Why Games Teach Faster Than Drills—And How to Design Them
The reason your athletes forget everything on game day—and the design shift that fixes it.
The entire coaching field is built on drills. Controlled. Repetitive. Predictable.
We’ve been told this is how skills are built—through perfect practice in perfect conditions.
The research says otherwise.
Nearly four decades of peer-reviewed motor learning science has demonstrated that drills don’t transfer to performance. The skill your athlete executes in a controlled environment is not the same skill they need when chaos arrives on game day. Yet we keep designing practice as if repetition equals readiness.
I spent eight years as a sports performance coach before I discovered what a basement Dungeons & Dragons session could teach me about learning that the entire fitness industry had missed.
This article is about the fusion of two frameworks—Ecological Dynamics and Gamification—and how combining them allows you to design practice that actually transfers. By the end, you’ll have a template you can apply immediately to turn any drill into a game that builds sovereign athletes: athletes who adapt, problem-solve, and perform when you’re not there to coach them.
It starts with a Dragonborn named Fearxan and a very stupid plan to breach a fort.
The Basement Where I Learned More Than Eight Years of Coaching
We were in my brother-in-law’s basement. He’d been playing Dungeons & Dragons since high school—he was our DM. There were three others at the table, their characters already chosen: a rogue, a monk, and a druid. I was the newcomer. The skeptic. The one who had to be coaxed into showing up.
When I sat down, I was nervous. Not about the dragons or the dungeons—about making a fool of myself. I didn’t think I’d be any good at improvising when the time came. And everything about the experience felt foreign. I’d rolled dice before, simple six-sided cubes, but now I was holding a D12, a D4, a D8, and a D20. Weird shapes. Unfamiliar weight.
It was awkward. I just felt uncomfortable.
Before that night in 2022, I’d written off D&D entirely. It was a game for a certain type of person—and I wasn’t that type. I was an athlete for ten years. A sports performance coach for eight. I lift weights. I watch games. I compete. People like me didn’t sit in basements rolling dice and pretending to be wizards.
But my brother-in-law kept asking. And eventually I said, “What the hell. Let’s try it.”
We went through character creation and I built Fearxan—a Gold Dragonborn Paladin with a hammer like Mjolnir and a love for blacksmithing. On paper, he was powerful. At the table, I had no idea how to be him. When it was my turn to speak, I froze. When the DM presented a problem, my mind went blank. I defaulted to the most basic actions: I attack. I move here. I wait.
The first few sessions were rough. All of us fumbled through interactions like strangers at a party who forgot how to talk. We made basic moves. Surface-level dialogue. Safe choices.
Then, around session three, something shifted.
I can’t tell you exactly when it happened, but the fun started creeping in. We stopped just responding and started playing. Conversations got longer. Solutions got stranger. We began improvising off each other—building on ideas, riffing, creating moments none of us planned.
I remember the night it clicked.
We had to infiltrate a fort. As we approached, we could see guards posted at the front gate. Standard stuff. The obvious move was to walk up and talk our way in.
We didn’t do the obvious move.
Instead, we scouted the perimeter and found a small hut built against the outer wall. If someone could climb it, they might be able to scale up and drop inside the fort. But Fearxan wasn’t built for climbing. So I turned to my party and said:
“Throw me up there.”
We rolled. Both dice landed in our favor. And just like that, a seven-foot Dragonborn was airborne, sailing over the wall, crashing into the courtyard on the other side.
When the session ended, our DM laughed. “You know,” he said, “all you had to do was walk up to the guards. They would’ve let you in.”
I didn’t miss a beat: “What’s the fun in that?”
This Is How Learning Actually Works
That line has echoed in my head ever since.
What’s the fun in that?
It’s the question that separates learning that sticks from learning that fades. It’s the question that explains why I’ve now logged over 1,000 hours in Baldur’s Gate III. Why I still play D&D years later. Why people at that table who started as hesitant introverts now deliver victory speeches and talk their way out of impossible situations.
Nobody taught us improv. Nobody gave us a framework for creative problem-solving. Nobody drilled us on dialogue techniques.
The game demanded it. So we became it.
This is how learning actually works.
Not through instruction. Through immersion.
Not through repetition. Through problems worth solving.
Not through drills. Through games.
And if you’re a coach, this understanding changes everything about how you design practice.
Here’s Where We’re Going
Here’s what we’ll cover:
The Problem — Why drills don’t transfer to game day (and the research that proves it).
The Theory — How Ecological Dynamics and Gamification fuse into a single design framework.
The Shift — What changes when you stop thinking like a drill-designer and start thinking like a game-designer.
The Template — A plug-and-play tool for turning any drill into a game that builds transfer.
The Application — A before-and-after example you can steal.
By the end, you won’t just understand why games teach faster. You’ll be able to design them.
The Gap Every Coach Knows But Can’t Explain
Here’s the frustration that haunts every coach:
Your athlete looks great in practice. Crisp technique. Confident execution. You’ve drilled the skill a hundred times and they’ve nailed it a hundred times.
Then game day arrives. Pressure mounts. Conditions shift. And everything falls apart.
The footwork disappears. The decision-making slows. The skill you know they have seems to evaporate under the lights.
This isn’t a motivation problem. It’s not a mental toughness problem. And it’s not because they didn’t practice enough.
It’s because drills don’t build what games require.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth that nearly forty years of motor learning research has confirmed: the skill your athlete performs in a controlled drill is not the same skill they need in a chaotic game.
Skills aren’t things you have—stored programs you upload and execute on command. Skills are things you do—adaptive solutions that emerge in real-time from the interaction between the athlete, the task, and the environment.
Change the environment, and you change the skill required.
This is the core principle of Ecological Dynamics, a framework I’ve written about extensively. The research is overwhelming: when you strip away variability, remove decision-making, and eliminate unpredictability—which is exactly what most drills do—you’re not building transferable skills. You’re building performance that only works in conditions that don’t exist on game day.
Drills create athletes who can execute. Games create athletes who can adapt.
And adaptation is what competition actually demands.
What Gamification Actually Means
When most people hear “gamification,” they think of points, badges, and leaderboards. Superficial rewards layered on top of the same old training.
That’s not what I’m talking about.
Real gamification isn’t about making drills feel like games. It’s about understanding why games teach faster than drills—and reverse-engineering those structural elements into your practice design.
Games aren’t just more fun. They’re architecturally different. And that architecture is what produces learning that sticks.
Here’s what makes a game a game:
1. Clear goals with uncertain paths. You know what you’re trying to accomplish. You don’t know how you’ll accomplish it. This gap is where problem-solving lives.
2. Immediate feedback. You don’t need a coach to tell you if it worked. The outcome tells you. The ball goes in or it doesn’t. The dice succeed or fail. The consequence is instant and obvious.
3. Progressive challenge. Difficulty scales with competence. Not through more reps of the same thing—through new constraints that demand new solutions.
4. Meaningful choice. Your decisions matter. You’re not executing a predetermined script. You’re navigating a problem space where different choices lead to different outcomes.
5. Safe failure. You can try the absurd thing—throwing a Dragonborn over a wall—without catastrophic consequences. Failure is information, not punishment.
6. Identity investment. You’re not just practicing a skill. You’re being someone. Fearxan wasn’t a set of stats on a character sheet. He was who I became at that table.
This is why D&D taught me improv faster than any class could. The game wasn’t about improv. But the structure of the game—the goals, the feedback, the choices, the identity—made improv emerge as the only way to play.
No instruction required. Just a well-designed game.
Ecological Dynamics Meets Gamification
Here’s what I’ve realized after years of studying both:
Ecological Dynamics tells you how to structure the learning environment. Gamification tells you how to structure engagement with that environment.
They’re not separate methodologies. They’re two halves of the same system.
The Constraints-Led Approach—the practical application of Ecological Dynamics—says that skills emerge from the interaction of three constraint categories:
Individual constraints: The athlete’s physical characteristics, psychological state, experience level, fatigue.
Task constraints: The goal, the rules, the equipment, the scoring system.
Environmental constraints: The space, the opponents, the surfaces, the unpredictability.
Manipulate these constraints strategically, and you accelerate learning. This is backed by nearly four decades of peer-reviewed research.
But here’s what the research doesn’t always address: why would athletes engage with constraint manipulation long enough for it to work?
That’s the gamification piece.
When you design constraints as game rules, they stop feeling like arbitrary restrictions and start feeling like challenges worth solving.
When you design variability as progression, it stops feeling like chaos and starts feeling like leveling up.
When you design affordances as discoverable opportunities, athletes stop waiting for instructions and start exploring.
When you design self-organization as figuring it out, the learning becomes intrinsically rewarding—the way games are.
Think about D&D again:
The DM manipulates constraints (environment, NPCs, obstacles, time pressure)
The dice introduce variability and uncertainty
Your character sheet defines your individual constraints (what you can and can’t do)
Nobody tells you how to solve problems—you discover solutions that emerge from the interaction
And you keep coming back because the process itself is fun
That’s not a drill. That’s a game. And games produce sovereign learners.
From Drill-Designer to Game-Designer
If you’re a coach, here’s the transformation I’m inviting you into:
Stop designing drills. Start designing games.
This isn’t a semantic shift. It’s a fundamental change in how you see your role.
Drill-Designer → Game-Designer
Prescribes solutions → Presents problems
Controls variability → Designs variability
Measures repetitions → Measures adaptations
Corrects technique → Adjusts constraints
Creates dependence → Creates sovereignty
The drill-designer asks: What’s the correct technique and how do I get them to repeat it?
The game-designer asks: What problem can I present that will force them to discover effective solutions?
The drill-designer talks constantly—cueing, correcting, instructing.
The game-designer sets up the environment and then gets out of the way—letting the constraints do the teaching.
The drill-designer creates athletes who need coaching.
The game-designer creates athletes who coach themselves.
The Four Questions That Change Everything
Before you design your next practice session, ask yourself these four questions:
1. What problem am I presenting?
Not: what skill am I teaching? Skills are abstractions. Problems are real. Frame every activity as a challenge to be solved, not a technique to be repeated.
Instead of “shooting drill,” try “score from chaos.” Instead of “passing exercise,” try “keep possession under pressure.” Instead of “defensive footwork,” try “deny the lane.”
The problem should be clear. The solution should not.
2. What constraints will force discovery?
Not: what instructions will I give? Instructions short-circuit the learning process. Constraints create the learning process.
If you want athletes to develop faster decision-making, constrain time. If you want them to use space better, constrain space. If you want them to communicate, remove their ability to see each other.
The constraint makes the skill necessary. The athlete discovers how.
3. What feedback is immediate and intrinsic?
Not: what will I tell them afterward? The best feedback doesn’t come from you. It comes from the activity itself.
Did it work? Did you score? Did you maintain possession? Did you get past the defender?
The outcome should be obvious without your commentary. If you need to explain whether they succeeded, your game design isn’t clear enough.
4. What makes them want to try again?
Not: how many reps will I assign? Reps are compliance. Desire is engagement.
Competition creates stakes. Scoring systems create clarity. Variability creates novelty. Achievable challenges create flow.
If athletes are watching the clock, your design is failing. If they’re asking to run it again, your design is working.
The Template: Design Your Own Game
Here’s a plug-and-play framework you can apply to any skill, any sport, any context.
Step 1: Define the Problem (Task Constraint)
What decision or adaptation do you want to develop?
Frame it as a challenge, not a skill:
❌ “Shooting drill”
✅ “Score before the defense recovers”
Write it down. Make it clear. This is what the game is about.
Step 2: Design the Constraints
Environmental constraints:
Space (smaller, larger, irregular shapes)
Time pressure (shot clocks, countdowns, sudden death)
Obstacles (defenders, barriers, zones)
Surfaces (different textures, inclines, instability)
Task constraints:
Rules (must pass before shooting, can’t use dominant hand)
Scoring systems (different point values for different solutions)
Equipment modifications (heavier balls, smaller targets, limited touches)
Restrictions (zones you can’t enter, actions you can’t take)
Individual constraints:
Fatigue states (activities after conditioning)
Handicaps (one hand, limited vision, positional restrictions)
Role assignments (you’re the playmaker, you’re the disruptor)
Information asymmetry (only one player knows the objective)
Choose 2-3 constraints to start. Add more to increase difficulty.
Step 3: Build the Game Mechanics
Clear goal: What does winning look like? Make it obvious.
Uncertainty: What varies every rep? (Opponent choices, randomization, starting positions)
Progression: How does difficulty scale? Add constraints, reduce time, increase opposition.
Feedback: What tells them immediately if it worked? The scoreboard. The outcome. The consequence.
Stakes: What makes success meaningful? Competition between groups. Rewards for creativity. Narrative context.
Step 4: Remove Yourself
This is the hardest part for most coaches.
The game should run without you talking. Your job during play is to observe. Your job between rounds is to adjust constraints.
If you’re coaching during the activity, the design isn’t working.
If the game teaches without you, the design is working.
Step 5: Debrief Through Questions
After the game, don’t lecture. Ask:
“What did you notice?”
“What solutions emerged?”
“What would you try differently?”
Never: “Here’s what you should have done.”
The goal is to make their discoveries conscious—not to replace their discoveries with your instructions.
Before and After: Same Skill, Radically Different Learning
BEFORE: The Drill
2v0 passing drill. Two players pass back and forth across a fixed distance. Coach cues technique: “Step into the pass. Follow through to your target. Receive with soft hands.”
Controlled and predictable
No decisions required
Feedback is external (coach evaluation)
Success = technical compliance
Zero transfer to game conditions
AFTER: The Game
“Keep Away Championship.” 3v1 in a tight space. Possession team scores a point for every 5 consecutive passes. Defender scores a point for every turnover. Rotate defender every 60 seconds. Losing defender does 5 burpees.
Variable and unpredictable
Constant decisions required
Feedback is intrinsic (you kept it or you lost it)
Success = functional solutions under pressure
Direct transfer to game conditions
Same skill. Radically different learning.
The first version builds passing in a vacuum. The second version builds passers who solve problems.
What You’re Probably Thinking
“But athletes need to learn proper technique first.”
This is the most common objection—and it misunderstands what technique actually is.
Technique isn’t a fixed form you install before application. Technique is a solution that emerges from constraint interactions. The “proper” technique is whatever solves the problem under the current conditions.
Research on representative learning design shows that athletes who learn technique through games develop more adaptable, transferable movement patterns than those who learn through isolated drills—even if the drill-trained athletes look more “technically correct” in controlled conditions.
The question isn’t whether your athlete’s form looks textbook. The question is whether their solution works when it matters.
“Games are too chaotic—athletes won’t get enough reps.”
Reps of what?
If you’re counting repetitions of a specific movement pattern, games will give you fewer. But that’s the wrong metric.
If you’re counting repetitions of problem-solving—decisions made, adaptations required, solutions discovered—games give you far more.
One five-minute game can produce more learning-relevant reps than thirty minutes of blocked drilling, because every moment in the game requires engagement with the actual demands of performance.
“This sounds great for advanced athletes, but beginners need structure.”
Beginners need appropriate structure—not more structure.
The Constraints-Led Approach works by simplifying constraints, not by eliminating them. You don’t teach beginners through drills and then graduate them to games. You design simpler games with fewer constraints, then progressively add complexity.
A beginner playing 1v1 in a small space is learning more transferable skill than a beginner doing isolated technical repetitions—because the beginner in the game is solving real problems from day one.
What You’re Really Building
Let me be direct about what’s at stake here.
When you design drills, you’re building athletes who perform well when you’re watching. Who need your cues to execute. Who fall apart when conditions change.
When you design games, you’re building athletes who adapt when you’re not there. Who figure it out. Who thrive in chaos because chaos is what they trained in.
This is the difference between dependence and sovereignty.
A dependent learner asks: “What should I do?” A sovereign learner asks: “What does this situation demand?”
Dependent learners are created by instruction. Sovereign learners are created by problems worth solving.
Think about what happened in that basement in 2022.
Nobody taught me improv. Nobody gave me a framework for creative dialogue. Nobody drilled me on how to generate solutions under pressure.
The game demanded those things. And because the game was well-designed—because it had clear goals with uncertain paths, immediate feedback, meaningful choices, progressive challenge, safe failure, and identity investment—I developed those capabilities without even realizing I was learning.
That’s not magic. That’s design.
Now I’ve watched people who could barely hold a conversation become confident speakers at that table. I’ve watched hesitant players deliver rousing victory speeches. I’ve watched people discover capabilities they didn’t know they had—not because someone taught them, but because the game required them.
1,000+ hours in Baldur’s Gate III later, I’m still playing. Still learning. Still discovering.
The learning stuck because it never felt like learning.
That’s what you can build for your athletes.
Now It’s Your Turn
Here’s what I want you to do:
Take one drill. Just one. The one you run most often.
Run it through the template. Turn it into a game.
Ask the four questions:
What problem am I presenting?
What constraints will force discovery?
What feedback is immediate and intrinsic?
What makes them want to try again?
Then run it. Watch what happens. Watch what emerges.
I’m willing to bet you’ll see solutions you never taught. Adaptations you didn’t expect. Engagement you haven’t seen in months.
And then I want you to come back and tell me what happened.
The Line in the Sand
I almost didn’t try D&D. I had a story about who that game was for—and it wasn’t me.
I was wrong.
And I wonder how many coaches have a story about what “real” training looks like. Structured. Controlled. Technical. Serious.
What if that story is wrong too?
What if the most effective practice doesn’t look like work—it looks like play?
What if your athletes aren’t failing to transfer skills—they’re failing because they never built transferable skills in the first place?
What if the problem isn’t their motivation—it’s your design?
Here’s what I know:
Drills build repetition. Games build transfer. Drills create execution. Games create adaptation. Drills produce dependence. Games produce sovereignty.
The research has been clear for forty years. The evidence is overwhelming. The question is whether we’ll keep ignoring it because drills look more “professional”—or whether we’ll have the courage to design what actually works.
I know which side I’m on.
I’m not a drill-designer anymore. I’m a game-designer.
And game-designers create sovereign learners.
What’s the fun in that?
That’s the question that changes everything.
Now go design something worth playing.
—Sam
Ready to Go Deeper?
1. Take the ARIA Assessment — Discover your adaptive intelligence profile and identify where ecological learning principles can accelerate your development.
2. Read the companion piece — The Constraints-Led Approach and the Revolutionary Science of Learning Anything Faster goes deep on the research behind everything in this article.
3. Join the Calibrate Circle Community — Our community of coaches, athletes, and learners applying these principles together. Share your game designs. Get feedback. See what others are building.
The revolution in learning is already happening. The question is whether you’ll be part of it.
This is CALIBRATE. Where we stop accepting how we’ve always been taught—and start learning how we actually learn.
Games and drills. One is executing a perfect movement system every time. One understands the environment and randomness is inherent in our sport.
Can you really create a perfect drill? One that takes away all creativity? Drills have some form of randomness always no?
I had my players serve a billion times to hit the short court in front of the ten foot line.
How was this harmful to my player development?
This statement jumped out for me because it can apply to any thing we do in life: "Skills are things you do—adaptive solutions that emerge in real-time from the interaction between the athlete, the task, and the environment."