Why knowing what you are playing for matters as much as how well you play
October 18, (THEWILL) – There is a peculiar form of suffering that golfers willingly inflict upon themselves. A man leaves home on a beautiful Saturday morning, looking forward to fresh air, good company and four hours away from life’s demands. By the seventh hole, he is arguing with himself, blaming his equipment and wondering whether the game was invented specifically to humiliate him. His friends are enjoying themselves, the weather is glorious, and the only person having a miserable time is the one who has decided that anything short of his best score constitutes failure. Somewhere between the first tee and the seventh green, he has forgotten why he came.
I recognise the temptation. Golf has a way of turning innocent ambitions into personal obligations. We want to improve our handicaps, break scoring barriers and demonstrate that all those hours of practice have achieved something. There is nothing wrong with that. Indeed, one of golf’s enduring attractions is the satisfaction of measurable improvement. But the scorecard, useful as it is, records only the number of strokes taken. It tells us nothing about the quality of our companionship, the pleasure of the experience or whether we conducted ourselves with dignity when the game refused to cooperate.
Last week, I explored the importance of reading the green, understanding the conditions before us and recognising that the right direction means little without appropriate judgement about pace. Yet even the most accurate reading of a green assumes that we understand what we are trying to accomplish. That brings us to a more fundamental question, one that extends far beyond golf: Are we sufficiently clear about what we are playing for?
In April 2024, Nigerian chess master Tunde Onakoya captured international attention with a 60-hour chess marathon in New York’s Times Square alongside a New York-based chess master, Shawn Martinez. A year later, they completed a 64-hour marathon, securing an official Guinness World Record. Yet the real significance of these achievements lay beyond the chessboard. Onakoya was raising awareness and resources to expand educational opportunities for disadvantaged African children.
Having experienced economic hardship himself, Onakoya founded Chess in Slums Africa in 2018, using chess to build confidence, develop intellectual abilities, and open doors for children in underserved communities. His ambition was never simply to produce chess champions but to give children opportunities their circumstances might otherwise deny them.
His work resonates personally. In 2024, Onakoya received the Josephine Nkemdilim Masade Special Recognition Award at the Community and Human Rights (CAHR) Africa Awards, organised by CSR-in-Action, an organisation I co-founded with Dr Bekeme Olowola. The recognition, which included a grant, celebrated his commitment to transforming young lives.
Onakoya illustrates an important distinction between achievement and purpose. His competitive excellence has given him visibility, but his mission gives that visibility meaning. He is not merely playing to win; he is using his victories to change what is possible for others.
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The corporate world offers a less comfortable version of this dilemma. Businesses have become exceptionally sophisticated at measuring performance. Revenue, profitability, market share, valuation, shareholder returns and growth rates occupy prominent positions in management presentations and annual reports. These are legitimate and necessary indicators. A business that consistently fails to generate sustainable returns will eventually struggle to fulfil any purpose, however noble. The difficulty arises when the indicators become the entire definition of success rather than measures of progress towards a worthwhile objective.
Consider an entrepreneur who establishes a business to achieve financial independence, create jobs and build something enduring. Over time, competitors expand, investors demand growth and industry rankings become increasingly important. The entrepreneur begins pursuing acquisitions, entering unfamiliar markets and accumulating obligations that leave little room for the independence originally sought. The company may become larger while the founder becomes less free. By conventional measures, the enterprise is winning. Yet the original purpose has quietly disappeared beneath the demands of keeping score.
The same contradiction appears in professional careers. An executive may spend three decades pursuing increasingly senior appointments, generous remuneration and prestigious recognition. Each milestone brings satisfaction, but also establishes another target. Eventually, success becomes less about doing meaningful work and more about maintaining a position in a hierarchy that never stops moving. There is always another title, a larger office or a more impressive organisation. The problem is not ambition itself. Ambition drives innovation, enterprise and personal development. The danger is allowing ambition to grow without periodically examining whether its direction remains consistent with our values.
I return once again to the wisdom of the late Harvard Business School professor Clayton Christensen, whose work I have referenced previously in this series. In his influential book, How Will You Measure Your Life?, Christensen challenges us to apply the same rigour to our personal lives that we bring to business strategy. His argument is particularly relevant here: professional accomplishment does not necessarily translate into a fulfilling life, especially when our time, energy and resources are directed towards achievements that do not reflect our deepest priorities. As he reminds us, our real priorities are revealed not so much by what we profess to value, but by where we consistently invest our resources. It is a lesson that should resonate with every business leader: we can execute a strategy brilliantly and still fail if we have chosen the wrong objective.
In a society where success is often measured by wealth, status and public recognition, we sometimes celebrate achievement without questioning its deeper value. There is nothing wrong with financial prosperity or professional distinction; both can reflect discipline, ingenuity and hard work. But they remain incomplete measures of a meaningful life, just as a golfer’s scorecard cannot capture everything that makes a round worthwhile.
Purpose, however, must be more than an attractive mission statement. Its true test lies in the choices we make, particularly when they demand sacrifice. A company that claims to value its employees must demonstrate that commitment during difficult times, just as a leader who prioritises family must reflect that conviction in how time is allocated. Our priorities are ultimately revealed by what we are willing to pursue, sacrifice or decline.
Golf offers a useful perspective. Some rounds are about competition, improving one’s handicap or winning a tournament. Others are about friendship, recreation or introducing someone to the game. Neither objective is inherently superior. What matters is understanding why we are playing and refusing to judge every experience by the same scorecard.
Knowing our purpose does not make the journey easier. Onakoya’s 64-hour chess marathon was physically demanding, but the cause it served made the sacrifice worthwhile. Purpose does not eliminate difficulty; it gives difficulty meaning. The same principle applies to leadership, where success requires more than pursuing growth, profitability or recognition without considering what those achievements ultimately serve.
As golf continues to teach me, we can master our swings, sharpen our judgement and improve our scores without necessarily becoming wiser about why we play. The same is true of business and life. We should pursue excellence and celebrate achievement, but never lose sight of their larger purpose. After all, there may be no greater disappointment than reaching the top of the leaderboard only to discover that we have spent our best years winning the wrong game.
