I don’t develop feelings for someone easily, but when I look back on all of the times I’ve had feelings (I’m a straight woman who’s been dating for years) it’s because the guy has played hard to get. By this I mean keeping me guessing what he wants, sometimes seeming very keen, sometimes disappearing again. I have had good relationships this way but also gone off the rails a lot and got my feelings hurt. Nowadays, most dates I go on are from Hinge, so guys are straightforward and I’m less into it, which is how I’m realising this pattern. Why is this/any thoughts?
CuriousGirl
Hello, CuriousGirl. Firstly: I’m deeply intrigued by your experience of online dating, which tallies with almost no-one else’s I know. I’d have thought your penchant for game-play would have been more than satisfied by some time on the apps. Where are you finding all these straightforward Hinge men? I encourage you to write in again with a full list of the reliable matches you’ve rejected: I’m sure my single female readership will thank you for it.
Not me, though. I’m on your side. While I don’t tend to pine after people who show zero interest in me, sporadic, intense interest is my kryptonite. This has been a facet of my identity for so long that back in sixth-form, when a boy asked my BEST FRIEND how to win me over, she told him he’d have to play hard to get. Reader, it worked. We went out for ten months, which in sixth form years is basically a life-time.
All this is to say I have spent many hours pondering your dilemma, and I’m happy to say I have an answer for you. This is the short version: by behaving unpredictably, your date is forcing you to over-analyse his behaviour. As you over-analyse, you start to mistake an obsession with working out where he stands for an obsession with the man himself - and hey presto, you’ve developed feelings.
But this isn’t truly satisfying, is it. I mean, why is uncertainty so compelling in the first place? Are you mad or broken or lacking in self-worth because you’re drawn to it? I don’t think so, and here is why. Breaking from my long-standing tradition of turning to classical literature for insight, I am going to explain your love of hot and cold men using narrative theory. Stay with me, I promise it’s good.
There is a book I am obsessed with and recommend to all writers called The Science of Storytelling. In it, the fabulously intelligent Will Storr uses insights from psychology to demonstrate why certain storytelling techniques compel us to read on. In his chapter on beginnings, one tool he points to for engaging a reader’s interest is dubbed the ‘information gap’. Humans are at their most curious, Storr suggests, when presented with a puzzle that is incomplete. He cites an experiment by Loewenstein as proof: in it, a group of people were shown a grid of squares on a computer screen. Some participants found that each time they clicked on a square, an animal appeared. Other participants saw small parts of a single animal each time they clicked: the squares revealed a fraction of a greater picture. Participants in the second group were five times more likely to keep clicking. This is proof of our ‘natural inclination to resolve information gaps’ - ‘even for questions of no importance’.
In other words, we’re not indiscriminately curious, clicking on blank squares at random: we’re at our most inquisitive when we’re shown part of the truth; when we’re left wondering how A joins up with B. This is the sweet spot your romantic interests keep you in: Storr calls it the ‘pleasantly unpleasant state, that causes us to squirm with tantalised discomfort at the delicious promise of an answer’ - he could be describing your love life, couldn’t he.
And why is this state so enthralling? Well, Storr convincingly argues that we humans, whose survival has long been based on cooperation, are basically obsessed with understanding our social environment. In particular, over the last 1,000 generations, being able to get along with people has been the major factor in obtaining resources and generally doing well. That’s why humans are insatiably hungry for stories: we believe that if we can just figure out what motivates people, and how they’ll respond in any given circumstance, we’ll be able to stay safe and thrive in our social world.
And that’s why you can’t help falling for men who make you go ‘off the rails’. As Loewenstein’s experiment showed, you are hardwired to want to close information gaps, even for questions of no importance. All your deepest biological instincts are screaming that understanding how A relates to B will be necessary for your long-term survival in society. A blank square (or unknown man) is less of a threat, because you assume he will respond according to your existing neural model. Same with a man who is transparent. But a man who reveals disjunctive parts is a threat. So long as he can keep you guessing, you will want to stick around for the end of the story, to see if your assumptions were correct.
The ‘information gap’ trope has become so prevalent in television lately that it’s started to feel like a gimmick: it’s the body in the sea at the start of White Lotus; flashing back to happy, healthy guests arriving at the hotel; it’s Benedict Cumberbatch in Eric telling a press conference he misses his son, flashing back to the family happily together. It’s rare to see a thriller right now that doesn’t start with some intriguing glimpse of horror, and then rewinds back to a rose-tinted before time, in an attempt to make us puzzle at how the two could possibly connect. I sometimes wonder if these stories would even be interesting, if they didn’t exploit this chronological trick.
Because that’s what an information gap is: it’s a trick. And a trick is all very well to keep an audience tuning back in every Friday - but you shouldn’t have to hoodwink someone into liking you. When you think about it, it’s kind of embarrassing. In future, if you are in danger of losing your sanity again, I’d encourage you to imagine these game-playing men as cut-price entertainers, frantically dropping smoke bombs and flourishing little capes around, to try and conceal the fact that there’s not much there. If ever an image was going to give you the ick, it’s that one.
Nowadays I feel sympathy for men (and women, also capable of this behaviour) who play hard to get. On some deep level, don’t you think they fear they are not interesting enough in their own right to hold your attention? Because actually interesting people do not have to be mysterious. They can show you their whole hand, and still dazzle.
It can be hard at first to integrate this truth into your consciousness. And hey, it can also be perversely fun to go off the rails, so if you want to carry on dating hot and cold men, I wouldn’t judge you for it. But as you enter your new (bafflingly straightforward) era of Hinge dating, try to remember that at heart, every human is an information gap; a delicious mystery waiting to be solved. And the most fascinating of all will not need to play games - they will hold your attention, all by themselves. Promise.