The Games We Play: From Hide-and-Seek to Wildlife Photography

I still remember crouching low behind a bush, almost holding my breath so hard my chest ached. I was playing hide and seek. My heart pounded in my ears as I pressed against the rough bark, every crunch of leaves and snapping twig under someone else’s shoes sounding like thunder in the quiet neighborhood.

I did not dare move. Instead, my eyes scanned the narrow gaps between branches, watching carefully, waiting for the seeker to pass without noticing me. It was a test of patience, silence, and observation, skills I never realized were being sharpened for something far bigger than a childhood game.

Growing up, my mom was a teacher, which meant summers were long and unscheduled. Most days during my elementary school years were spent at the local community pool. We played everything imaginable. Sharks and minnows. Marco Polo. Freeze tag. Wall ball. Laughter echoed off the concrete as hours slipped by unnoticed. When adult swim cleared us out of the water, we did not go home. Instead, we spilled into the surrounding neighborhood and invented new ways to play.

That is where hide and seek truly took hold. Along with games like sardines and kick the can, it became a daily ritual. Hide and seek was my favorite. I loved the thrill of finding a hiding spot so good that no one could see me, especially if I could quietly watch the person who was it wander past, completely unaware. There was something deeply satisfying about being present yet invisible.

Sometimes while playing sardines, I would lose track of time entirely. The sun would dip lower, shadows stretching across lawns, and the world would feel suspended in that moment of quiet anticipation. Looking back, those games were not just ways to pass the time. They were lessons in awareness and restraint.

Years later, I feel that same rush when I am out in the field with my camera. Wildlife photography often feels like a grown up version of hide and seek. Moving slowly through brush. Placing each step carefully. Pausing to listen more than I move. Waiting for a bird or animal to reveal itself rather than forcing the encounter. The goal is not to be seen. It is to blend in, to become part of the environment rather than a disruption within it.

The rules of the game never really changed. Patience matters. Stealth matters. Awareness matters. In both hide and seek and wildlife photography, rushing almost always leads to failure. The best moments come when you let the scene unfold on its own terms.

Other childhood games shaped the way I see photography as well. Tag feels like the chase for the perfect shot, running after light as it fades at the edge of the day. I Spy mirrors the constant scanning of an environment, training your eye to notice details others overlook. A treasure hunt is no different from searching for rare wildlife or that once in a lifetime moment when everything aligns and the shutter clicks at exactly the right second. Even sardines carries a lesson, teaching the value of observation and timing, knowing when to move and when to stay still.

Hide and seek, though, was the gateway. It taught me how to blend in, how to read subtle cues, and how to find joy in discovery rather than pursuit. It also taught perspective. The best hiding spots were rarely the most obvious ones. Often, patience won over cleverness, and stillness beat speed.

As adults, we rarely think about how deeply play shapes us. But the games we loved as children often lay the groundwork for how we experience the world later in life. For me, hide and seek became more than a game. It became a foundation for the craft of waiting, watching, and quietly capturing fleeting moments in nature through my lens.

I invite you to think back to the games you played as a child. Somewhere in those moments of play may be the roots of the passions that still drive you today.

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