本文的部分思考的灵感来自心理学家乔丹·彼得森（Jordan Peterson）在《意义地图》（Maps of Meaning）的课程中对魁地奇的解读。

追球手拼死拼活，躲过游走球，绕过守门员，好不容易把鬼飞球扔进圆环，得10分。

找球手呢？大部分时间在天上转悠，看起来什么也没干，最后伸手一抓，150分到手，比赛结束。十五个进球，才抵得上一次抓捕。

《哈利·波特》的读者吐槽这条规则已经很多年了。既然金色飞贼几乎能决定胜负，那其他球员忙活半天，到底图什么？可我越想越觉得，这条看起来不公平的规则，恰恰是魁地奇最有意思的地方。

它让一场体育比赛变成了一个隐喻：我们每天忙着争取的东西，和我们真正想要的东西，究竟是不是同一回事？

要回答这个问题，得先说说金色飞贼的来历。

最早的魁地奇比赛里，其实没有金色飞贼。只有一只鸟。

罗琳在《神奇的魁地奇球》（Quidditch Through the Ages）里，专门写过这项运动的历史。按照书中的记载，1269年，一位名叫 Barberus Bragge 的巫师议会主席，在比赛中放出了一只金色的小鸟，叫 Golden Snidget。他宣布，谁能抓住这只鸟，就能得到150加隆的赏金。

这件事很快演变成了比赛中的一项传统。后来，球场上有了专门追捕金色小鸟的球员，也就是找球手的前身。只是这种鸟实在太珍贵，又因为魁地奇而遭到大量捕猎，逐渐濒临灭绝。

于是，一位叫 Bowman Wright 的巫师发明了金色飞贼：核桃大小的金球，长着一对银色翅膀，飞得极快，还会灵活地躲避抓捕。从此，机械金球取代了活鸟。

有意思的是，最初的150加隆赏金，和今天抓住飞贼获得的150分，恰好是同一个数字。原著没有明确解释二者之间的转换过程，但这种联系很容易让人联想到一条古老规则的延续。

如果只看这段历史，150分似乎没什么神秘的。当初有人随口开出一笔赏金，后来大家沿用了这个数字，仅此而已。

可为什么罗琳要让这个传统在故事里继续存在？为什么不把150分改成30分、50分，让其他球员的努力更容易决定胜负？

我觉得，这就要说到魁地奇真正特别的地方了。

仔细想想，魁地奇其实是在同一个球场上，同时进行两场完全不同的游戏。

第一场游戏，和我们熟悉的足球、篮球没什么区别。传球、拦截、进攻、防守，想办法比对手多得分。追球手、守门员和击球手，基本都在围绕这个目标行动。

第二场游戏，却只有两个人参与。两个找球手在整个球场上寻找一颗几乎看不见的金球。

其他人忙着进球，他们忙着寻找。其他人关心比分，他们还必须关心比赛什么时候结束。因为在传统魁地奇规则中，金色飞贼不仅值150分，而且抓住它通常意味着比赛立刻结束。

这就很有意思了。

一群人在努力赢得比赛，另一些人在寻找结束比赛的东西。

而且，这两件事并不总是一回事。

最著名的例子，是1994年的魁地奇世界杯决赛。保加利亚对阵爱尔兰。爱尔兰的追球手太强，保加利亚始终处于劣势。

最后，保加利亚的找球手克鲁姆抓住了金色飞贼。但保加利亚还是输了。最终比分是170比160，爱尔兰获胜。

为什么？因为在克鲁姆抓住飞贼之前，保加利亚已经落后了160分。即使拿到额外的150分，也不足以逆转比分。

克鲁姆当然知道这一点。他还是选择了抓住飞贼。

按照小说中的解释，他判断自己的球队已经很难追上爱尔兰，与其让比分继续扩大，不如结束比赛。

这个细节，我一直觉得很有意思。因为它说明，150分并不是万能的。你不能完全不管场上的比分，只顾寻找飞贼。

但它也说明，找球手掌握着一种其他球员没有的权力：在通常情况下，他能决定什么时候结束比赛。同一场比赛里，有人在争取胜利，有人在寻找终点。

这让我想到现实生活。

我们每天做的许多事情，其实都很像追球手在做的事。考试，拿高分。工作，争取升职加薪。做研究，发表论文。经营社交账号，希望有更多关注。我们遵守规则，接受评价，努力让自己的分数比昨天更高一点。

这些当然都很重要。一个连眼前生活都照顾不好的人，很难只靠远大的理想解决实际问题。问题是，我们很容易玩着玩着，就忘记自己为什么要玩。

为什么想拿高分？为什么想升职？为什么要发表更多论文？为什么在已经有了足够的东西之后，还是觉得不够？

如果认真追问下去，许多问题最后都会变成同一个问题：

我到底想过一种什么样的生活？

这便是我所理解的第二场游戏。不是再拿多少分，而是弄清楚：这些分数，究竟是为了什么。

你可以把它叫作意义、目标、人生方向，或者其他任何名字。名字不重要。重要的是，人不能只顾着赢，却从来不问自己到底在赢什么。

金色飞贼本身，也是一件很值得琢磨的东西。它是整座球场上最小的球。

金色，圆形，长着银色翅膀，飞行轨迹难以预测。所有人都知道它很重要，却只有找球手会始终寻找它。

彼得森在《意义地图》里，尝试用炼金术的象征体系来理解这颗金球。这并不是罗琳明确确认过的创作意图，而是一种哲学上的解读。

不过，把《哈利·波特》和炼金术放在一起看，确实有些耐人寻味的地方。毕竟，整个系列的第一部，就叫《哈利·波特与魔法石》。

魔法石是炼金术传说中最重要的造物之一，据说能够点石成金，甚至制造长生不老药。小说里的尼可·勒梅也不是罗琳凭空发明的人物，而是一位真实存在过的中世纪法国人，只不过他与炼金术的关系主要来自后世传说。

炼金术有趣的地方在于，它并不只是人们印象中的炼金实验。在某些思想传统中，物质的转化也象征着人的转化。把普通金属变成黄金，同时也可以被理解为一个人从混乱走向完整的过程。

这样再去看金色飞贼，就多了一层意味。一颗小小的金球，可能象征着某种值得不断寻找的东西。

不过，真正让我觉得这个解读有意思的，并不是炼金术，而是《哈利·波特》第七部里的一个情节。

邓布利多去世后，在遗嘱里把哈利第一场魁地奇比赛中抓住的那只金色飞贼留给了他。

赫敏和魔法部长向哈利解释，金色飞贼有一种特殊的能力，叫作“肉体记忆”。它能够记住第一个接触它的人。

哈利拿起飞贼，什么也没发生。后来他想起来，自己第一次抓住这颗飞贼时，并不是用手，而是用嘴。于是，他把飞贼贴到嘴唇上。

金球表面出现了一行字：

当时，哈利并不知道这句话是什么意思。直到故事接近尾声。

哈利终于明白，要彻底打败伏地魔，就必须面对一个可怕的事实：自己的身体里也藏着一片伏地魔的灵魂。他必须走进禁林，主动面对死亡。

就在这时，他再次拿出了那颗金色飞贼。他说：

“我就要死了。”

飞贼打开了。里面是一块黑色的石头。复活石。

哈利借助它，再次见到了已经离开自己的亲人和朋友，然后独自走向伏地魔。

每次读到这里，我都会想起第一部里那个骑着扫帚到处乱飞的小男孩。那时候，他拼命追逐一颗金球，只是为了赢下一场比赛。

七年以后，同一颗金球，陪他走向了自己人生中最重要的选择。

第一次，他要抓住它才能赢。最后一次，他要接受失去一切的可能，才能继续往前走。

这当然不能证明罗琳从一开始就计划用飞贼表达某种哲学。但至少在故事内部，同一个东西，确实在不同的人生阶段获得了完全不同的意义。

小时候，我们以为它代表胜利。长大以后才发现，它可能在提醒我们，还有一些比胜负更重要的东西。

那么，什么样的人才能找到金色飞贼？答案看起来很简单：

能够一直盯着它的人。

这也是我觉得找球手这个位置最有意思的地方。他的任务其实非常单纯。

其他球员要配合队友，判断战术，进攻防守，随时应付场上的变化。找球手却必须把大部分注意力放在同一件事上。寻找飞贼。

飞贼可能出现在任何地方，而且极难发现。看台上有成千上万名观众，耳边不断传来欢呼和尖叫，游走球随时可能迎面飞来，对手还会故意干扰他的判断。

他必须穿过这一切，寻找那一点微弱的金光。而且，他还得分辨什么是真的，什么只是看起来像真的。

1994年的世界杯决赛上，克鲁姆就使出过一招著名的假动作：Wronski Feint。他突然加速，向地面高速俯冲，表现得像是真的发现了飞贼。

爱尔兰的找球手上了当，紧紧跟在后面，结果来不及改变方向，撞向了地面。克鲁姆自己却在最后一刻拉起扫帚。

他根本没有发现飞贼。他只是让对手相信，那里有一只飞贼。

不知道为什么，我觉得这个场景特别像我们的日常生活。

有多少东西，是因为别人都在追，我们才以为值得追？别人考上了名校，我们觉得自己也应该去。别人找到了高薪工作，我们开始怀疑自己的选择。别人突然出了名，我们又觉得自己是不是落后了。

很多时候，我们甚至没有停下来确认，那个让自己拼命俯冲的目标，到底是不是真的。

这时，我又想到彼得森在课程中谈到的另一个故事。

《出埃及记》里，摩西在旷野放羊时，看见一丛荆棘正在燃烧。奇怪的是，荆棘虽然着了火，却没有被烧毁。

摩西决定走近一些，看看究竟发生了什么。随后，上帝从荆棘中向他说话。

彼得森对这个故事的解读很有意思。他关注的不是火为什么没有烧尽，而是摩西的反应。摩西注意到了一件不同寻常的事，而且决定认真去看。

于是，一次看似普通的观察，成为了整个人生的转折点。

当然，这是一种对宗教叙事的心理学阐释。但它提出的问题很值得想一想：

如果一个人愿意真正认真地对待眼前的事物，会发生什么？

我们总觉得，人生的意义应该藏在某个遥远的地方。一份特别的职业，一个伟大的使命，一项足够惊人的成就。

可也许，意义并不总是需要在开始之前就被找到。它有时是在人们认真做事的过程中，慢慢显露出来的。

一个学数学的人，最初可能只是觉得某道题很有趣。研究久了，发现它和另一个领域有关，又发现背后还有更一般的结构。问题越来越大，视野也越来越宽。

一个做音乐的人，最初可能只是喜欢某个节奏，后来开始研究和声、歌词、录音、制作，逐渐有了自己的表达方式。做木工、拍电影、写小说、设计游戏，也都有可能经历相似的过程。

刚开始，我们只是喜欢一件具体的事。做得足够久以后，才逐渐理解它与其他事物之间的联系。

所以，我越来越喜欢这样一种学习方式：

先找到一件真正吸引自己的事，认真做下去。

不要急着要求它立刻产生意义，也不要要求它一开始就能解释整个人生。很多重要的理解，是后来才长出来的。

不过，认真做事，并不意味着只要足够专注，就一定能得到想要的结果。这中间还有一段很长的路。你得先学会一门手艺。

初学者最常做的事情，是模仿。学习已有的规则，重复别人做过的动作，理解为什么某种方法有效，为什么另一种方法行不通。

这段时间往往没有想象中那么浪漫。一个学钢琴的人，要反复练习指法。学数学的人，要花大量时间理解定义和证明。想写小说的人，得先学会怎么讲好一个故事。

在很长的一段时间里，你甚至不具备判断规则好坏的能力。但慢慢地，事情开始发生变化。

你不再需要时时刻刻想着每条规则。很多原先需要刻意完成的动作，开始变成直觉。你逐渐知道什么时候应该遵守规则，什么时候可以偏离它，什么时候又需要创造一条新规则。

魁地奇的历史里，就有很多这样的例子。

克鲁姆使用的 Wronski Feint，以波兰找球手 Josef Wronski 的名字命名。还有俄罗斯追球手 Petrova Porskoff 发明的 Porskoff Ploy。

这些名字留在了这项运动里，因为有人不仅学会了怎么玩，还发明了新的玩法。

而金色飞贼本身，也是一个例子。原本所有人都在追逐一只活鸟，直到 Bowman Wright 创造出能够替代它的机械金球。

他没有简单地重复过去的做法，而是用自己的技艺改变了这项运动。

这让我想到一个很有趣的现象：

学习一门手艺，往往先让人的世界变窄，最后又让它重新变宽。

刚开始，你必须舍弃许多别的东西，把注意力集中在很小的范围里。可当你真正掌握了一门手艺，反而能开始把它用到其他地方。

《哈利·波特》第四部就有一个特别好的例子。

三强争霸赛的第一个项目，哈利需要从一条危险的火龙那里拿到金蛋。他召唤来自己的火弩箭，骑着扫帚在火龙周围盘旋，不断引诱它改变位置，最后抓住机会夺走金蛋。

这段情节读起来很过瘾，因为我们突然意识到：哈利在魁地奇球场上练出来的本领，已经不再只属于魁地奇了。

他把熟悉的技能带进了一个完全陌生的问题。没有人教过他如何骑着扫帚对付火龙。但他知道如何在高速飞行中判断距离、控制方向、寻找机会。

原本为了抓住飞贼而练习的能力，现在成了他活下来的本领。

也许这就是学习真正有趣的地方。你原本以为自己只是在学习一件事。直到某一天，你发现它改变了你看待其他事情的方式。

讲到这里，似乎可以得出一个很简单的结论：找到自己喜欢的事，认真去做，掌握它，然后不断突破。

可惜，人生没有这么简单。

有时候，你会发现自己追逐多年的目标，突然变得毫无意义。原本相信的东西不再可信，原本行得通的方法不再有效，甚至连自己曾经引以为傲的能力，也解决不了眼前的问题。

这并不一定是因为你做错了什么。有些问题，只有走到足够深的地方才会遇见。

彼得森在《意义地图》中反复讨论这种情况。

人依靠一套相对稳定的信念和规则生活。我们知道自己在做什么，知道哪些行为可能带来什么结果，也大致知道明天该往哪里走。他把这种熟悉而稳定的状态称为秩序。

可是，一旦现实中出现某种无法被原有规则解释的东西，秩序就可能被打破。这就是他所说的混沌。

混沌不一定意味着灾难。它也意味着未知，意味着有些事情还没有被我们理解，有些可能性还没有被我们发现。

真正困难的是，当旧规则失效时，我们不知道接下来该怎么办。

假如一个人过去十年都在追求某个目标，突然有一天发现这个目标不值得追求了呢？假如一个人已经在某个领域取得了很好的成绩，却发现自己真正想做的事情在完全不同的地方呢？又或者，他已经尽了最大的努力，却发现再怎么努力，也无法赢得眼前这场比赛呢？

继续坚持，还是承认自己需要改变？

这是我觉得整篇文章最重要的地方。

人有一种很特别的能力：我们不仅能改变玩游戏的方法，还能重新决定自己要玩什么游戏。

当然，这并不容易。放弃一个熟悉的目标，往往意味着连带放弃过去对自己的许多理解。

你原本以为自己会成为什么样的人，过什么样的生活，和什么样的人待在一起。一旦目标改变，这些问题可能都要重新回答。

有时候，这甚至像是让过去的自己死去一次。

再回头看《哈利·波特》第七部。

哈利走进禁林之前，已经知道自己可能必须死去。他原本一直在寻找打败伏地魔的方法。可当他终于了解魂器的秘密，却发现自己也是问题的一部分。

如果他想完成这件事，就必须接受自己可能无法活着看到最后的胜利。

这时，过去的游戏已经无法继续了。他不能只靠更熟练的魔法、更好的扫帚，或者再多抓住几次飞贼来解决问题。

他必须面对一个根本不同的选择。

于是，那颗第一场比赛里被他抓住的金球，再次出现。

他打开飞贼，拿到复活石，见到了自己思念的人，然后走进禁林。

后来，在那个像国王十字车站的地方，邓布利多告诉他，他可以继续往前走，也可以选择回去。哈利最终选择了回去。

我很喜欢这个安排。因为它让整部小说回到了一个特别简单的问题：

你真正想要的，究竟是什么？

小时候的哈利，想要赢得一场魁地奇比赛。后来，他想要打败伏地魔。可到了故事最后，他所做的选择，已经不只是为了战胜一个敌人。

他想让自己所爱的人，有机会继续生活下去。同样是胜利，这时的胜利已经有了不同的含义。

这也让我重新理解了克鲁姆在世界杯决赛上的那个动作。

当然，克鲁姆抓住飞贼，和哈利走进禁林，是两件完全不同的事情。不能因为他们都主动结束了某件事，就说两个人作出了相同的选择。

但在我的理解里，这两个场景有一点相通。他们都在某个时刻意识到，自己不能再仅仅按照原来的方式追求胜利。

克鲁姆接受了比赛已经无法逆转的事实，选择结束比赛。哈利则接受了自己可能必须死去的事实，选择完成他认为更重要的事。

前者仍然发生在一场体育比赛里，后者面对的是生与死。可它们都让我想到，人不能永远只用输赢来衡量自己的选择。

因为有一天，当我们终于看清自己真正想要什么，也许会发现一件出乎意料的事：我们努力寻找的那个东西，可能恰恰是为了结束我们正在玩的游戏。

Some of the thinking in this essay was inspired by the psychologist Jordan Peterson's reading of Quidditch in his “Maps of Meaning” lectures.

The Chasers risk life and limb. They dodge the Bludgers, get past the Keeper, and when they finally manage to throw the Quaffle through a hoop, they score 10 points.

And the Seeker? Most of the time he just hangs around up in the sky, apparently doing nothing at all. Then, at the end, one grab: 150 points, and the match is over. It takes fifteen goals to equal a single catch.

Harry Potter readers have been complaining about this rule for years. If the Golden Snitch all but decides the match, what are the other players knocking themselves out for? But the more I think about it, the more I feel that this seemingly unfair rule is, in fact, the most interesting thing about Quidditch.

It turns a sports match into a metaphor: is what we are busy striving for every day really the same thing as what we actually want?

To answer that, we first need to look at where the Golden Snitch came from.

The earliest Quidditch matches actually had no Golden Snitch. There was only a bird.

In “Quidditch Through the Ages,” Rowling wrote a whole history of the sport. According to the book, in 1269 a Chief of the Wizards' Council named Barberus Bragge released a small golden bird, the Golden Snidget, during a match. He announced that whoever caught it would get a reward of 150 Galleons.

This soon became a tradition of the game. Later, there were players on the pitch whose job was to hunt the golden bird: the forerunners of the Seeker. But the bird was so prized, and was hunted so heavily for Quidditch, that it was gradually driven to the edge of extinction.

So a wizard named Bowman Wright invented the Golden Snitch: a golden ball the size of a walnut, with a pair of silver wings, very fast and nimble at dodging capture. From then on, a mechanical golden ball took the place of the living bird.

Interestingly, the original reward of 150 Galleons and the 150 points you get today for catching the Snitch are exactly the same number. The book doesn't spell out how one turned into the other, but the link readily suggests an old rule that has lived on.

If you look only at this history, there seems to be nothing mysterious about 150 points. Someone once offered a reward on a whim, everyone kept the number afterwards, and that's all there is to it.

But why did Rowling keep this tradition alive in her story? Why not make it 30 points, or 50, so that the other players' efforts would decide the outcome more easily?

This, I think, brings us to what is really special about Quidditch.

Think about it carefully, and Quidditch is really two completely different games being played at the same time on the same pitch.

The first game is not much different from the soccer and basketball we know. Passing, intercepting, attacking, defending: finding ways to score more than the other side. The Chasers, the Keeper and the Beaters are basically all working toward this aim.

The second game, though, has only two players. Two Seekers search the whole pitch for a golden ball that is almost impossible to see.

Everyone else is busy scoring; they are busy searching. Everyone else cares about the score; they also have to care about when the match will end. That's because under the traditional rules of Quidditch, the Golden Snitch is not only worth 150 points: catching it usually means the match is over on the spot.

Now that is interesting.

One group of players is working to win the match, while a few others are looking for the thing that ends it.

And those two things are not always the same.

The most famous example is the 1994 Quidditch World Cup final. Bulgaria against Ireland. Ireland's Chasers were too strong, and Bulgaria was on the back foot the whole time.

In the end, Bulgaria's Seeker, Viktor Krum, caught the Golden Snitch. But Bulgaria still lost. The final score was 170–160 to Ireland.

Why? Because before Krum caught the Snitch, Bulgaria was already 160 points behind. Even an extra 150 points wasn't enough to turn the score around.

Krum knew that, of course. He chose to catch the Snitch anyway.

As the novel explains it, he judged that his team had little hope of catching up with Ireland, and that it was better to end the match than to let the gap keep growing.

I've always found this detail fascinating. It shows that 150 points can't do everything. You can't ignore the score on the pitch entirely and think only about finding the Snitch.

But it also shows that the Seeker holds a power the other players don't have: in the normal course of things, he decides when the match ends. In one and the same match, some are fighting to win, and some are looking for the end.

This makes me think of real life.

Much of what we do every day is a lot like what the Chasers do. Take exams, get high marks. Go to work, chase promotions and raises. Do research, publish papers. Run a social media account, hope for more followers. We follow the rules, accept being judged, and try to get our score a little higher than it was yesterday.

All of this matters, of course. Someone who can't even look after the life in front of them will have a hard time solving real problems with lofty ideals alone. The trouble is that it's easy to keep playing and playing until we forget why we were playing in the first place.

Why do we want high marks? Why do we want the promotion? Why do we need to publish more papers? Why, when we already have enough, does it still feel like not enough?

If you keep asking in earnest, many of these questions end up as the same question:

What kind of life do I actually want to live?

That, as I understand it, is the second game. It isn't about how many more points you get. It's about working out what all these points are actually for.

You can call it meaning, purpose, direction in life, or anything else you like. The name doesn't matter. What matters is that you can't think only about winning and never ask what it is you're winning.

The Golden Snitch itself is also well worth thinking about. It is the smallest ball on the whole pitch.

Golden, round, with silver wings, and a flight path that's hard to predict. Everyone knows it matters, yet only the Seekers keep searching for it the whole time.

In “Maps of Meaning,” Peterson tries to understand this golden ball through the symbolism of alchemy. This is not an intention Rowling has ever explicitly confirmed. It is a philosophical reading.

Still, putting Harry Potter side by side with alchemy does turn up something intriguing. After all, the very first book in the series is called “Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.”

The Philosopher's Stone is one of the most important creations in alchemical legend, said to turn base metal into gold and even to make the Elixir of Life. Nor is the novel's Nicolas Flamel someone Rowling made up. He was a real Frenchman of the Middle Ages, though his connection with alchemy comes mostly from later legend.

What's interesting about alchemy is that it isn't only the gold-making experiments people picture. In some traditions of thought, the transformation of matter also stands for the transformation of a person. Turning ordinary metal into gold can also be read as a person's journey from disorder to wholeness.

Look at the Golden Snitch again with this in mind, and it takes on another layer of meaning. A tiny golden ball might stand for something worth searching for, again and again.

But what really makes this reading interesting to me isn't the alchemy. It's a scene in the seventh Harry Potter book.

After Dumbledore died, he left Harry, in his will, the Golden Snitch that Harry had caught in his first Quidditch match.

Hermione and the Minister for Magic explained to Harry that a Golden Snitch has a special power, called “flesh memory.” It remembers the first person to touch it.

Harry picked up the Snitch, and nothing happened. Later he remembered that the first time he caught this Snitch, he didn't catch it with his hand. He caught it with his mouth. So he pressed the Snitch to his lips.

Words appeared on the surface of the golden ball:

At the time, Harry had no idea what this meant. Not until the story was nearly over.

Harry finally understood that to defeat Voldemort for good, he had to face a terrible fact: a piece of Voldemort's soul was hidden inside his own body too. He had to walk into the Forbidden Forest and face death willingly.

It was then that he took out the Golden Snitch once more. He said:

“I am about to die.”

The Snitch opened. Inside was a black stone. The Resurrection Stone.

With it, Harry saw once more the family and friends he had lost, and then walked alone toward Voldemort.

Every time I read this part, I think of the little boy in the first book, zooming all over the place on his broomstick. Back then, he chased a golden ball with everything he had, just to win a match.

Seven years later, the same golden ball went with him as he walked toward the most important choice of his life.

The first time, he had to catch it to win. The last time, he had to accept that he might lose everything before he could go on.

Of course, this doesn't prove that Rowling planned from the start to use the Snitch to express some philosophy. But at least within the story, the same object really does take on completely different meanings at different stages of a life.

When we're young, we think it stands for victory. Only when we grow up do we find that it may be reminding us there are things more important than winning or losing.

So what kind of person can find the Golden Snitch? The answer looks simple:

Whoever can keep their eyes on it.

That is also what I find most interesting about the Seeker's position. His job is actually very simple.

The other players have to work with their teammates, read the tactics, attack and defend, and deal with whatever happens on the pitch at any moment. The Seeker, though, has to keep most of his attention on one thing. Finding the Snitch.

The Snitch could turn up anywhere, and it is extremely hard to spot. Thousands upon thousands of spectators fill the stands, the cheering and screaming in his ears never stop, a Bludger could come flying straight at him at any moment, and his opponent is deliberately trying to throw off his judgment.

He has to cut through all of it to look for that one faint glint of gold. And he also has to tell what is real from what only looks real.

In the 1994 World Cup final, Krum pulled off a famous fake: the Wronski Feint. He suddenly sped up and plunged toward the ground at full speed, as if he really had spotted the Snitch.

The Irish Seeker fell for it and followed close behind. He couldn't change course in time and smashed into the ground. Krum, meanwhile, pulled his broom up at the very last moment.

He hadn't seen the Snitch at all. He had only made his opponent believe there was a Snitch down there.

For some reason, this scene strikes me as very much like our everyday lives.

How many things do we think are worth chasing only because everyone else is chasing them? Someone else gets into a top university, and we feel we ought to go too. Someone else lands a high-paying job, and we start doubting our own choices. Someone else suddenly becomes famous, and we wonder whether we've fallen behind.

Much of the time, we don't even stop to check whether the target we are diving toward so desperately is real.

Here I think of another story Peterson talks about in his lectures.

In Exodus, while Moses was tending sheep in the wilderness, he saw a bush on fire. Strangely, though the bush was burning, it was not consumed.

Moses decided to go closer and see what was going on. Then God spoke to him out of the bush.

Peterson's reading of this story is an interesting one. What he focuses on is not why the fire didn't burn the bush up, but how Moses responded. Moses noticed something out of the ordinary, and he decided to take a proper look.

And so an observation that seemed ordinary became the turning point of his whole life.

This is, of course, a psychological interpretation of a religious story. But the question it raises is well worth thinking about:

What happens if a person is willing to take what is right in front of them truly seriously?

We tend to think the meaning of life must be hidden somewhere far away. A special career, a great mission, some truly astonishing achievement.

But maybe meaning doesn't always have to be found before you begin. Sometimes it emerges slowly, while people are doing something in earnest.

Someone who studies mathematics may at first just find a particular problem interesting. After working on it for a long time, they find that it's connected to another field, and then that there is a more general structure behind it. The questions keep getting bigger, and the view keeps getting wider.

Someone who makes music may at first just like a certain rhythm, then start studying harmony, lyrics, recording and production, and gradually arrive at a voice of their own. Woodworking, filmmaking, writing novels, designing games: any of these can go through a similar process.

At first, we just like one particular thing. Only after doing it long enough do we gradually come to see how it connects with other things.

That's why I've come to like this way of learning more and more:

First find something that truly draws you in, and keep at it seriously.

Don't be in a hurry to demand that it mean something right away, and don't demand that it explain your whole life from the start. A lot of important understanding only grows later.

Still, working at something seriously doesn't mean that if you just focus hard enough, you are sure to get the result you want. There's a long road in between. First you have to learn a craft.

What beginners do most is imitate. They learn the existing rules, repeat moves others have made, and come to understand why one method works and why another doesn't.

This stage is usually less romantic than you'd imagine. Someone learning the piano has to practice fingering over and over. Someone learning mathematics has to spend a great deal of time understanding definitions and proofs. Someone who wants to write novels first has to learn how to tell a story well.

For a long time, you aren't even able to judge whether a rule is good or bad. But slowly, things begin to change.

You no longer have to think about every rule at every moment. Many moves that used to take deliberate effort start to become instinct. Little by little, you learn when to follow a rule, when you can depart from it, and when you need to make a new one.

The history of Quidditch has plenty of examples of this.

The Wronski Feint that Krum used is named after the Polish Seeker Josef Wronski. Then there's the Porskoff Ploy, invented by the Russian Chaser Petrova Porskoff.

These names stayed in the sport because someone didn't just learn how to play: they invented a new way of playing.

And the Golden Snitch itself is another example. Everyone was chasing a living bird, until Bowman Wright created a mechanical golden ball that could take its place.

He didn't simply repeat what had been done before. He used his own craft to change the sport.

This brings me to something I find really interesting:

Learning a craft often makes your world narrower first, and then, in the end, makes it wide again.

At the start, you have to give up a lot of other things and focus your attention on a very small area. But once you've truly mastered a craft, you find you can start using it in other places.

The fourth Harry Potter book has a particularly good example.

In the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, Harry had to get the golden egg away from a dangerous dragon. He summoned his Firebolt, circled the dragon on his broom, kept luring it to shift position, and finally seized his chance and snatched the egg.

This scene is a real thrill to read, because we suddenly realize that the skills Harry built on the Quidditch pitch no longer belong to Quidditch alone.

He took a familiar skill into a completely unfamiliar problem. No one had ever taught him how to take on a dragon on a broomstick. But he knew how to judge distance, steer and look for an opening while flying at high speed.

An ability he had practiced for catching the Snitch was now what kept him alive.

Maybe this is what is truly interesting about learning. You think you're only learning one thing. Until one day you discover that it has changed the way you see other things.

At this point, it might seem we can draw a very simple conclusion: find what you love, work at it seriously, master it, and then keep breaking new ground.

Unfortunately, life isn't that simple.

Sometimes you find that a goal you've chased for years has suddenly lost all meaning. What you used to believe is no longer believable, methods that used to work no longer work, and even the abilities you were once proud of can't solve the problem in front of you.

This isn't necessarily because you did something wrong. Some problems you only meet once you have gone deep enough.

Peterson discusses this kind of situation again and again in “Maps of Meaning.”

We live by a fairly stable set of beliefs and rules. We know what we're doing, we know what our actions are likely to lead to, and we have a rough idea of where to head tomorrow. This familiar, stable state is what he calls order.

But as soon as reality throws up something the old rules can't explain, order can break down. This is what he calls chaos.

Chaos doesn't necessarily mean disaster. It also means the unknown: things we don't yet understand, possibilities we haven't yet discovered.

What's really hard is that when the old rules stop working, we don't know what to do next.

What if someone has spent the past ten years pursuing a goal, and one day suddenly finds it isn't worth pursuing? What if someone has done very well in a field, only to discover that what they really want to do lies somewhere else entirely? Or what if they have tried their very best, and find that no amount of effort will win the match in front of them?

Do you keep going, or admit that you need to change?

This, to me, is the most important point in this whole essay.

People have a very special ability: we can not only change how we play the game, but also decide all over again which game we want to play.

Of course, this isn't easy. Giving up a familiar goal often means giving up much of how you used to understand yourself along with it.

Who you thought you would become, what kind of life you would live, what kind of people you would spend it with. Once the goal changes, all of these questions may have to be answered again.

Sometimes it even feels like letting your old self die.

Let's go back to the seventh Harry Potter book.

Before Harry walked into the Forbidden Forest, he already knew he might have to die. All along he had been looking for a way to defeat Voldemort. But when he finally learned the secret of the Horcruxes, he found that he himself was part of the problem.

If he wanted to finish the job, he had to accept that he might not live to see the final victory.

At this point, the old game could no longer go on. He couldn't solve the problem with more skillful magic, a better broom, or a few more catches of the Snitch.

He had to face a fundamentally different choice.

And so the golden ball he had caught in his first match appeared once again.

He opened the Snitch, took out the Resurrection Stone, saw the people he missed, and then walked into the Forbidden Forest.

Later, in that place that looked like King's Cross station, Dumbledore told him he could go on, or he could choose to go back. In the end, Harry chose to go back.

I really like how this plays out. It brings the whole series back to one very simple question:

What is it you really want?

As a boy, Harry wanted to win a Quidditch match. Later, he wanted to defeat Voldemort. But by the end of the story, the choice he made was no longer just about beating an enemy.

He wanted the people he loved to have the chance to go on living. It was still a victory, but victory now meant something different.

This also gave me a new way of understanding that move of Krum's in the World Cup final.

Of course, Krum catching the Snitch and Harry walking into the Forbidden Forest are two completely different things. Just because both of them chose to bring something to an end doesn't mean they made the same choice.

But as I see it, the two scenes do have one thing in common. At a certain moment, both of them realized they could no longer go after victory simply in the old way.

Krum accepted that the match could no longer be turned around, and chose to end it. Harry accepted that he might have to die, and chose to do what he believed mattered more.

The first still happened within a sports match; the second was a matter of life and death. Yet both remind me that we can't always measure our choices by winning and losing alone.

Because one day, when we finally see clearly what we really want, we may discover something unexpected: the very thing we have been working so hard to find may be there precisely to end the game we are playing.