God is in the detail, Ouija and the Faustian Bargain of Expertise

It’s an irony layered so deep that it becomes almost poetic: how some of the greatest thinkers, designers, and artists are remembered not for what they meticulously built or wrote, but for what they didn’t do or for the ideas that slipped into conversation and were never truly theirs.

Figures like Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and others are often credited with phrases or concepts that resonate so profoundly they outlive their creators, but those associations come with a touch of irony—the essence of being remembered for what was never written or proven.

Take Mies van der Rohe, frequently attributed with “God is in the detail.” While this association makes perfect sense given his architectural philosophy that revered simplicity and precision, there’s no definitive record of him saying or writing it. The phrase lives on, tethered to his legacy like a ghost haunting the halls of modern design. He’s remembered for championing minimalism, the clean line, the unspoken elegance of space, and yet a phrase that encapsulates that ethos so well may never have passed his lips.

It’s a case of legend outshining fact, a story that tells itself so convincingly that we accept it as truth.

This is the flavor that eludes: the irony of how the act of not creating, of not owning, becomes part of a designer’s mythos. It’s the whisper of an idea attributed to them, true or not, that shapes their legacy. The design world, so focused on creation and meticulous execution, is built on a foundation of precision and tangible output, yet it is often the fleeting, undocumented moments—the casual phrase, the misattributed quote—that outlasts the structures themselves.

Then there’s Aby Warburg, the art historian with a mind so curious and eclectic that his actual contributions were wide-ranging and profound. Yet, he too is sometimes linked to “God is in the detail,” a phrase that seems to suit the meticulous nature of his studies but remains undocumented in his works. His legacy becomes a shadow play of things said or not said, echoing with the irony of detail itself—something we think we understand until we try to grasp it firmly, and it dances just out of reach.

This pattern isn’t just confined to designers and historians; it’s the hallmark of human culture to take the most compelling whispers and assign them permanence. What’s fascinating—and undeniably ironic—is that these attributions carry the spirit of the original person’s work, even if they aren’t factual. They represent the collective understanding of what these figures stood for, capturing the flavor of their philosophy through words they may not have uttered.

Designers, especially those who work with such minimalistic rigor, know that what’s unsaid is just as powerful as what’s spoken. The quiet space between lines, the negative space in a design, or the understated element of an object all contribute to the whole. And so, perhaps it’s fitting that their legacies are marked by what they didn’t write but what they suggested by their existence—their belief in details, in perfection, in seeing what others overlooked.

The irony is rich, almost amusing: they are bound to phrases that emphasize detail and precision, remembered for ideas that slipped through the cracks of history, made permanent by a culture that wants its icons to say something profound, whether they did or not. It’s the ultimate nod to the power of detail—that even in ambiguity, the legend of precision and the spirit of creation remains, unforgettable and just out of reach.

The tale of the talking board’s evolution, often reduced to a simplistic summary of spiritualism turned novelty, demands a more forensic dissection—one that reveals the fine strands of influence, key figures, and societal upheavals that braided together the Ouija board’s storied past. Our journey must begin long before the board was ever marketed, where early divination techniques, socio-political shifts, and personal stories contributed to its rise.

In the ancient world, communication with the divine was not merely a pastime but a complex system interwoven with religion, power, and fear. The Chinese practice of fuji, or planchette writing, predates any Western counterpart by over a millennium. It was employed during the Song Dynasty (960-1279 AD) and is said to have been a ritual practice used by Taoist mediums to channel messages from deities or spirits. The process involved the use of a suspended stylus over a sand table, which would trace symbols or characters, believed to be guided by a spiritual force. This early form of automatic writing planted seeds that would later germinate in the Western consciousness, albeit without direct transmission across cultures.

The practice of fuji, or planchette writing, is a fascinating chapter in the long narrative of humanity’s attempts to bridge the mortal and spiritual realms. Deeply woven into the fabric of Chinese religious and cultural practices, fuji stands as one of the earliest documented forms of what the West would later come to know as automatic writing. Its roots dig deep into the sands of the Song Dynasty (960-1279 AD), a time marked by profound intellectual and cultural development, when poetry, art, and philosophy flourished alongside more esoteric pursuits.

In ancient China, the planchette was part of a broader spiritual practice that included divination tools such as I Ching and oracle bones. The use of the planchette in fuji fit seamlessly into a culture that revered symbols as powerful conduits of meaning. Chinese calligraphy itself is an art form, and each character carries layers of meaning, history, and spiritual significance. The planchette’s tracing of characters in sand was thus a deeply resonant act, aligning with the culture’s respect for the written word as both art and spiritual medium. The character traced was not just a message but a visual embodiment of qi, an intersection where the spiritual world met the physical.

The process of fuji was intricate and ritualistic, practiced predominantly by Taoist mediums who were regarded as spiritual conduits. This wasn’t a mere parlor game or a casual activity; it was a revered practice embedded within religious observance and spiritual inquiry. The term “fuji” itself translates to “planchette writing” or “spirit writing,” encapsulating the essence of a stylus guided not by the hand of the scribe but by unseen forces, moving as if imbued with divine or ghostly intent.

Consider the world as a grand stage where countless games are played, each one a dance of rituals, beliefs, and traditions. These games are not just diversions; they are the core movements of civilizations, the ancient mechanics that shape who we are and how we interact with the unknown. To look at religious actions across cultures is to see humanity in its most raw and vulnerable state—each gesture, each prayer, each ritual a message cast into the dark, hoping for an echo. And in this play, we are not just participants but creators, sculpting meaning out of silence, driven by something that often defies logic.

Religion, at its heart, is the ultimate game of symbols and actions. Whether it’s the rhythmic chants of a Buddhist monk, the slow burn of incense rising in coils of smoke in a Taoist temple, or the raised hands of worship in a Pentecostal church, these actions are both deeply personal and intricately collective. They are moves in a game that has no final score but is played as if everything depended on it. Each ritual is a piece on the board, each doctrine a rule whispered from generation to generation. But why do we play?

Some would say it’s because we need to answer the unanswerable, to hold the trembling hand of uncertainty and tell it we are not afraid. We build temples of stone and silence, light candles against the abyss, and offer sacrifices, whether in the form of time, devotion, or something more tangible. But beneath the layers of meaning we ascribe to these actions lies a simpler truth: we play because the game itself has become the language through which we speak to the infinite.

Consider Stoicism, a philosophy more aligned with the rational mind than the metaphysical, but it, too, finds itself entangled in the art of playing a game. The Stoics practiced rituals not to appease gods but to train the self. The morning meditation, the evening reflection, the silent acceptance of fate—these are all moves within an internal game where the only opponent is one’s own untamed nature. The Stoic does not light incense to send prayers heavenward; they light it to remind themselves of impermanence. The scent is both an offering and a lesson, a reminder that life, like smoke, will eventually disperse.

The Stoic game, for instance, could be seen as a simulation—a way to train the mind to hold fast against the cosmic winds that blow with the indifference of a black hole. A Stoic’s refusal to let chaos dictate their emotions might echo the discipline of a distant species whose very existence depends on maintaining equilibrium amidst star-born storms. Their rituals, then, would not seem so strange to this alien observer. They would recognize the practice of grounding oneself in the face of infinite uncertainty because, on some level, they, too, must play their own games to survive.

The games religions play are complex because they are expressions of both hope and defiance. A silent vigil is an act that breathes defiance into the void; it says, “I know you are vast, and I am small, but I will hold my ground.” An elaborate dance to summon rain or celebrate the harvest is more than an agricultural act; it is humanity’s footfall against the indifference of nature. In these moments, we touch something alien even to ourselves, a part that stands between the instinct to understand and the deep, unspeaking acceptance that some things never will be.

In these cultural games, the sacred and the absurd share a common thread. To the Stoic, what seems ritualistic folly in another practice is simply another way of playing the same game: mastering oneself in the face of what cannot be controlled. It’s not that they believe in the same gods or myths, but they recognize the art in it—the structure that helps the mind hold steady. The Xawat observer would watch us and perhaps wonder if their own silent games were mirrored in the human tendency to light a candle in the dark, to whisper to gods who may or may not listen, and to take comfort in the known rituals while staring into the unknown.

So why do we do these things? Why do we play these games? Perhaps it is because the act itself, the ritual, the repeated motion, is a way of letting our deepest, most guarded thoughts breathe, like a sun burning quietly, fiercely, without needing to explain itself. These rituals, whether deeply Stoic or wildly spiritual, are a way of giving form to our shared struggle with the infinite—a game we play, knowing that the rules may be written in stardust, changed at the whim of forces we cannot see, but played nonetheless because, in the end, the act of playing is what makes us human.

The ritual often took place in a temple or a sacred space, where practitioners would create a sand table, a wooden tray filled with a fine layer of sand. The planchette—a wooden or bamboo stylus, suspended delicately by threads or mounted on a frame—would hover above the sand, poised for movement. Two or more mediums, often specially trained for such ceremonies, would touch or lightly rest their hands on the planchette, and then the invocation would begin. Chants, incantations, and prayers were employed to invite spirits or deities into the space. The planchette, under the guiding touch of the mediums yet seemingly moved by an invisible force, would trace characters or symbols into the sand, leaving behind messages believed to come from the spiritual world.

The characters produced were often cryptic, requiring interpretation by scholars or temple priests. The messages could be personal, revealing insights or warnings for an individual, or they could be broader, offering philosophical teachings or prophecies that resonated with the community. The sand, symbolic of impermanence and the transient nature of life, was a fitting canvas for these ephemeral communications. Once the session concluded, the sand was typically smoothed over, erasing the characters like footprints in the wind, reinforcing the idea that the messages were as fleeting as the breath of spirits.

Unlike the Western conception of spiritualism, which became mainstream during the 19th century, fuji was more than a method to communicate with deceased loved ones. It was intertwined with Taoist cosmology and the pursuit of wisdom from the divine. The spirits that communicated through fuji were not always seen as departed souls; they could be deities, sages, or immortals who resided in the Taoist pantheon. This practice, therefore, was not viewed with the same sense of morbidity or macabre fascination as later Western counterparts but was instead revered as a legitimate form of divine guidance.

Throughout the centuries, fuji evolved, sometimes regarded with reverence and at other times viewed with suspicion. By the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), imperial edicts were issued to control or limit its use, wary of potential abuses or fraudulent claims. Yet, the practice endured, morphing as it threaded its way through different dynasties and social climates, always adapting but never disappearing. It is a testament to the human need to seek counsel beyond what is visible, to question, and to hope that there are forces greater than ourselves willing to guide us.

The parallel between fuji and later Western practices of automatic writing and talking boards, such as the Ouija board, is intriguing, though there is no direct cultural transmission that ties the two traditions together. It seems that across time and space, humanity has shared an innate curiosity and a belief that communication with the unseen is possible through certain physical mediums. The idea that an object—whether a planchette, stylus, or pointer—could act as a bridge between the corporeal and spiritual worlds found life independently across various cultures, evolving within their own religious, social, and psychological frameworks.

The mechanics of fuji speak to a sophisticated blend of religious ritual and psychological phenomena. The movements of the planchette, whether truly influenced by spirits or the subconscious tremors of the participants, provided profound answers, solutions, and, most importantly, a touch of the mystical that many sought. This practice held a mirror to the collective psyche of a society bound by Confucian order yet suffused with Taoist belief in the mysterious, the unseen flows of energy and wisdom in the universe.

In fuji, we see the roots of automatic writing laid bare, practiced not as a fleeting hobby but as a ritual laced with reverence, mystery, and profound cultural significance. The suspended stylus, tracing the unseen will of spirits across sand, stands as a powerful metaphor for our eternal quest to touch the unknowable, a reminder that across civilizations and centuries, we remain seekers at heart, hands lightly resting on the threshold between the worlds.

When Western spiritualism rose to prominence in the 19th century, marked by mediums and séances that drew upon automatic writing and talking boards, it did so without knowledge of the older, more intricate tradition of fuji. Yet, the parallels are striking. The Western planchette, sliding across a board marked with letters and numbers, seeking answers from beyond, echoes the stylus of fuji gliding over sand, tracing divine characters. It is as if humanity’s deep-rooted desire to seek the unseen found resonance, not through direct influence but through a shared archetypal impulse.

Moving westward, we encounter the oracle tradition of Ancient Greece. The Pythia of Delphi, often high on ethylene gas emitted from the cracks in the temple floor, spoke in riddles that were transcribed by priests, capturing divine insight filtered through human interpretation. The key here is not the direct lineage to the Ouija board, but the shared intent: humans seeking to touch the edge of the infinite, to hear voices beyond the grave, to parse the language of what they could not see.

Fast-forward to the 19th century and the backdrop is different but equally rich in emotional and existential yearning. The United States, reeling from the Civil War (1861-1865), was a patchwork of mourning. The death toll—over 600,000 lives—left communities hollowed out and bereft. Amidst this collective grief, spiritualism surged like wildfire. This was not the detached, intellectual pursuit of ancient scholars, but a desperate attempt by ordinary people to hear the voices of their dead. Seances became the rage, driven by a belief system that promised communication with the departed. It was during this surge that the Fox Sisters—Margaretta, Catherine, and Leah—emerged in 1848, claiming they could communicate with spirits through rapping sounds. Their fame and subsequent exposure as frauds didn’t extinguish the fire of spiritualism but fanned its flames, proving that people’s need for connection outweighed their doubt.

As spiritualism matured into a full-blown movement, early experiments with table-turning (or table-tipping) were popular in Europe and America. Participants would place their hands on a table, and it would tilt, rattle, or rotate under what was believed to be the influence of spirits. This idea of a physical object moving autonomously under unseen guidance laid the groundwork for more sophisticated methods.

Enter Elijah Bond, a lawyer and inventor with a knack for novelty. In 1890, Bond patented the first version of what would become the Ouija board. But he was not a spiritualist looking to bridge the chasm between worlds; he was an opportunist who saw a lucrative market emerging. The board was simple: a flat surface inscribed with the alphabet, numbers, and basic words such as “Yes” and “No,” accompanied by a heart-shaped planchette. The true intrigue was not in the design but in the mythos that surrounded it—stories whispered of it moving on its own, spelling out prophecies and answers, a conduit between the mortal and the spectral.p

Charles Kennard, another entrepreneur with sharp instincts, joined forces with Bond to market this mysterious device under the Kennard Novelty Company. They named it “Ouija,” and folklore says the name came from the board itself during a session, allegedly confirming that it meant “good luck.” However, skeptics argue that Helen Peters, Bond’s sister-in-law and a participant in these sessions, likely had a locket containing the image of a woman named “Ouija,” possibly linked to the popular novelist Ouida. Whether by fate or marketing genius, the name stuck.

The board’s journey took another pivotal turn with the entrance of William Fuld, who worked for Kennard before taking over the production and distribution of the Ouija board under his own name. Fuld’s flair for the dramatic added layers to the board’s mystique. He claimed, without irony, to be the true inventor and wove stories of its supernatural guidance into his marketing. It was under his leadership that the board reached unprecedented popularity. His death in 1927, from a fall off his factory roof—an accident with macabre overtones that only fueled the board’s legend—solidified its lore as an artifact with dark ties.

The Ouija board’s transition from a Victorian parlor game to a mid-century family staple can’t be discussed without Parker Brothers, which purchased the rights in 1966. The cultural landscape had changed; gone were the starched dresses and gaslit rooms, replaced by post-war suburbs and mass-marketed leisure. The Ouija board, stripped of its velvet-draped mystique, became a game. Yet, even with its new life as a toy, it couldn’t shake the shadow it cast. The 1973 release of The Exorcist brought a new, chilling interpretation that indelibly linked it to demonic possession in the public imagination. The board’s planchette, now moving across cardboard printed in cheerful fonts, still carried an ancient weight, as if the ghosts of Taoist monks, Greek oracles, and 19th-century mourners whispered through its motion.

Today, under Hasbro’s ownership, it sits paradoxically as a mass-produced product of plastic and cardboard, as available as any board game, yet draped in stories that refuse to be fully demystified. It’s an icon not just because it exists, but because of the layers of intent, desperation, and wonder that created it—each hand that touched it, each mind that believed, and each whisper that followed. It is a totem to the human desire to reach beyond, not only for answers but for the question that comes after: What if?

Its history is a confluence of mystics and marketers, grief-stricken souls and opportunistic hands, planchettes moving under forces unexplained, and minds willing to let them. The Ouija board didn’t derive from a single point but from a multitude of voices, all speaking at once, across continents and centuries, each one asking the eternal question that still makes fingers hover over it: Who’s there?

Language itself is a mirror to the way we see life: the hope for perfection tempered by the knowledge that even the finest plans can unravel in the smallest, most overlooked places.

The transition from “God is in the detail” to “the devil is in the details” is an allegory for how we balance admiration for precision with the underlying anxiety that complexity can turn on us. It’s a dance between reverence and skepticism, a reminder that life’s beauty and pitfalls both lie in the same intricate spaces. It’s as if the phrase has been bound to our understanding of reality, teaching us that the very things we cherish for their depth can also conceal the trickster’s hand.

The ironic part is how boundless the journey of this saying is. It evolved, adapted, and seeped into our vernacular without a clear point of origin, as if the devil himself really did hide in the details, making us chase down origins that slip away just as we think we’ve caught them. It’s a nod to our quest for understanding, full of twists and irony, bound to us by the inherent humor and gravity of life. In a way, it seems the phrase chose us, growing out of the human experience as naturally as the stories that teach us to look deeper—and to laugh when the truth remains elusive.

devil in the details—the pursuit of knowledge and power that ultimately leads to downfall—and how these have manifested in real-life systems, especially in the context of education, psychology, and societal practices. Faustian Bargain of Expertise

The phrase “the devil is in the details” has murky origins, with no definitive answer to who first coined it. It is believed to have evolved from the earlier expression “God is in the detail,” which emphasizes the importance of attention to detail in any endeavor. This earlier version is often attributed to German-born architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1886–1969), known for his minimalist design and attention to fine detail, though there is no solid evidence he originated it. The shift from “God” to “the devil” likely occurred over time as a way to convey a more cautionary message—that seemingly insignificant details can carry hidden pitfalls or complexities that lead to larger issues.

The phrase “the devil is in the details” became more commonly used in the 20th century and has been associated with the idea that the most significant problems or challenges often lie hidden within the small and overlooked aspects of a project or plan. The expression implies that while an overall plan or idea may appear straightforward, the complexity and potential for failure often lie in the finer points. This shift from “God” to “the devil” in the saying adds an ironic twist, hmmmmuhmmm highlighting the potential for trouble where precision and thoroughness are lacking.

The idea of a Faustian bargain—where knowledge and power are gained at the expense of something fundamental—perfectly captures the danger of expert systems that prioritize data and control over understanding and empathy. In education and psychology, this can manifest as institutions trading genuine connection and individualized care for streamlined, “efficient” protocols. These protocols often leave those who fall outside their narrow definitions isolated or misrepresented.

For example, the rise of facilitated communication in the late 20th century initially seemed like a breakthrough for non-verbal individuals, promising unprecedented access to self-expression. But as more evidence emerged, it became clear that many cases were being influenced by facilitators, raising significant ethical concerns. This was a classic Faustian scenario: experts and institutions gained the illusion of progress and control over a complex problem, but at the cost of authenticity and the real voices of those they aimed to help. The devil’s detail here? The assumption that a solution could be universal without the flexibility for individual variability led to a system that ended up betraying the very people it was meant to serve.

The Allure of Control and the Price of Rigidity

In psychology, the development of behaviorist approaches like those popularized by B.F. Skinner promised complete behavioral control and predictability. Early adopters saw behaviorism as a way to solve complex social and educational problems by reducing behavior to stimulus and response—a simplification that Faust would have approved of for its clear, quantifiable power. However, this mechanistic view ignored the nuanced and unpredictable nature of human beings. The “hell” in this Faustian pursuit was that it left behind emotional, cognitive, and contextual richness, stripping individuals of their complexity for the sake of control. The unintended consequence? A field that had to be later reformed and expanded by cognitive psychologists and humanists who sought to reclaim the emotional and psychological layers that behaviorism had overlooked. Drive for Innovation and Ethical Cost In medicine, particularly in mental health and neurological treatment, there have been Faustian moments where the drive for innovation overshadowed ethical considerations. The early 20th century’s fascination with lobotomies as a treatment for severe mental illnesses is one such example. Initially hailed as a miracle procedure that could “cure” patients, lobotomies quickly revealed their dark side. The pursuit of this treatment—backed by data, performed in prestigious hospitals, and led by influential figures like Dr. Walter Freeman—was driven by the desire for power over complex human conditions. The devil’s price? Countless individuals were rendered emotionally and cognitively diminished, victims of a system that prioritized the facade of medical progress over the sanctity of human dignity.

The Seduction of Simplified Solutions In educational and autism support systems, the search for streamlined, one-size-fits-all solutions can become its own Faustian pact. Consider early approaches to teaching non-verbal communication, which sometimes involved rigid, highly structured methods that failed to adapt to individual needs. The promise of these methods was enticing: uniformity, predictability, and the illusion of mastery over a deeply nuanced issue. However, the devilish detail is that these approaches often left behind those who didn’t fit the mold, reinforcing isolation and misunderstanding. The knowledge gained by researchers and educators was a simulacrum, a semblance of progress that glossed over the voices and experiences of real people.

The Consequences of Technological Faith In more recent times, the rise of technology as a tool for communication in autism support has brought its own Faustian elements. Assistive communication devices and AI-driven tools offer incredible potential for non-verbal individuals, but their widespread adoption sometimes overlooks the deeper issues of accessibility, personalization, and ethical use. There’s an implicit pact where institutions rely heavily on these technological solutions as a panacea, potentially neglecting the human side of learning, adaptation, and individualization. The risk here is in believing too much in the tool and too little in the human it’s meant to serve.

The Real Cost of Expertise; In all these examples, the common thread is a pursuit of knowledge and control that overshadows the nuance and variability of real human experience. The “real evils” in these Faustian endeavors come from the certainty that systems know what is best, isolated from the messiness of human life. This certainty, this hubris, leads to the ultimate downfall—methods that break down, practices that are later condemned, and people who remain unheard.

It’s the difference between knowledge that serves and knowledge that seeks to dominate. The latter, like Faust’s pact, often brings progress at a price that only becomes clear when it’s too late: when the people it was meant to help are left isolated, their realities misunderstood and their potential overlooked. The devil’s details are always there, hiding in the assumptions we don’t question and the human stories we choose not to hear.