The Games that God Plays

"Come," said God, "I have something to show you."

And Samah followed.

They stood together on a floating staircase spiraling through starlight. The steps were woven from possibility—translucent, glimmering with choice.

"What is this place?" Samah asked.

"The Library of Forgotten Tomorrows," God replied. "Here rest the futures that almost lived. The ones whispered but never fully spoken. Those that were a “Yes” or three away from manifesting. The ones too beautiful to die, even if no one remembered."

The air tasted of ink and memory. Each breath Samah took felt like turning a page he’d never read and always known.

God gestured toward the shelves. "These are not the records of the past, nor anchors of the now. These are dreams waiting for another chance."

Samah moved toward a glowing spine labeled:

The Civilization That Chose Empathy First.

He pulled the book. It was still warm.

He read of a world where language emerged from feeling, not sound. Every sentence a caress. Their first big technology? Vibration gardens—structures that radiated emotional harmony across entire villages.

At the end of the book, the last line read: "They remembered how to feel each other."

He returned the book and moved down the row, looking at the spine of the next book God pointed to:

The Civilization Where Everyone Believed the Sky Was Listening.

"They built cathedrals from clouds,” God said. “They sang their wishes into the wind. Argued beneath thunder."

Samah’s mouth dropped. "And the weather responded?"

"Always."

“Children,” God explained, “were trained to read the clouds like sacred text.”

He passed a hallway. A dragon wearing glasses nodded at him—Faeon the FableTech dragon, older, quiet, sipping constellation tea. He held up a book.

The Game the Gods Played When They Were Learning to Be God.

"It wasn’t always pretty, but it ends in laughter," he said. "Want to write the sequel?"

Samah turned to God. "Is this all real?"

"It is now," said God. "And there’s more."

They ascended one final step.

The staircase ended.

Before them stretched a world that had set aside pages for pulsing play.

A Fool in a hat made of thunder and candyfloss beckoned. A banner curled overhead:

Welcome to the Carnival of Becoming.

Samah stepped forward. God walked beside him.

"Why am I here?" Samah asked.

"Because you ripened," God said. "You’re ready."

The cosmic carnival floated above the Great Spiral Galaxy, tethered to nothing but intention. Its tents billowed with stardust. The air smelled of cinnamon and quarks. Laughter echoed in languages that hadn’t been spoken yet.

The Fool gestured.

"The attractions," he said, "are you."

Samah wandered through, reading the signs, and in so doing, explored the attractions:

The Mirror Maze of Might-Have-Beens. He faced an endless wall of what could have been regrets. He saw them as skills yet unexplored.

The Ferris Wheel of First Times. Every seat, a memory: first kiss, first death, first spell, first forgiveness. At the peak, Samah glimpsed the moment before his birth—hovering, deciding whether to take the leap.

The Tightrope of True Sight. He balanced carefully, not standing high above, but stretched between his eyes and another's. For a breathless moment, he was someone else. And he returned changed.

Samah reeled backward and staggered away, straight toward the Tent of Everything You're about to Become.

Inside, he saw future selves, all at play.

A version of him made entirely of light, playing catch with a baby planet.

A version who sang in ten tones and bent sound into symphony.

The quiet one who spoke softly while the air listened.

The one who wore Faeon’s scales, having become the voice of the dragon.

And the one who sat and laughed, saying, “Oh. It was always this simple.”

God smiled. "This is what you already are, when you remember you’ve forgotten that you're pretending not to be."

Samah laughed, shaking his head in wonder.

In the center ring, the Fool danced with stars for eyes and mismatched boots.

He stopped and pointed at Samah.

"Ah," he said. "The Architect disguised as the Reveler. Care to run a booth?"

He handed Samah a key, shaped like an idea he hadn’t had yet.

Samah smiled.

"I know the one."

A tent unfolded around him. Twilight blue and mythic gold. Its arch read:

I Choose.

"The Sovereignty Center," God said as he nodded. "Of course."

Mirrors filled the space—every reflected face offering an unwavering yes.

Samah, wearing the clothes of a barker, shouted out:

"Step right up, folks. Buy your ticket to becoming irredeemably sovereign and divine. All for the cheap price of your lies."

Visitors approached. To enter, they had to empty their pockets.

"I can’t."
"I should."
"It’s too late."
"I’m not enough."
"This is the best I’ll get."

Each lie dropped into a silver bowl held by Anubis, jackal-headed, smiling.

Only those whose hearts were lighter than their lies could proceed.

Inside, Samah watched the five rings form.

Ring One: The Dissolution of Permission

A voice declared, "You do not need permission to be infinite."

The chains melted.

Ring Two: The Mirror of Blame

Samah witnessed a holographic gallery of grievances. He reached out to justify one—it vanished with a laugh. The Fool said, "You must lay down your weapons to claim your destiny. True crowns are never taken up with clenched fists."

Ring Three: The Compass of Choice

A replay of every surrendered power. Every “yes” he said to keep the peace, every “no” he thought behind a smile.

The floor tilted. Samah fell into a world he had chosen.

Ring Four: The Light that Doesn’t Ask

A Light began to shine. It didn’t require belief. It didn’t explain. It simply was. It moved through him, into him, as him.

And there, the Crayon drew him into being.

Ring Five: The Throne of Fulfillment

A pedestal with no cushion. Power with no seat. Because he was the throne. And he was already occupied.

"You don’t become sovereign here," God said. "You remember that you never weren’t."

As the final ring dissolved, the exit arch gleamed:

You were always allowed.

You are now irrevocably real.

Go play.

Outside, Faeon soared overhead, laughing lightning, dropping Crayons, Dressers and Homes into hands now free.

The Carnival pulsed.

The Fool winked.

God turned to Samah.

"All of this," He said, "the Library, the Carnival—these are but echoes of the same divine impulse. The games I play to remind you of your own divinity."

Samah looked around as the tent lights shimmered and the galaxies spun overhead.

"Then this has all been a game?"

"A game," said God, "and a remembering. The Library holds the stories you once believed were lost. The Carnival invites you to live them and find yourself along the way. Together, they are the Games that God Plays."

Samah stood still, smiling.

"And now that I know?"

"Now," God said, "they're your games to play."

The Fool, from somewhere unseen, let out a single, delighted laugh.

God turned to Samah.

"Where to next?"