The cunning of benjuka lies in the absence of a fixed framework. Rather than providing an immutable ground, the rules of benjuka are yet another move within the game, yet another piece to be played. This makes benjuka the very image of life, a game of baffling complexities and near poetic subtleties.
The complexities of benjuka are such that a player can never intellectually master the plate and so force another to yield. Benjuka is like love. One can never force another to love. The more one graspes for it, the more elusives it became. Benjuka punishes a grasping heart. Where other games require industrious cunning, benjuka demands something more. Wisdom, perhaps.