The Illusion of Control (and Why Artists Struggle to Let Go)

What gaming, faith, and rap taught me about control

The Key To A Happy Life

There’s a scene early on in Jurassic World that stuck with me more than the dinosaurs ever did.

A helicopter lifts off over a park full of creatures that can’t truly be contained. At the controls is Simon Masrani—the owner, the CEO, the guy with influence, money, and apparent authority over everything below him.

He’s excited. Relaxed. Almost amused by the danger.

And just before flying into a place where one wrong variable could kill him, he says something quietly devastating:

“The key to a happy life is to accept that you are never actually in control.”

It’s said casually. Almost playfully. But it ends up being the thesis of the entire franchise: the illusion of human control.

And once you notice that theme, it stops being about dinosaurs. It starts being about us.

Why Control Feels So Important

I think uncertainty—especially the kind that brushes up against death, failure, or loss—makes us cling harder to whatever control we can get. When you’re holding the joystick, you want to believe it matters. You want to believe your inputs count, even if the wind doesn’t care.

That tension between chaos and control shows up everywhere. And for me, it shows up most clearly in the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,the courage to change the things I can,and the wisdom to know the difference.

On the surface, it’s brilliant. Still is. But I’ve always struggled with it—and it took me a long time to understand why.

The problem isn’t acceptance.The problem is that the line between what can and cannot be changed isn’t fixed.

The Things That “Can’t Be Changed”… Until They Can

What you can’t change at seven years old might be easy at thirteen. What’s impossible without information suddenly becomes possible once you learn the right thing.

Imagine a huge rock covering buried treasure. As a kid, you can’t move it. Later, you can. Or you learn a trick. Or you realise the rock doesn’t need lifting—it needs leverage.

That’s the issue: unchangeable is often temporary.

At the same time, the opposite is also true. When you’re young, you’re malleable. You absorb information easily. As you get older, you harden. Some things that were changeable stop being so.

So which version of reality are we meant to accept?

That instability is where my discomfort lives.

Growing Up a Gamer Changes How You See the World

A lot of this comes down to gaming.

When you grow up playing games, you’re trained to see the world as a system. Systems have rules. Rules have edges. And edges can be exploited.

If a level can’t be beaten, you don’t assume it’s impossible. You assume you’re missing something. You look for hacks. Shortcuts. Patterns. Information.

Some games I never finished—not because they were unbeatable, but because I never found the trick.

The original Driver on PlayStation is a perfect example. That opening level was brutal. Without specific knowledge, you just couldn’t progress. And honestly, if I played it today without help, I might still be stuck.

That experience leaves a mark.

It teaches you that “can’t” often means “not yet.”

Effectiveness Over Comfort

This is where the word effectiveness matters.

I enjoy games, sure. But what really drives me is completion. Finishing the thing. Solving the puzzle. Seeing it through.

That’s why games without challenge don’t hold me. Resistance gives meaning. And resistance invites optimisation.

That mindset doesn’t stay inside games. It leaks into life.

If the setting doesn’t work for you, change the setting.If the rules block you, rewrite them.

There’s a line from House of Cards—not noble, not moral, but revealing:

If you don’t like the way the table is set, flip the table over.

Some people accept systems. Others dismantle them. And if we’re honest, many of the people who run the world are wired like that.

Where Art Enters the Picture

So what does all this have to do with rap?

Everything.

Rap doesn’t just express emotion—it performs control. Authority. Presence. Power. It gives people who feel unseen a vision of agency.

When I first got into music, I wasn’t seeing the process. I was seeing the finished product: the artist, the success, the cars, the awards, the money.

What pulled me in wasn’t just the sound. It was what it represented—control over a life that didn’t feel satisfying.

Status. Relevance. Wealth. Visibility.

Some of those standards were cultural. Some were self-created. But the decision to chase them was internal.

Music started as expression. Slowly, it became compensation.

Sensitivity, Art, and the Need to Steer

Artists tend to be sensitive. Not weak—just exposed. Reactive. Deeply affected by feedback, rejection, and comparison.

Compared to non-artists, this sensitivity often looks excessive. Even among artists, there are levels.

That’s made me wonder whether many people are drawn to expressive careers not just out of passion, but out of something unmet earlier in life—validation, agency, safety, belonging.

Not as pathology. As pattern.

Control as Protection (Until It Isn’t)

I didn’t even want to stay in school. I wanted to pursue music. But parental pressure, cultural pressure—it made school unavoidable. So I made it strategic.

If I had to be there, I’d learn skills. Media. Tools. Things that reduced dependence on others.

And in every environment—school projects, creative collaborations—the same issue kept showing up: relinquishing control.

Not because others were incapable.Because reliance felt unsafe.

So I learned to do everything myself. Filming. Editing. Recording. Mixing.

At first, that’s self-sufficiency. Then it becomes rigidity.

Waiting on a videographer. Trusting an engineer. Depending on someone else with something that mattered—it triggered something visceral. Restlessness. Irritation. The urge to hover.

Control stopped being about quality. It became about preventing disappointment.

The Cycle That Reinforced It All

Whenever resources were missing—money, access, equipment—I’d pull back. Reflect. Quit for a bit. Then come back with a workaround.

And every time it worked, it reinforced the belief:

See? Control was possible all along.

That’s why the Serenity Prayer has always been hard for me. Not because it’s wrong—but because lived experience keeps providing exceptions.

Class, Acceptance, and Who Benefits

Growing up poor came with a quiet curriculum: don’t ask too many questions. Behave. Accept. Be grateful. Be humble.

Church reinforced it. School reinforced it. Culture reinforced it.

Acceptance wasn’t just spiritual—it was social.

For a long time, it made sense. But eventually I noticed something uncomfortable: this posture benefits people who already have power.

Billionaires don’t stop at “can’t.” If an outcome matters enough, they dig until it changes. Even the weather—once the ultimate example of the uncontrollable—is now being nudged through technology.

I’m not praising that. I’m just observing it.

“Unchangeable” is often contextual.

Where I’ve Landed

As an artist, acceptance is harder—not because I’m special, but because I’m aware that limits move.

But obsession with control has a cost.

Untreated, it turns into desperation.Desperation erodes judgment.And unchecked traits don’t stay contained—they affect the people around you.

That’s the part I can’t ignore anymore.

This was never about rejecting faith, or glorifying control, or condemning humility. It was about recognising how easily virtues can become restraints—and how ambition can rot if it’s never questioned.

What Living Well Actually Means (For Me)

Living well isn’t pretending control doesn’t matter.

It’s knowing where it matters—and where it poisons.

It’s knowing when to push and when to pause.When acceptance is wisdom.And when it’s fear dressed up as virtue.

I didn’t start this journey just to be successful. I started it to become someone I’m more comfortable being—someone who can pursue excellence without harming the people around them.

That work isn’t finished. It’s ongoing.

But if there’s one thing I’m certain of now, it’s this:

You’re never fully in control.But you’re never fully powerless either.

Living well means holding both truths—without letting either consume you.

Thanks for listening.