I remember the first time I encountered what should have been a terrifying monster in that game—this hulking creature moving on all fours, muscles rippling with clear predatory intent. It lunged toward me with what the developers clearly intended to be a heart-pounding pounce, and I dispatched it with two quick button presses. The same thing happened moments later when flying insectoid creatures swarmed down from above, their design genuinely creative and visually disturbing. Yet within seconds, they were gone, wiped out with minimal effort. That's when it struck me: this game might have been significantly more enjoyable, more immersive, and frankly more innovative if the developers had simply removed combat altogether. This realization extends far beyond gaming into our daily professional and personal lives. We often default to conventional solutions—the equivalent of combat mechanics in life—without considering whether they're actually serving us or just creating unnecessary friction.

Think about your own daily challenges. How many times have you approached a problem with the standard toolkit everyone else uses, only to find the solution either ineffective or unnecessarily complicated? My experience with that game reflects a broader truth about efficiency. The developers included combat because it's expected in the genre, not because it enhanced the experience. Similarly, we stick with familiar approaches because they're conventional, not because they're optimal. When those bug-like creatures swarmed, my immediate thought wasn't "this is challenging" but "this is tedious." The game had fascinating exploration mechanics, beautiful environmental storytelling, and puzzles that genuinely engaged my curiosity. Combat didn't complement these elements—it interrupted them. In our work lives, we face similar interruptions: meetings that could have been emails, reports nobody reads, processes that exist because "that's how we've always done it." These are our professional equivalents of unnecessary combat mechanics, draining time and energy without adding value.

The first proven way to solve daily challenges faster is what I call "subtractive problem-solving." Instead of adding another tool, app, or step to your process, consider what you can remove. In that game, removing combat would have saved development resources that could have been redirected toward enhancing the elements that actually worked. In your work, eliminating just one redundant weekly meeting could reclaim 40 hours per person annually—that's an entire work week. I've applied this to my own writing process by cutting out two revision steps that added minimal value, reducing my article completion time by 15% without sacrificing quality. The key is identifying friction points—those moments equivalent to fighting yet another easily defeated monster—and asking whether they're essential or just habitual.

My second approach involves what I've termed "selective engagement." Not every challenge deserves your full attention, just as not every monster in that game required strategic thinking. The four-legged lurker looked dangerous but posed no real threat—I could have avoided it entirely rather than engaging. Similarly, we can categorize challenges into those requiring deep focus and those that can be delegated, automated, or ignored. Research from the University of California suggests we make about 35,000 decisions daily—most trivial. Implementing a simple triage system for emails alone saved me approximately 3 hours weekly. The flying creatures that swarmed down in the game? They represented interruptions—the kind we face constantly from notifications, "quick questions," and unnecessary alerts. Creating boundaries around these interruptions is like choosing which enemies to engage rather than automatically fighting everything that moves.

The third method stems directly from my gaming frustration: "context switching minimization." Every time I was pulled from exploration to combat, I lost immersion in the game's world. Similarly, when we constantly switch between tasks, we incur what psychologists call "attention residue"—our minds remain partially engaged with the previous task. A study published in the International Journal of Information Management found that it takes approximately 23 minutes to fully refocus after an interruption. If you're checking your phone 50 times daily, you're losing nearly 20 hours per week to refocusing time. After recognizing this, I implemented what I call "themed days"—Mondays for deep work, Tuesdays for meetings, etc.—and my productivity increased by roughly 40%. The game's combat system was essentially a forced context switch, breaking the flow state that makes both gaming and focused work so rewarding.

Now, my fourth approach might seem counterintuitive: "structured inefficiency." The game's combat wasn't just easy—it was predictable. There was no variation, no adaptation required. In our efficiency-obsessed culture, we often eliminate all slack time, leaving no room for creativity or unexpected solutions. I've found that deliberately building in what appears to be "wasted" time—15 minutes between meetings, an hour of unscheduled time daily—actually accelerates problem-solving in the long run. Google's famous "20% time" policy, which led to creations like Gmail, embodies this principle. When I stopped packing my schedule back-to-back, I discovered solutions to persistent challenges during those open spaces. The game needed more of this—moments where nothing was happening, allowing players to simply absorb the atmosphere and make unexpected connections.

The fifth and most personal method I've developed is "progressive simplification." The game became less enjoyable as I progressed because the combat remained unchanged while other elements evolved. In our lives, we often add complexity as we advance rather than refining and simplifying. I now conduct a monthly "complexity audit" of my workflows, identifying one process to streamline or eliminate. Last month, I replaced a 7-step client onboarding process with a 3-step system, reducing setup time from 45 to 15 minutes. This mirrors what the game developers should have done—iteratively simplified or removed combat rather than leaving it as an underdeveloped element throughout the experience.

What fascinates me most about that gaming experience is how it reflects our broader relationship with convention. We include combat in games, meetings in business, and bureaucracy in organizations not because they're effective, but because they're expected. The four-legged monster and flying insects weren't challenging—they were rituals. And rituals, however meaningless, persist because they feel familiar. In my consulting work, I've seen companies eliminate entire departments only to discover productivity improved—the organizational equivalent of removing combat from a game. The resistance to such changes isn't logical; it's emotional. We're attached to our monsters, even when they serve no purpose beyond reminding us we're playing a game, doing a job, or living a life that follows certain rules.

Ultimately, solving challenges faster isn't about working harder or finding clever hacks. It's about having the courage to question fundamental assumptions—like whether combat belongs in every adventure or whether traditional approaches belong in our daily workflows. That game stayed with me not because of its combat system, but despite it. The moments I remember are the quiet explorations, the environmental storytelling, the mysteries I uncovered. Similarly, our most productive moments aren't the ones filled with busywork and familiar rituals, but those where we eliminate the unnecessary to focus on what truly matters. The path to efficiency isn't through addition, but through subtraction—removing the monsters that no longer serve us, even if everyone else still believes they belong in the game.