On Play, Memory, and Imagination
In today’s world besieged by constant crises, one of the biggest is the crisis of imagination. Described by numerous scholars, this pervasive phenomenon finds societies around the world mired in the present, experiencing a form of aphantasia that hinders their ability to envision different futures.
Stuck in the quicksands of now, people are less and less able to take a leap to a desired then. Many are grasping at the straws of back thens, and sinking deeper.
In his book Another World is Possible, UCL professor Geoff Mulgan suggests that one reason for that is a hollowing out of social imagination—in politics, universities, and social movements. This fuels a sense of fatalism and shifts politics into a reactionary mode, promising a return to a better yesterday rather than a journey to a better tomorrow.
This sense of stagnation is notably present in regions marked by armed conflict, economic challenges, and social inequality. There, and to varying degrees almost everywhere, the civic sector grapples with a perpetual state of emergency and need to respond to immediate crises—all while persisting issues such as lack of funding, necessity for self-preservation, and censorship further complicate its operations.
To build the tomorrow we want, we must first imagine it today. Imagination, therefore, is not a luxury but a grave necessity.
And while individual dreams can shape lives, it is the collective dreams that shape reality. In an environment where the present feels insurmountable and the future seems unattainable, it is crucial to engage in deliberate, collective efforts to imagine and design alternative futures.
To imagine the future, first remember the past
A couple of years back I did an Executive program on future-crafting at NTU Singapore. The course I enjoyed the most was on science fiction writing, and the best advice there was: to imagine the future, don't start at the present—think about the past, and extrapolate from there.
I thought back then—our amnesia could lead to aphantasia. If we don't know what has been, we can't imagine what will be. We build the castles of the future using the sand of the past. Without memory, there is no sand, no castles to inhabit—only the relentless waters of the present, eroding the rocks of our existence.
There are many good reasons to take memory and history seriously: to start with George Santayana’s “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”; Maya Angelou’s "History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again"; or William Faulkner’s "The past is never dead. It's not even past."
History, however, is not merely a warning; it should also be a celebration. The past exists not only for us to learn from our mistakes but also to take pride in how far we've come. Too often, we neglect to bask in the light of recent victories, choosing instead to stand in the shadow of looming defeats; our mouths, no longer remembering the sweetness of past triumphs, now know only the rotten taste of despair.
Rebecca Solnit notably writes how collective amnesia can lead to despair:
“The status quo would like you to believe it is immutable, inevitable, and invulnerable, and lack of memory of a dynamically changing world reinforces this view. In other words, when you don’t know how much things have changed, you don’t see that they are changing or that they can change”.
Solnit argues, “There’s a public equivalent to private depression, a sense that the nation or the society rather than the individual is stuck. Things don’t always change for the better, but they change, and we can play a role in that change if we act. Which is where hope comes in, and memory, the collective memory we call history.”
An avid rower herself, Solnit says:
“You row forward looking back, and telling this history is part of helping people navigate toward the future. We need a litany, a rosary, a sutra, a mantra, a war chant for our victories. The past is set in daylight, and it can become a torch we can carry into the night that is the future”.
Designing for collective imagination
If you are an activist who wants to start flexing your imagination muscle, there are brilliant places to start: like checking out the Ministry of Imagination Manifesto, or getting inspired by the Imagination Activism movement.
Beyond that, I am deeply interested in fostering collective imagination. At Fine Acts, we create spaces that guide groups of civic actors through essential steps in this process. Participants start by questioning and reframing current realities, and adopting new hope-based mindsets. They then enter the core phase of strategic imagination and serious play, and make initial attempts at prototyping solutions. After envisioning new possibilities, participants dive into designing and testing alternatives. Finally, they come together to reflect on successes and challenges, fostering collaboration and ongoing support for their collective vision.
Albert Einstein famously said:
“I am enough of the artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”
I believe we are all enough of an artist—but when our imagination feels out of reach, we need tools to reel it back in. Play is one such powerful tool; it opens up a space for creativity and experimentation, allowing us to step outside conventional boundaries and explore possibilities with courage and joy.
While memory and imagination are the twin forces that allow us to transcend the present, play is distinctly rooted in the now—but only to melt yesterday into tomorrow, transforming past wisdom into creative visions for a future that is both imagined and achievable.
Read more about the science and art of playtivism; and the intersection of play and hope.
Understand the playtivism mindset and the six shifts organizations should make.
See examples for playtivist formats; get a list of resources; and a free playtivist tool.
Learn more about the background of playtivism.