“In 650 words or less, convince me not to push your application off my desk.”

Go ahead. Stare at your blinking cursor, begging it to reveal to you the wonders of your own personality. You’re interesting enough - a good group of friends, that club you drag yourself to on Wednesdays, that SAT tutor who smells like mildew and always pronounces your last name wrong. You’re working with solid grades across the board (except for Mr. Turner’s class, but we all know he had it out for you). You didn’t even go out last Saturday! There’s no reason every school shouldn’t be happy to accept you into their hallowed halls, introduce you to their esteemed professors, and fatten you up in their cafeteria that serves what is quite nearly food. The only question is: are you better than the 40,000 other kids staring at their blank Word documents?

The college admission process is, at its core, a reductive game of chance. For all your late night study sessions and morning coffees, you’re rewarded with what amounts to little more than a form. Grades? Check. Standardized tests? Check. Letter of recommendation? Check. Compelling reason why you should actually be admitted? Uh, let me get back to you.

The progressive college boasts about it holistic application process: a chance for students to give interviewers a look into their true selves. Striving to expand the scope of applications beyond simple statistics is the right move - there’s no question. The modern Common Application gives students room to discuss their activities and leaves them with an open essay that allows them to explore themselves. These parts of a college application that can’t be summarized by a three digit score are valuable opportunities for students to turn themselves into more than a sheet of paper. A vivid story about the game winning touchdown is more than a canned answer to another dry prompt - it’s a meditation on the person that we’ve become through both strife and success. It’s a window into the soul of a growing mind, bustling with curiosity and insecurity. It’s an epic soliloquy full of the moments that make us the people who we are. To the college, though? You guessed it. A single digit score. That woman you helped cross the street who taught you that serving others is your true calling? Yea… that was a six. Bad grammar.

Faced with a flood of applicants, colleges are left with few options. As much as we may like every admission officer to spend days digging through our submissions to find the essence of who we are, it’s not a possibility. Efficiency dictates that after a thorough once-over, we are reduced to a set of values. At best, our application sits in the ‘good’ pile. At worst, we meet our doom in the trash can.

As students, we are forced to respond in kind. With GPAs and SATs set in stone, just how many high scores can we earn by showcasing our extracurriculars? Herein lies the trap of college admissions. Let’s take a look at Johnny Hardworker, high school student extraordinaire. Johnny spent his last summer beekeeping, a decidedly strange passion that he fell inexplicably in love with. Mr. Hardworker, true to his name, chooses to set up a beekeeping club at school: Honey Helpers. After a successful year of avoiding being stung, Johnny is faced with a tough choice. If he sticks to his club, he won’t have time for much else. The buzzing bees, his one true love, might have to fall by the wayside if he wants to secure that Vice President position this semester. With admission season looming, Johnny resigns from the Honey Helpers in order to build out his resume. He must participate in the game of college admission. His bees will never know his tender touch again.

The admission process is a game of breadth, not depth. When every other applicant seems to hold more positions than imaginable, it simply isn’t enough to find a passion and chase it. The successful applicant is President of chess club, editor of the school paper, and varsity track star. At a time when we ought to be chasing our ridiculous dreams, we are instead spread thin by the shadow of admission. Diving deeply into our passions is a death sentence - a grim guarantee that we won’t be able to find out all ten spots in the “Activities” section.

And so, we comply. We dutifully chase the accolades, praying that they may us seem like the person that we wish we were. By the end, we have put together a package ready to be ripped apart by a waiting admissions officer. We click send. They click open. They grade. They choose. Without ever knowing who we truly are, they reduce us to numbers and decide our fate.

This isn’t a call to action. There will be no march on Washington to protest the idiosyncratic game of college admissions. This is an acknowledgment of fact. When colleges are presented with a sea of applicants, they must simplify. When we must stand out from the crowd, we have to try to present the perfect applicant. Admission season is a game, and little more. A game complete with winners and losers. A game that makes us a momentary blip on the radar of our dream school.

Don’t forget that fact. Don’t forget that you’re a part of a game being played by hordes of 18-year-olds, only so many years removed from being scared of the dark. Games are played for fun. This one… not so much. But all the same, this game goes back in the box when you’re done playing. After you’ve been tossed around by colleges and reduced to a score sheet in an office you’ll never see, it ends. Don’t check the scorecard. Don’t berate yourself for making the wrong move. Look back and laugh at the silliness you just went through. Realize you studied for the SAT for 100 hours, but you can’t even recall what SAT even stands for. Remember the time you fell out of your seat in class. Forget your GPA. The game is over, and so should be the endless chase for hollow achievement. Go back to the bees. They miss you.