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Quote by Jane McGonigal

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Reality Is Broken: Why Games Make Us Better and How They Can Change the World

This book delves into the psychological and social benefits of gaming, discussing how games can enhance problem-solving skills, foster collaboration, and inspire creativity. It examines the potential of games to improve real-world issues and enhance human experience. more

Author

Jane McGonigal
Jane McGonigal

Jane McGonigal is a renowned game designer, born on October 21, 1977. She is known for her innovative work in the field of game design and her advocacy for the positive impact of games on human life and society. McGonigal's work often focuses on how games can be used to improve the quality of life for players and to address real-world issues. more

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“Two damsel-flies are on the tall, flowering rush. These are the smallest of the British dragon-flies, and they prey on gnats, July-browns, and other insects. Beside the water-vole grow arrowhead plants, and to the left the great water-plantain. Both have three- petalled flowers. Their roots are deep in mud under the water, and they are growing in the shallows at the canal's edge together with the rushes. The canal passes under a bridge, and you can see how the tow-path also goes under it so that a horse that pulls a barge can pass thereon. On the towpath fishermen are sitting, and one of them has just caught a fish: not too big to be landed with a skilful jerk.”

“By the end of February many signs of Spring have already appeared and, as the days grow longer, the hearts of country dwellers are stirred to renewed wonder at the swelling of buds and the sight of the early blossoms of hazel, willow, alder and poplar. In March come the violets and celandines, and although the easterly winds often blow strong and cold, we know that March will soon be followed by April-when windows can be opened again, and hedgehogs and dormice can end their hibernation and enjoy the sunshine. With Spring comes the greatest wonder of the year-possibly even more beautiful than Summer.”

“The blackjack oak is a hard tree. I chopped ours down. Sitting to the side of our wooded acre. Standing 20-feet tall. The ax was old. Older than I was at the time. A weathered handle hurt the hands. A rusty head barely cut. Chipped away at the tree. Over hours. Over days. And the tree fell. A creak. A crack. A soft thud on sandy ground. My blistered hands dropped the ax. Tired legs limped away. Summers were long then. And trees fell.”