I met one of my best friends in person for the first time in 5 years. I flew to the country where he was living just to meet him. That first evening, he introduced me to a large group of his friends in his apartment. After he hyped up my card skills, they asked me to perform. I went straight into the ambitious card routine.

The reactions were great, but something in me felt ashamed. My friend was also watching me perform in person for the first time in 5 years. I felt I was boring him, or disappointing him by doing the ACR yet again. He didn’t act bored or disappointed, but I couldn’t help but think: In the time he hadn’t seen me, I was supposedly learning, practicing and studying magic. “My 5 years of development still left me performing the ACR?” I thought. “In all that time with all that new magic I learned, shouldn’t I have learned something even more incredible than a simple ACR by now?”

After some reflection, I realized that I wasn’t performing primarily for my best friend or for myself. I was performing for his friends, who had great expectations of me after my introduction. I chose the ACR not because I loved it or thought it was novel, but because it’s something I’ve practiced since I started card magic. I was beyond confident in my routine and knew I could deliver a strong experience of magic. So where was that feeling of shame coming from? Whose expectations did I feel like I was failing to meet? My own? My fellow magicians?

I had unconsciously decided at that moment to perform what I felt would most benefit the audience without regard to my ego or interest. It was only once I had begun that I let those other intrusive thoughts begin to judge my decision. Was I the only one feeling that disappointment in my performance then? Should I just ignore that inner voice and prioritize my audience above all else? Rather than drown in my own introspection, I needed an outside take.

After the social gathering, my friend and I revived an old tradition. We walked to a park to sit on a bench in the dead of night and chat. When the subject of magic eventually came around, I floated my doubts. I asked him what he thought of my performance, whether he thought it was dull or boring. He looked a little surprised. “What are you talking about man, it was awesome! Did you see the way they were freaking out? They couldn’t stop talking about it after.” In other words, what he had wanted most out of my performance were smiles on his friends’ faces. Once I understood that perspective, I decided to try to adopt his outside view approach and apply it to myself.

When I most enjoyed performing the routine, it was because I was living vicariously through my audience. While I was going through the motions of a routine I had practiced and performed thousands of times, they were seeing it unfold for the first time. What was mundane for me was fresh and new to them. I wanted the effect to have the same impact it had on me when I first saw it. I wasn’t sacrificing my growth as a magician if I could grow and improve while maintaining that perspective.

In a way, this requires a certain amount of doublethink. How can I be surprised and awed by something I already know by heart? If the definition of insanity (to paraphrase Rita Mae Brown) is doing something over and over and expecting different results, then surely rewiring my expectations in the moment would require me to be insane. On the other hand, Teller once said, “Sometimes, magic is just someone spending more time on something than anyone else might reasonably expect.” Wouldn’t performing something you’ve done tens of thousands of times as if it was brand new to you be deceptive? Wouldn’t that be “unexpected” in and of itself?

To get access to the type of deception Teller is describing, you have to question those humdrum notions you have over mastered effects. Imagine someone finding out exactly how much work you’ve put in as you point out every little sleight you’ve mastered and all the subtle tweaks you’ve added, the small adjustments you’ve made and the stories of the past experiences that justified those changes. Imagine how incredible it would be for that someone to find out that so much had gone into something that looked so straightforward. Then imagine that you are that someone. How could you be disappointed in something so carefully and thoughtfully crafted?

Lock in that mindset when you perform. Know that your audience will appreciate the result much more if you continue to work on effects than if you always move on to the next new thing. Effects for your audience and effects that interest you don’t have to be mutually exclusive. You don’t have to sacrifice doing effects or routines you love for other choices in favor of your audience. There can be a “best of both worlds.” All you have to do is maintain a perspective that keeps you as interested in what you do best as your audience is.