The Friction of the Human: Why Error is the Soul of the Game
February 8, 2026
In her recent exploration of automation in sports, "Off-Script, But Not Offline," Sam Levine offers a compelling defense of the technological shift toward precision[cite: 2]. She argues that high-stakes moments demand higher standards of fairness and that rejecting automation entirely risks "preserving error in the name of tradition"[cite: 3]. To Levine, the introduction of systems like Major League Baseball’s Automated Ball-Strike (ABS) system isn’t a replacement for human agency, but a necessary safeguard for it[cite: 4]. She views the "off-script" nature of sports—the improvisation and moral accountability—as something that is protected, rather than erased, when we eliminate the "arbitrary" officiating failures that can overshadow athletic excellence[cite: 5].
It is a persuasive stance, grounded in a modern desire for meritocracy and technical perfection[cite: 6]. However, by framing error as a "preventable failure" that exists in opposition to "human meaning," we risk misunderstanding what a game actually is[cite: 7]. If we view a game as a problem to be solved or a calculation to be perfected, then Levine is correct: error is a problem[cite: 8]. But if we view a game as a human ritual—a "magic circle" where we voluntarily overcome unnecessary obstacles—then error is not a bug; it is a fundamental feature[cite: 9, 10]. The "tradition" Levine worries about preserving is not merely a stubborn attachment to the past; it is the preservation of the human scale[cite: 10, 11]. Error is an inherent part of games because humans are inherently fallible, and once we automate that fallibility away, we are no longer playing the same game[cite: 11].
The Problem with "Preventable" Errors
Levine’s argument hinges on the idea that certain errors are "preventable" and therefore meaningless[cite: 13]. She cites the nightmare scenario of a World Series game decided by a missed strike call, arguing that such a moment shifts the focus from the athlete to the official[cite: 14]. In this view, technology serves as a "fairness tool" that ensures the "human story is about the athletes’ performance"[cite: 15].
But this assumes that "fairness" is an objective, mathematical state rather than a social one[cite: 16]. In the context of a game, fairness is the result of all participants—players and officials alike—submitting to a shared set of limitations[cite: 17]. When we play a game, we are not just testing our ability to hit a ball; we are testing our ability to navigate a complex, unpredictable environment[cite: 18, 19]. Part of that environment is the human official[cite: 19]. To remove the official’s capacity for error is to remove a layer of the game’s complexity[cite: 20].
Consider the "Hand of God" goal scored by Diego Maradona in the 1986 World Cup[cite: 21]. By any technical standard, it was a "preventable error"[cite: 22]. A sensor or a video assistant would have caught the handball instantly[cite: 22]. And yet, that error did not "erase human meaning"[cite: 23]. On the contrary, it became one of the most significant moments in the history of the sport[cite: 23]. It sparked decades of debate about morality, gamesmanship, and the nature of luck[cite: 24]. If that goal had been automated out of existence, we would have a "fairer" record book, but a much poorer human narrative[cite: 25]. And I would argue that there is no point to watching sports if it does not spark some kind of emotion in us, and enhance the human narrative[cite: 26]. Error creates friction, and friction creates heat, light, and story[cite: 27].
The Sterility of the Solved Game
The danger of Levine’s "hybrid model" is that it moves us closer to the "solved game"[cite: 29]. In the world of game design and theory, a "solved game" is one where the optimal outcome can be predicted with certainty[cite: 30]. Tic-tac-toe is a solved game; if both players play perfectly, it always ends in a draw[cite: 31]. For a long time, chess was the ultimate test of human intuition, but the rise of engines like Stockfish and AlphaZero has essentially solved the game at the highest levels[cite: 32].
What has been the result? High-level chess has become increasingly sterile[cite: 33]. Grandmasters often find themselves memorizing computer-generated lines, and matches frequently end in repetitive draws[cite: 34]. The "human error" that used to define chess—the psychological pressure, the missed tactic, the bold but "incorrect" sacrifice—has been marginalized by the looming presence of the perfect machine[cite: 35]. When players know that "perfection" is available via a chip, the incentive to be human—to be messy, creative, and flawed—begins to evaporate[cite: 36].
The Philosophy of the Magic Circle
To understand why error belongs in games, we must look at the philosophy of play[cite: 43]. In his seminal work Homo Ludens, Johan Huizinga describes the "magic circle"—the idea that a game takes place in a space and time that is separate from "real life"[cite: 44]. Inside the circle, we agree to follow rules that make no sense outside of it[cite: 45]. (There is no "logical" reason to put a ball in a hoop, for instance) [cite: 46].
"If the goal of a game is to achieve a result with 100% accuracy, then humans shouldn't be involved at all." [cite: 65]
The magic circle is a human construction, designed for human participants[cite: 47]. When we introduce automated systems as the final arbiters of truth, we are puncturing that circle[cite: 48]. We are importing an external, non-human "truth" into a space that was meant to be governed by human perception[cite: 49]. Levine argues that high-stakes demand higher standards of precision, but she fails to ask what we lose when we prioritize precision over presence[cite: 50].
Conclusion: Embracing the Friction
Sam Levine is right that automation and human judgment don’t have to be enemies, but they are often in tension[cite: 79]. When we lean too heavily into the "assistance" of automation, we inadvertently strip away the friction that makes the game feel real[cite: 80]. We should not fear "preserving error." We should fear the day when we no longer recognize error as a human right[cite: 81]. A game without mistakes is a game without a soul[cite: 82]. It is a sterile, calculated exercise that might satisfy our craving for "fairness," but it will starve our need for drama, connection, and humanity[cite: 83].