Solitaire 3-2-1 Father's Edition

It took me a considerable amount of time to realize that this "3-2-1" rule was not "normal."

To tell the truth, I knew the rules of that game, but I didn't know its name. When I first saw that screen on Windows, I immediately understood, "Oh, it's that card game we always play!" while simultaneously feeling like it had finally been given a name: "Wow, so that was called Solitaire."

I don't even remember when I learned that the game's actual name was "Klondike," or what I thought at the time. However, with my current sensibilities, the name "Klondike" doesn't ring a bell at all; to me, that game will always be "Solitaire."

And when I saw the Windows version continuously drawing "3 cards, 3 cards" no matter how many times I flipped, I thought:

"Huh? What a strange rule."

At the time, it didn't even cross my mind that my way was the "different" one. To me, "3-2-1" was the absolute official rule, and I naturally assumed that Windows had adopted some obscure special variant.

Windows Solitaire didn't evoke much emotion beyond nostalgia, and since there were plenty of other games, I didn't pursue it deeply and just played casually.

However, later on, whenever I touched browser versions or app collections of card games, I slowly began to feel that "drawing 3" was the mainstream in the world. Around that time, I finally arrived at a hypothesis:

"...Could it be that my way was the local rule?"

Still, my trust in this rule didn't waver. If a proper company released a game, they would surely follow the official rules. But this, I believed, was a "major local rule that everyone plays, even if it's not official."

Time passed, and it was only recently that I started investigating it seriously. After creating a few games using the trending "vibe coding," I remembered this Solitaire rule when thinking about what to make next. Since it's a major local rule, someone might have already made it. I didn't want to just create a carbon copy, so I started searching for existing examples.

To my surprise, whether I asked ChatGPT or other generative AIs, they all dismissed it, saying, "Such a rule does not exist." I scoured various Klondike strategy sites, but the local rules that came up were things like "unlimited recycling of the stock" or "placing cards other than Kings in empty columns." I couldn't find a highly game-like rule such as "3-2-1" anywhere.

However, while the AIs stated the rule itself didn't exist, they unanimously praised it: "That is a very interesting and logical rule." Those words gave me a strong push. No one is doing it, but it's a good rule. That makes it all the more worth creating—I gained confidence.

"...But what on earth was that rule?"

I was struck by an inexplicable feeling, but at the same time, the conviction that "no one else is making this" turned into a solid confidence. In that case, there is a meaning in me making it. I typed the prompt without hesitation:

"Gemini, create a Solitaire game where the hand changes from 3 cards, to 2 cards, to 1 card."

This was the beginning of this project.

"Do this here, do that there."

As I gave detailed instructions to the AI while recalling the physical feeling of playing the game, my father's image gradually began to cross my mind. The rhythm left in my fingertips, the sensation of flipping the cards. The more I put them into words, the more a vague thought surfaced: maybe this rule was something my father came up with himself.

Therefore, I decided to give this game the subtitle "Father's Edition."

While talking to Gemini about my father, recounting various anecdotes, I suddenly remembered. There should be an old playing card rulebook back at my parents' house.

I had given it the grand title "Father's Edition," but what if this rule was actually written in that book as a matter of course?

Looking back, I remember playing competitive games like Poker, Speed, Sevens, and Old Maid with friends, but I have no memory of ever discussing Solitaire with anyone. I knew the rules only because my father played it almost every day, but I didn't even know its name. That's probably because Solitaire was not yet a mainstream game in the world at that time.

That's why, just as the name "Solitaire" became established by the Windows version even though its real name is "Klondike," perhaps "3-2-1" was originally the official rule, but it was simply overwritten by "fixed 3 cards" as the global standard due to the explosive spread of Windows.

Maybe the old book would list this as the correct rule. With such faint hopes, I dug out the old book sleeping at home. Even at this stage, I still believed that "3-2-1" was the official rule.

However, the first thing that jumped to my eyes when I opened the book was a casual cross-out mark, and my father's handwriting next to it saying, "Then 2 cards, then 1 card."

Thinking it couldn't be, I read on, and sure enough. The book's explanation read, "If you still cannot finish after playing all the cards from your hand, turn the waste pile back into the stock and draw 3 cards at a time again." My father had forcefully crossed out the "again 3 cards" part and added his own correct answer.

My father was stubborn; he was the kind of person who would never yield if he believed he was right. He also had the meticulousness to draw a line and write in a correction whenever he found a typo in a book.

It differed from the rule he knew, so he corrected this book, believing it to be wrong. Come to think of it, I am doing exactly the same thing right now.

I am desperately searching for proof that the world's standard rule is a "mistake" and that the rule I know is the "correct answer." My father, who wrote in the rulebook, must have felt the same way I do now. Thinking about this fills me with an indescribable sense of deep emotion.

I flipped through the pages wondering if there were any other corrected pages, but no matter how much I searched, the Klondike page was the only one my father had taken a pen to.

When I reached the very last page, I found his signature.

"1978.1.13. Friday,"
"Tanaka-machi, Toyama City **"
"Makoto Ono"

The date and address carefully written in my father's handwriting, along with his signature.

For the second stroke of the character "大" (O), after writing it once, perhaps he didn't like it, he extended it smoothly for about two lines over the original stroke. Matching this, the sweeping strokes of "野" (no) and "誠" (Makoto) were also slightly elongated, and the word "Friday" was written in flowing cursive.

That meticulousness and slight "showiness" was exactly the father I knew.

As I looked at that handwriting, a thought occurred to me. Perhaps my father correcting the book was a kind of pride. "My rule is more fun." He must have had that conviction.

Come to think of it, I am now turning this rule that cannot be found anywhere into a game and broadcasting it to the world. "Look, isn't this rule fun?" The only difference is whether he wrote it in a book or I released it on the internet; I might be doing the exact same thing as my father.

In the end, the origin of this rule remains unknown.

Perhaps it was passed down from an even older generation, from my grandfather.

My grandfather once played cards with American soldiers during the war, and he taught our family the Rummy he learned then. I vaguely remember him bragging, "I was strong back then."

However, I cannot say for sure whether this rule was passed from my grandfather to my father. By the time I was old enough to understand, they were already estranged, and I couldn't even imagine them happily playing cards together.

My father was deaf, but my grandfather could not use sign language at all. This is just my imagination, but perhaps my grandfather forcing my father to lip-read and speak was his own clumsy parental love, hoping his deaf son wouldn't struggle in society when he grew up. He must have been desperately worried about my father's future. That's how I think of it now.

But from my father's perspective at the time, my grandfather might have seemed like "someone who wouldn't learn sign language for me." Such misunderstandings must have created a deep rift between them. My sister and I naturally grew attached to our grandparents, who could hear our voices, but that, too, might have been complicated for my father.

My father playing Solitaire alone late into the night might have been a quiet habit and a means of escape he found while living with a strict grandfather with whom he couldn't share a common language.

Did he learn it from someone, or did he come up with it himself? A rule that starts with "draw 3" (difficult), steps down to "draw 2," and ends with "draw 1" (easy).

The wall of "luck" when drawing 3 is finally overcome by giving every card a chance when drawing 1.

Easier than drawing 3, but more challenging than drawing 1.

This exquisite balance feels very much like an invention of my father, who loved games.

This light, which might have stopped passing from father to son, has now been reignited in the new form of a program. Even if it exists in no official records, this rule was certainly breathing on the other side of our family's playing cards.

This game is filled with such family memories and the small pride of two men who believed, "This is right." I sincerely hope you all enjoy this rule that my father loved so much.