For sixty-five years I’ve loved backgammon – since I was eight – never wondering why.

We tend not to. Our preferences we treat as givens, like eye color, not selections, suggestive of who we are. Of course, I loved backgammon – shouldn’t everybody? But no. Only three hundred million players worldwide, per AI, less than five percent of us. How to explain the game’s allure?

I loved it first, I suspect, as a chance to best grownups. Age eight, our elders are so far ahead of us in knowledge, strength, status, who could compete? I hankered not to be a kid; here, if I won, I could confound, like Jesus in the temple. I practiced against myself for endless hours. That’s another of the game’s charms – it’s fun alone – which, as a kid, I mostly was. How many games satisfy equally in solitude or company? (Golf maybe – I wouldn’t know.)

I got pretty good at backgammon – for an eight-year-old – which allayed my need to preen. I’ve always striven to impress – to prove my “worth” – in which I never believed. I’m at it still.

Dice make backgammon thrilling. Any game entails luck and skill in different proportions. Slot machines are all luck, chess all skill. In backgammon, as in cards, you need both. Is Fate in your corner today or not? If not, any dolt can drub you. Dice snatch victory from defeat and vice versa. This races the pulse – which is a fine feeling, if you like it. One is never safe.

The game’s incessant uncertainty commandeers attention. Snooze and you lose. Games of pure skill can get boring against inept opponents. Likewise, games of pure luck, since you can’t affect the outcome. With backgammon, you must stand sentinel till the last roll. This prevents my mind from meandering where it oughtn’t. Focusing on the checkers I’m not fretting civilization’s future. “A change,” said Winston Churchill in another ugly hour, “is as good as a rest.”

Recently Jane’s taken up backgammon to beguile our hour before dinner. We play cribbage too, which is fun, but less complex. Jane asks whether a backgammon move was a mistake. “It depends” is the only answer. Deplorable choices can be validated by improbable throws; sensible choices can be mocked by dice which defy all odds. Only unpredictability is predictable.

That I’m only so-so at the game enhances its appeal. I’m always screwing up. I get snookered (though that’s a pool term). All those better players lavish me with opportunities for improvement. (I feel the same about writing.)

The democracy of backgammon also delights. Barefoot Mustafa in the souk may never play tennis but he can wallop me here. Good for us both.

Online backgammon has been my antidote to the Nameless One. My low rating taunts me to keep trying. A timer makes the pace of play breathtaking. Algorithms, I’m certain, have been tweaked to taunt me. After a heartening string of victories – wholly merited, needless to say – my dice rebel, rating plummets, and pride deflates. I vow revenge on the sadistic site-masters. Fortunately, I don’t bet money. The digital coins I purchase run me a few bucks a week, cheaper therapy than drugs or booze, with fewer side-effects.

I used to hide my backgammon addiction as a guilty secret. All the worthy things I could be doing with my time! The older I get, the more slack I cut myself. Sure, I’m less than I had in mind – what dreamer isn’t? – but then again, I’m lucky to be alive. And if a few hours of backgammon now and then help keep me sane, where’s the harm?