For the Love of the Game: The Case for Not Going Pro ❤️
There’s a conversation I’ve had more times than I can count since I started sharing musings like this one.
I’ll mention at a gathering that I write in my spare time. Someone will politely ask what I write about. I’ll give them the usual vague answer about creativity, technology, culture, or whatever happens to be rattling around my brain that month.
Then comes the real question. “But why?”
Is it for work? Am I trying to build my profile? Is there some grand plan to turn my ramblings into a book deal, speaking career, or lucrative income?
Nope. I just really enjoy writing. Sorry to disappoint you. Please don't walk away.
I like finding an idea I can’t stop thinking about and disappearing down a rabbit hole. I like researching and working out what I actually think. I like finding a way to cram in just one more reference. And eventually, after getting it signed off by my editor/wife, I like pressing publish on something I’m proud of.
At the end of the day I don’t write for fame or money. I write because I enjoy sharing ideas. I’m fully aware how that sounds, but it’s the truth.
If one person replies saying, “Really enjoyed that”, I’m happy. The fact that, more often than not, that person is my father-in-law (a person legally required to be friendly) doesn’t faze me one bit.
To be candid, I’ve currently got just over 100 subscribers, followers, readers – whatever the metric is. If 25 of them open the link, make it to the bottom, and enjoy what they’ve read, I’m over the moon.
25 sounds pathetic in internet numbers. But put 25 people in a room and ask me to read this aloud and suddenly it feels like I’m playing Glastonbury.
That’s the strange thing about doing anything for fun these days. At some point, simply enjoying it stopped being a satisfactory answer. There has to be a reason with preferably a number going up somewhere. This got me thinking about a word we don’t hear used positively all that much anymore.
Amateur.
Today, calling someone an amateur is borderline an insult. It means inexperienced. Not quite ready for the big leagues. And frankly, a bit shit.
But that’s not what the word originally meant. It comes from the Latin amator: lover. Thanks, Gemini.
An amateur was someone who pursued something for the love of it rather than as a profession. Unfortunately, I get the sense you can’t find many people these days willing to confidently put their hand up and say, “I’m an amateur doodler. And no, I don’t plan on becoming the next Keith Haring.”
Everyone’s a Pro Now
If anything should have ushered in a golden age of amateurism, it was technological advancement.
Photography used to require a cumbersome camera, film, multiple lenses, processing, and enough commitment to lug the thing around. Then the camera phone arrived and demolished almost every barrier to entry.
Today, there are billions of people walking around with an incredibly capable camera in their pocket. We can take a photo, edit it, send it around the world, and store 40,000 more without spending much more than the price of a coffee each month. That’s amazing. And it sure beats waiting for your film to be processed only to receive some random person’s wedding photos instead.
The camera phone didn’t kill the amateur photographer. It created millions of them. But then we went and ruined it by putting a scoreboard underneath every shot taken.
Suddenly your artsy holiday pics aren’t just a form of creative expression. They’re content. Something audiences can like and share. Something with engagement metrics attached, where the number is meant to keep going up or what’s the point?
The same thing seems to have happened everywhere. People who made fun little videos now have channels to grow. Bedroom musicians monitor monthly listener counts. Weekend runners have Strava segments and leaderboard positions to maintain.
Even reading, arguably one of the most solitary activities imaginable, can now come with an annual target and a public progress bar.
None of these things are inherently bad. I’m literally publishing this essay on a platform that will happily tell me exactly how many of you ignored it.
The tools gave amateurs access to capabilities once reserved for professionals. Then the platforms gave us professional-grade metrics to go with them.
Suddenly being an amateur started to feel suspiciously like being a professional who hadn’t become successful yet. And who wants to deal with that shit hanging over your head.
The Numbers Game
I think the internet has completely broken our understanding of what constitutes an audience.
Imagine it’s 1998 and you’ve started producing a zine about skateboarding culture. Every month, about 50 people want a copy. 50 actual human beings are interested enough in your creation that they voluntarily seek out the crafty little thing you spent hours slicing, photocopying, and stapling together one by one.
You’d be utterly delighted.
Today, you can have 50 followers and feel like nobody is listening. The problem isn’t the number itself. It’s that the number lives in the same ecosystem as someone else’s 50,000 in a very visible way for all to see.
Before the internet, most amateurs compared themselves with the people around them. You were the go-to photographer in your family. The mate who whipped out the acoustic guitar at parties. The person in the office who made incredible (and free) cakes.
Now you open your phone and immediately compare yourself with some of the most talented, obsessive, successful people on the planet. Presumably none of them have to deal with school runs or walk a dog seconds away from shitting on the floor you just spent 30 minutes mopping.
No wonder 100 can sometimes feel small to me.
But 100 people isn’t small. That’s a packed pub. It’s a small cinema. It’s significantly more people than I’d comfortably invite to my house without checking whether the neighbours were away. And I think this matters because numbers have a habit of moving the finish line.
Would I rather 1,000 people read this essay than 100? Of course. I’m an amateur, not a liar. But put a different way, would 10,000 people reading it make me enjoy writing it 100 times more? Absolutely not.
I suspect at some point the opposite would actually happen. 10,000 readers brings expectations. Suddenly people are waiting for the next one. Maybe I should publish every Thursday. Should I launch a paid tier? Maybe I need a content calendar.
Before long, the little thing I started because I enjoyed disappearing into an idea has KPIs. It has an audience to serve. It has become a job. And I already have one of those. So for now thanks, but no thanks.
There’s something wonderfully freeing about knowing that nobody is waiting. If I want, I can spend far too long researching something incredibly niche because I find it interesting. I can write about a subject that I know will perform terribly. And nobody gets to ask for their money back.
That’s amateur privilege, and I’m all for it.
Nothing Escapes Monetisation
The internet and technology aren’t entirely to blame for all this. We’ve also become incredibly good at turning every enjoyable activity into an economic opportunity.
Make nice cakes? You should sell them. Understand business strategy? Build a course. Good with a chef’s knife? Set up a food truck, post about it constantly, build a following until the queue bends around the corner and you need to hire one of those line bouncers, and most of all be your own boss because fuck working for the man. That’s loser talk.
Sorry, I derailed there, but you get the point. It’s almost always meant as a compliment, yet somehow comes off like a performance review you never asked for.
And to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with making money from something you enjoy doing. Plenty of brilliant careers and businesses have started with someone messing around with something they loved. For some people, turning a passion into their full-time job is the dream.
But these days, we treat monetisation and number-go-up as the ultimate proof that something has value and is worth pursuing.
We’ve become so obsessed with this idea that we’ve even managed to misrepresent ancient philosophies that were never interested in money in the first place.
Enter the solopreneur’s favourite term, Ikigai. If you’ve spent enough time around online folks who enjoy waxing lyrical about productivity and maxxing, you’ve probably seen the diagram.
Four overlapping circles. What you love. What you’re good at. What the world needs. What you can be paid for. Right in the magical sweet spot in the middle sits your Ikigai.
Congratulations. You’ve cracked the code to life and happiness. Except that isn’t really what Ikigai means. Thanks again, Gemini.
The Japanese concept is far simpler and, more importantly, much sweeter. Iki relates to life or living, while gai is about worth or value. It’s the stuff that gives your life meaning and makes it worth living.
And it doesn’t have to have a USP and a course attached. Gardening. Carpentry. Even making a cracking up of tea. Anything goes. But there’s no requirement to be world-class. And, crucially, it doesn’t need to be sponsored by Squarespace or AG1 for it to have value.
Somewhere between ancient Japanese concept and LinkedIn, we managed to turn a beautiful philosophy about enjoying life into a career development exercise. Of course we bloody did. Because apparently even seeking joy needs a business plan these days.
Sometimes the doing is the return. You can take something seriously without needing it to become serious.
Bring Back the Amateur
I’ll probably spend ten-plus hours on this essay by the time you read it. And it will still have a typo and a few weird references that don’t land.
Then I’ll send it out to my 100-odd readers. Some won’t open it. Some will get distracted after two paragraphs. A few might make it all the way down here.
And that’s more than enough. Not because I don’t care about what I make. Quite the opposite. I want to become great at writing and communicating ideas. Maybe even good enough for people to share it on.
I have plenty of ambition for the things I make. I just don’t necessarily need the things I make to pay off somehow. That distinction feels increasingly important.
We should be allowed to care deeply about something without needing to extract maximum value from it. To spend ridiculous amounts of time getting better at something that never appears on a CV or becomes a business.
Being an amateur was never supposed to mean you weren’t good enough to become a professional. It meant you were doing it for the love of the game. Maybe that’s enough of a reason. In fact, maybe that was the whole point.
So go forth. Make wonky ceramics you have absolutely no intention of selling on Etsy. Bang on those drums just for you and Jerry in the flat below. Play five-a-side knowing Man City probably aren’t going to call. No pressure. You do you my friend.