payoff,” I say. “Moral alignment without agency.”
The energy here is heavy but stabilizing, because shared despair becomes the glue. Question it, and you risk sounding out of touch. Suggest hope, and you risk dismissal. So the game loops, offering belonging without exposure.
“And once that tone sets in,” Pat says, “it’s hard to interrupt.”
“That’s right,” I reply. “Because this game doesn’t want resolution. It wants confirmation.”
“And once that tone is set, Pat, it’s not a big leap before the conversation starts tightening its focus on who or what deserves the critique.”
Now Pat, keep an eye on that group just off the main conversation, because this one rarely raises its voice. Someone starts talking about a person who isn’t present, or a system that can’t respond, and the tone sharpens with precision rather than anger. The comments are measured. The language is careful. Each observation lands just hard enough to sound insightful.
“Well, that’s just how those people are,” someone says, as though stating an obvious truth. Another person adds a detail. Someone else names a pattern. It all sounds reasonable.
Pat watches. “Nobody’s getting emotional.”
“That’s the tell,” I reply. “This isn’t venting. This is positioning.”
This is “Blemish,” and it works by keeping attention locked on what’s wrong with someone else. The longer the flaws are cataloged, the more competent the speaker appears, without ever having to turn inward.
“And notice how clean it feels,” Pat says.
“Exactly,” I reply. “Superiority without exposure.”
No one has to say, “This hits close to home.” The problem lives over there. The group reinforces this with quiet agreement, while nuance risks being seen as defensiveness.
“And that’s why it keeps running,” Pat says.
“That’s right,” I reply. “You get credibility without vulnerability.”
What looks like thoughtful critique often functions as protection from uncertainty or self doubt. As long as the blemish stays external, the speaker remains intact and unexamined.
Now Pat, keep an eye on what’s happening in that far corner of the room, because this one doesn’t announce itself loudly, and if you’re not paying close attention, it just looks like someone having an off night. A person keeps interrupting at the wrong moment, making comments that land just a beat too sharp or just a bit too self exposing, laughing at themselves before anyone else has a chance to respond, and missing social cues in a way that almost guarantees someone will eventually sigh, correct them, or roll their eyes.
Pat watches for a moment. “It feels uncomfortable, but not accidental.”
“That’s exactly right,” I reply. “This is ‘Kick Me,’ and it’s one of the saddest games to watch when you really see it.”
What’s happening here is not a desire to be rejected in any conscious sense, but a powerful pull toward familiarity. The person’s behavior subtly invites criticism, correction, or dismissal, not because they enjoy being treated poorly, but because being treated poorly confirms something that already feels true deep inside. When the inevitable reaction arrives, whether it’s irritation, mockery, or quiet exclusion, it lands in a way that feels strangely stabilizing.
“And that’s the payoff,” I say. “Confirmation.”
Pat nods slowly. “It matches the internal story.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “The belief might be ‘I’m too much,’ or ‘I don’t belong,’ or ‘People always get tired of me,’ and when the room responds the way it usually does, the nervous system relaxes, because the world just behaved the way it expected to.”
What makes this game especially difficult is that it often provokes reactions that look justified on the surface. Other people really do feel annoyed. Someone really does snap. But from up here, you can see how the pattern pulls those reactions out of the environment over and over again, reinforcing the same outcome with different players.
“And the room learns, too,” Pat says.
“That’s an important piece,” I reply. “Over time, people stop offering warmth or curiosity, because they’ve been trained to expect friction, and that just locks the whole thing in.”
Kick Me often shows up in people who learned early that negative attention was safer than no attention at all, or that being criticized was more predictable than being cared for. The game is not about self sabotage in a dramatic sense. It is about maintaining coherence in a nervous system that learned what to expect from others and keeps recreating it, even when it hurts.
“And here’s the thing,” I add, “if you don’t know this game, it just looks like someone being difficult.”
Pat exhales. “But if you do know it.”
“Then you see a person trying to belong the only way they know how,” I reply.
Now Pat, let’s slow this down and look at what’s happening near the edge of the room, because this one rarely draws attention, but it shapes the entire field in subtle ways. Someone keeps referencing a limitation, not loudly and not defensively, but persistently enough that it becomes part of how everyone relates to them. It might be a health issue, a rough childhood, anxiety, a bad back, a learning difference, or a history that always seems to resurface at just the right moment.
“I’d help more, but you know how my anxiety gets.”
“I just can’t handle conflict like other people.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you didn’t grow up the way I did.”
Pat watches the exchange. “Nobody’s arguing with that.”
“Of course not,” I reply. “Because arguing would sound cruel.”
This is ‘Wooden Leg,’ and the name comes from the idea that if someone has a wooden leg, you don’t expect them to walk normally, and you certainly don’t criticize them for limping. In this game, however, the limitation is not simply acknowledged, it becomes the organizing principle of the relationship. The condition, history, or diagnosis moves from context into identity, and once that happens, expectations quietly disappear.
“And there’s the shift,” Pat says. “People start adjusting around it.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “The payoff here is exemption.”
Once the wooden leg is established, the system adapts. Tasks get redistributed. Conversations get softened. Accountability gets rerouted. No one ever quite says it out loud, but everyone learns what not to expect. The person playing the game is protected from pressure, confrontation, or disappointment, while the people around them slowly carry more weight to keep things functioning.
What makes this game so tricky is that the limitation itself is often real. The pain is real. The history is real. And that makes the game almost invisible, because any pushback feels heartless. Over time, however, growth quietly stalls, not because the person is incapable, but because the system no longer expects movement.
“And watch what happens if someone challenges it,” Pat says.
The room tightens. Someone rushes in to explain, soften, or defend. The challenger backs off, often feeling guilty for even thinking it. The wooden leg has done its job.
“The game keeps the peace,” I say, “but at the cost of possibility.”
The payoff is safety from expectation, but the tradeoff is agency. The person is spared discomfort, but also spared the chance to discover what they might actually be capable of with support, flexibility, and honest engagement. Meanwhile, resentment can quietly build in others who feel overburdened but unable to name why.
“And from the outside,” Pat says, “it just looks like compassion.”
“That’s why it lasts,” I reply. “It hides inside kindness.”
Wooden Leg doesn’t explode. It settles in. It becomes part of the furniture. And once it does, the whole room orients around it, not because anyone planned it that way, but because it feels like the least painful option available.
By now, the house is full of overlapping games, all running simultaneously, all reinforcing familiar roles, and if you’re not watching closely, it just feels like noise or exhaustion without a clear cause.
“And from the outside,” Pat says quietly, “it just looks like people talking.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “But from up here, you can see the patterns.”
Pat says, “Let’s take a break to hear from our sponsors.”
So now that we’ve watched all of this play out with the help of our commentators, I want to slow things down and turn the lens back toward myself, because none of what I’ve described lives safely out there in other people. This has been personal for me in ways I did not initially want to admit, especially when I began noticing how often I walked into gatherings genuinely longing for connection while simultaneously carrying parts of me that were already braced, already scanning, already preparing for disappointment before anything had actually happened.
For a long time, I told myself I was just sensitive, or introspective, or wired for depth, which may be true, but it also kept me from seeing how my own ego was quietly working overtime to protect something fragile underneath. Meditation did not make me calmer or more evolved, despite how tempting that story can be, but it did make something visible that I could no longer ignore, which was how much effort I was putting into managing my internal experience by trying to control external dynamics. Focused Attention practices became a place where I could rehearse staying present without reacting, away from the noise of the room and the pull of familiar roles, and over time those small, often boring repetitions gave me a kind of internal stability that showed up later when I needed it most, right in the middle of the very gatherings that used to exhaust me.
Open Monitoring practices deepened that shift in a different way, because instead of trying to anchor my attention to something specific, I was learning how to stay with whatever was actually happening, whether that was irritation, longing, boredom, or sadness, without immediately needing to do anything about it. That practice gave me back a sense of agency I did not know I had been missing, because I could feel the difference between noticing an impulse and being driven by it, between awareness and action. Reading Widen the Window helped me understand why this mattered so much at a nervous system level, especially how attentional control and nonjudgmental awareness expand our capacity to stay present when old patterns start to assert themselves.
Internal Family Systems then gave me a language for something I had already begun to sense, which was that many of the reactions I used to attribute to other people were actually being shaped by parts of me carrying old hopes for connection that had never really been met. I could see how those parts would enter the room with quiet expectations, and how quickly they would feel hurt, unseen, or dismissed when the interaction stayed on the surface or slid into familiar games. When that happened, other parts would step in with frustration or righteousness, often preparing a “Now I’ve Got You” stance before anyone had done anything particularly wrong, and it became painfully clear how often I was asking other people to meet needs that my own parts were still hoping I would meet for them.
Over time, something softened. I stopped expecting soul-to-soul connection from people who had not chosen that kind of work for themselves, and that shift did not feel like judgment or withdrawal so much as clarity. It did not make me right and them wrong, but it did allow my own system to relax, because my parts no longer had to stay on high alert waiting for something that was unlikely to arrive. As those expectations loosened, so did the resentment that had quietly fueled so many internal arguments, and I could feel how much energy had been tied up in maintaining those old positions.
What feels most true for me now is not that the games have stopped, because they have not, and probably never will, but that I can stay present while they unfold without needing to assign blame, take a stance, or rush toward resolution. I still notice the familiar patterns and the subtle pulls inside me to jump in, fix, correct, or withdraw, but from a steadier place I can watch those impulses arise without mistaking them for instructions I must follow. Connection, when it happens, feels chosen rather than demanded, and when it does not happen, it feels informative rather than wounding, which has quietly changed the way I experience not just holiday gatherings, but human connection itself.
If any of this resonates, not as something to fix or change, but simply as something you are beginning to notice more clearly, I put together a simple one page guide you can download and keep with you. It’s called Holiday Games Survival Guide, and it’s nothing more than a quiet reference sheet that names the common transactional analysis games and what they tend to do for us underneath the surface. You can print it, tuck it in a bag, or keep it on your phone and glance at it during a gathering, not to diagnose anyone or call anything out, but to help you stay oriented when familiar dynamics start to unfold.
For me, having language close by has been less about labeling other people and more about staying curious with myself, especially in moments where I feel that old pull to jump into a role I’ve played a hundred times before. Sometimes just recognizing the game that’s forming is enough to create a little space, a little humor, or a little compassion, which is often all that’s needed to stay present rather than reactive. If you want to take this lens with you into the room, the guide is there as a companion, not a rulebook, and you can find it linked below.
And if nothing else, my hope is that paying attention in this way makes these gatherings feel a little less personal and a little more human, not because anyone suddenly behaves differently, but because you can see what’s happening while it’s happening, and choose how much of yourself you want to bring onto the field.
Peace my friends,
~Travis
PS. Below is the downloadable form I promised. Happy Holidays!
