Rules of the Game

At one point during my time doing stand-up comedy, I started referring to this pastime, hobby, burgeoning career or whatever you want to call it as “the game”. 

I liked referring to comedy as “the game”, because it made it sound more serious, more intimidating. Artists that I admired like Jay-Z and Dr. Dre would affectionately refer to their craft as the game. When they needed space for reflection, they discussed “leaving the game”. When they encountered misfortune and wanted to practice endurance, they would “charge it to the game”. When they wanted to emphasize dedication, they declared they were “married to the game”. So, I half-seriously determined that adopting this linguistic habit of theirs would give me more gravitas, especially when I talked to other comedians or people who didn’t do comedy. I wouldn’t just be the 19-year-old who started doing open mics and was nursing an unrealistic dream. To them, I was in some secret club with strict rules and codes.

I didn’t realize how deeply ingrained this habit was until I was speaking to a group of friends who were debating Jerrod Carmichael’s latest special “Rothaniel”. I haven’t watched it, but I read reviews and learned that in his special, he called out Dave Chappelle for his comments about certain communities. I surprised myself when I said that I thought Carmichael had broken a rule of “the game” by making a joke at the expense of another comedian. My logic was that it was poor sportsmanship and a form of pandering meant to improve his own overall standing with the wider public. As players of “the game”, we must hold each other to standards, I reasoned. Maybe I was misinformed in that statement. Typically when I’ve seen comedians take issues with one another, they would have private discussions and resolve the matter.

After that night, I began to reflect on some of the “rules” of the game I’d picked up since I started doing comedy six years ago. Other comedians who are reading this might think that in the game of comedy, six years is nothing. Many of you have been in the game for longer than I have. I might as well be an elevated open-mic comic. But, in my estimation, every game has rules that even the newest players seek to follow strictly. I’ve learned a lot of lessons from it that have held true in comedy scenes from New York and London to Washington and Shanghai, and might even apply to life in some ways as well. 

Pain and Time

I remember the first joke I ever told on stage – it was about how I’d recently gone through a breakup, and how women were so confusing that I could read a full book about them and still be perplexed. 

The problematic joke received lukewarm laughs from the other open-mic comics who were also testing material. We didn’t always laugh because something was funny. We often laughed to support one another. I was 19, still trying to find my voice. At one point they too had been a young and eager comic. So, they returned the support that they had received. 

I later realized why comedy was so addictive for me; it gave me a place to take painful experiences and turn them into something that made other people feel good. It was a form of alchemy. 

A few years ago, I read a book called I Hung My Harp on the Willow Tree and the author put words to the underlying formula. Comedy = Pain x Time. In other words, you really can’t make a joke about something until you’ve been removed from it for a few weeks, months or even years. You need time to develop a mature perspective. 

I look at some of my favorite comics like Chappelle, Robin Williams, Patrice O’Neil, and many others, and I realize that part of the reason so many of them were funny was because they took objectively bad experiences, and spun them into funny stories. This form of alchemy is what many fans pay to see. That’s why Chris Rock’s most recent comedy special was so highly anticipated – because people wanted to know how he would make a joke out of the most embarrassing night of his life.

While I don’t think that life has strict “rules”, I do think that the concept of taking time to gather how we think or feel about something is important and valuable. At the end of your processing, maybe you won’t be on stage telling jokes to an audience, but at least you’ll have a new perspective.

Comedy is a Contact Sport

Comedy is one of those things you just have to do in order to get better at it. 

Since I started, I’ve seen the paths of my comedy friends diverge, and I think the most significant factor that dictated different outcomes was how much comedy they did. I’ve seen comics who were mediocre get better simply because they did so many mics. The people who run their own room, or go to several mics a week are the ones who will have a crowd in stitches because they’ve been in so many rooms that they know what works. They’re like skilled boxers who know which jab to throw after a hook in order to deliver maximum impact. This is because they’ve been in situations where the joke didn’t land, and as highly sensitive people, they realized that the only way to avoid future embarrassment was to write a better joke. This process happens countless times the more you perform. But, the thing is you must perform. 

I’ve always admired the comedians who are able to manage the grueling schedules of doing up to 10 shows in a week, many of them unpaid, for small and uninterested audiences. But, it’s like sparring in boxing. Ali wasn’t always going toe to toe with George Foreman in Zaire. Sometimes, he was facing his own shadow, or a punching bag somewhere in a dark room with only one light and poor heating.

If you’ve gone through something enough times, you learn how to navigate the situation better. Conflict with your loved ones, stress at work, existential dread. As a comedian, the only way to know how to deliver a joke the right way is if you’ve delivered it the wrong way enough times. As Thomas Edison said, “I’ve not failed, I’ve only found 1000 ways which don’t work”. 

Go at your own pace

I’ve stopped performing as much as I once did. 

When I was in Shanghai, I was bright-eyed and committed to going up on stage twice a week to get better. Soon, I was aiming to be on stage three nights a week to become great and that felt like enough. Within a month of doing my first open mic, I did a ten-minute set. Thinking back, it was mediocre, but it was an important moment for me which showed me how rapidly things could change with passion and hard work. 

I moved to New York the following summer where I learned that in order to truly be a good comic, you needed to be up on stage several times a week, maybe even several times a night, and that you also had to network as if your life depended on it, constantly keeping your head on a swivel for opportunities. I slowly recognized that this style didn’t completely fit my personality. I was content with producing shows on a quarterly basis, doing mics when I felt content, and watching from a distance. 

Recently, I caught up with a friend in London who sold out a theater for his special. One friend moved out to LA and is a regular at the Laugh Factory, while another now has a media partnership that has proven fruitful. One even became a BBC comic of the year. Sometimes, I reminisce fondly on the days when we were all in dark rooms of a bar, speaking to each other and the wall at the back. Some continued to do that, and it brought them greater fortune. 

While I admire the success many of my friends have had, and at points have found myself “envious”, I also realized a larger lesson about life. Our goals have to be cohesive, and supportive of each other. If lurking in the clubs of New York for a spot doesn’t work for me right now, I have to focus on what does — fully embracing whatever that might be. For you, that might mean your focus doesn’t need to be on the constant hustle, but rather on finding a balance that will sustain and propel you forward. 

Final Thoughts: The Rule of Meritocracy

Late in my experiences with comedy, I began to realize the most important rule of all.

Comedy is as close to a meritocratic structure as you can get. Simply put, if you’re funny, you’re funny. Crowds can’t deny that. If you put in the work and write and hit mics, you get funnier. 

It is a relatively simple equation. The question of who gets stage time is a bit more complicated and less meritocratic. But, the concept of becoming funny is very simple. 

Similarly, when you go to the gym and eat well, you get in better shape. Comedy is a lot like working out in that the results typically follow input and consistency.

Comedy doesn’t care about your race, how much your father contributed to your education, who you married, or how many weeks you spent schmoozing in The Hamptons this summer. 

I think that is what keeps so many comedians deeply invested in the game, hitting the mics week after week. While many other games we play, such as life, business, and love are lacking in rules, comedy has simple rules, if you play it right, that is.