2025-11-11 12:01
I remember the first time I played that horror game where the procedurally generated maps kept throwing me into similar yet disorienting landscapes. The developer had created these three key landmarks - that gangly tree, the haunting windmill, and one other structure I can't quite recall - but failed to populate the spaces between them with enough variety. It struck me how much this mirrors our own chaotic periods in life, those "crazy times" when everything feels both overwhelming and strangely repetitive. We all experience these phases where we're running between major life events or work deadlines - what I call the three landmarks of our temporary reality - yet the spaces between lack meaningful structure. According to a 2023 productivity study I recently came across, approximately 68% of professionals report feeling simultaneously overwhelmed and bored during high-pressure periods, which perfectly captures that "dizzying yet familiar" sensation the game evoked.
During my most productive crazy times, I've learned to treat those three major landmarks as fixed points in my schedule - the non-negotiable meetings, deadlines, or family obligations that structure my week. But unlike the game's sparse landscape, I intentionally populate the spaces between with what I call "micro-moments" of productivity or restoration. These aren't grand tasks, but small, memorable activities that break the monotony. For instance, between client calls yesterday, I spent seven minutes practicing guitar chords I'd been neglecting and another twelve organizing just one shelf in my office. These tiny victories create psychological breathing room, making the journey between major landmarks feel fresh rather than repetitive. The game designer's mistake was assuming three striking landmarks would carry the entire experience, but in both gaming and productivity, it's the subtle variations in the ordinary spaces that prevent burnout.
What fascinates me about productivity during chaotic periods is how our perception of time becomes distorted. The research I've seen suggests our brains struggle to form distinct memories when experiences become too similar, which explains why we can work constantly yet feel like we've accomplished nothing memorable. I've started implementing what I call "landmark tagging" in my calendar - consciously noting three significant accomplishments or moments each day, no matter how small. Last Thursday, mine included finally solving that persistent coding bug, having a genuinely meaningful conversation with my daughter about her science project, and discovering a fantastic new coffee blend during what would have been an ordinary coffee run. This practice creates cognitive diversity in otherwise homogeneous busy periods.
The real secret I've discovered isn't about working more efficiently during crazy times, but about designing the experience of those periods to feel less crazy. Those game maps felt disorienting not because they were completely random, but because they weren't random enough in the right places. Similarly, when I look at my most productive colleagues - the ones who thrive under pressure - they're not the ones with the most rigid systems. They're the ones who build flexible frameworks with intentional variety. One project manager I admire schedules what she calls "surprise slots" - 30-minute blocks where she deliberately does something unexpected, whether it's learning a new software shortcut, rearranging her workspace, or calling a colleague she hasn't spoken to in months. She claims this approach has increased her team's creative output by roughly 40% during crunch times, and while I haven't verified her numbers, the principle resonates with my experience.
There's an important distinction between being busy and being productive that becomes especially crucial during these intense periods. I've noticed that when I focus only on the major landmarks - the big projects, the critical deadlines - the pathways between them become blurry and inefficient, much like struggling to navigate between that tree and windmill without memorable guideposts. What works better for me is treating the transitions themselves as valuable territory. The fifteen minutes between meetings isn't dead space to fill with frantic email checking, but an opportunity for what I've come to call "directional thinking" - considering whether I'm still headed toward my intended destination or need to course-correct. This mindset shift has probably saved me about five hours weekly that I previously wasted on misdirected efforts.
What ultimately makes crazy times productive isn't some magical time management hack, but designing our experience to include both reliable structure and delightful surprises. The game developers could have transformed that disorienting feeling simply by adding occasional unique elements between their major landmarks - a strangely shaped rock formation one night, an abandoned wagon the next. Similarly, I've found that inserting unexpected elements into my workdays - listening to an unfamiliar genre of music while tackling administrative tasks, working from a different location for two hours, or tackling a creative problem using methods from unrelated disciplines - creates the cognitive variety that makes intense periods feel engaging rather than draining. The data might show we're working the same number of hours, but the experience becomes fundamentally different.
After experimenting with various approaches through numerous crazy periods - some self-imposed, others thrust upon me - I've settled on what I call the "landmark and landscape" approach to productivity. The landmarks are my non-negotiables, the must-achieve objectives that give structure to the chaos. But the landscape - those ordinary moments between landmarks - deserves equal attention and intentional design. This means sometimes I'll take what appears to be a less efficient route between tasks because it offers mental stimulation or unexpected insights. It means accepting that not every minute needs to be optimized for maximum output, that sometimes meandering through a problem produces better solutions than charging directly at it. The game's failure wasn't in its core design, but in its lack of attention to the spaces between the spectacular elements. Our productivity during crazy times often fails for the same reason - we focus only on the major milestones while treating everything else as filler. But it's in those in-between spaces where the magic of sustainable productivity truly lives.