You can be the best in the world at something.
You just have to pick something that no one else does.
For example, I am undoubtedly the undisputed global master of the 327-word essay.
I say this with a confidence that comes not only from having written hundreds of them, but also from knowing that nobody else on the planet has intentionally penned more the one.
I didn’t set out to achieve international supremacy in this way; it just sort of happened. Back in the mid01980s, I had a fanzine called 327 Words: A Publication by and For People Born on March 27. In keeping with my theme, I tried limiting articles to 327 words, a size that enabled me to keep printing costs manageable.
When the internet tubes opened up a few years later, and allowed me to spew text much more freely without any financial implications, I decided to stick to my original format, and lo and behold, the 327-word essay became enshrined as a form for the ages, enabling me to ascend to the heights of literary excellence simply by engaging in a practice of no real interest to anyone besides me.
I therefore recommend this approach to all those out there who’d like to be known as the world’s finest in their chosen field; the key, of course, is to narrow the field as much as possible.
You’d be hard-pressed, for example, to be the world’s best violinist; there’s just way too much competition. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to be the best two-stringed turtle-shell kazoo player alive, assuming, as I am, there you’ll find nary a one out there—at least as of this writing.
I suppose some might say that this a kind of a cheat, but I say it’s all how you look at things. After all, even if you’re, say, the ten-millionth best tennis player alive, you’re still the number one world’s best ten-millionth tennis player out there.