What is a game?

Seems like a simple question, right? But when you really sit down and think about it – what’s the answer? Is there a universal definition? Or is it more a case of knowing it when you see it? And furthermore, there’s an even more fundamental query – why is a game?

It’s that last inquiry that seems to be at the center of Oliver Roeder’s new book “Seven Games: A Human History” (W.W. Norton & Company, $26.95). It’s an exploration of, well, seven games – checkers, backgammon, chess, Go, poker, Scrabble and bridge – and our connection to them.

With each entry, Roeder offers us a look at the game’s origins – its place of birth, its precursors, its evolution – as well as introducing us to a formidable practitioner. And perhaps most fascinating, he also takes us into the realm of artificial intelligence as we meet the people who have devoted their lives to teaching machines to play these games.

It’s a fascinating treatise on the importance of games and how they influence the people who play them, as well as a wonderful glimpse at some of the eccentric and idiosyncratic folks who have devoted their lives to achieving a kind of granular greatness. To Roeder and the people to whom he speaks, games are far more than mere entertainment – they are an opportunity to better understand the world, both around us and within us.

Coming across an unexpectedly good movie is a lovely treat. The blockbusters tend to take up most of the oxygen, making it a little tougher to discover smaller, more idiosyncratic films. One of the many joys of my job is that the gig makes it just that much easier to find the less obvious gems.

“Sometimes Always Never” is no one’s idea of a blockbuster. It’s an intimate, offbeat family dramedy, the feature directorial debut of Carl Hunter, who might be best known as a member of Liverpool pop band The Farm (say what you will, but “Groovy Train” remains a bop), with a script by noted British screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce. It is smart and sweet and incredibly stylish, a mélange of retro aesthetics and family dynamics.

Again, this is not a big movie. Instead, it is constructed of intimate moments, relying on vivid visual choices and heartfelt performances to tell a simple, delicate story of what it means to love and the myriad ways in which we try to move on from loss. It is a clever and quietly, quirkily moving piece of cinema.