Move all disks from the left tower to the right tower. Only one disk can be moved at a time, and larger disks cannot be placed on smaller ones.
You move the small disk. Then the medium one. Then the small one again. Suddenly, you realize you're just undoing your last three moves. It’s not deja vu; it’s just you fighting your own short-term memory.
3 disks? Child's play. 4 disks? Manageable. 5 disks? Okay, now we're sweating. It grows exponentially, literally. Adding one disk doubles the work. It’s the only game where "just one more thing" actually means "twice as much pain."
Most things in life go forward. This game asks you to think: "To move the big one, I need to move the medium one. To move the medium one, I need to move the small one." It’s like trying to untie a knot by pulling the strings in reverse order.
When you realize you put the biggest disk on the wrong peg, the urge to refresh the page is strong. Don't do it. Fixing your mess is half the fun (or at least that's what we tell ourselves to feel better).
Legend has it there are monks somewhere moving 64 golden disks. When they finish, the world ends. Don't worry, though—even if they move one disk per second without sleeping, it would take them 585 billion years. So, take your time. No rush.
You can't cheat the math. The minimum moves is always 2 to the power of N, minus 1. For 3 disks, that's 7 moves. For 64 disks? It's a number with 20 digits. This game is basically a lesson in "exponential growth is terrifying."