Let’s face it: Gambling is an underpinning of the structure of golf. You gamble with the clubs you choose, you gamble on the outcome of your play and afterward, if you’re close enough to a casino, you just plain gamble. On the course, weighing a measure of risk (3-wood over a lake) against a truckload of reward (potential eagle putt) is part and parcel of every round. Every club has at least one foursome known as “the money guys,” the ones who play numerous bets for absurd amounts of cash.

And while purists may object, golf could be argued as the last refuge of the honorable bet. Consider the weekly two-ball with drinks on the line, the $10 skins game in the failing light of an autumn afternoon, even the guys who play for pennies. Gambling pushes and pulls many golfers through their rounds, to the clubhouse and beyond.

Is that why these days, in the great landscape of American culture and commerce, an exceptional golf course is de rigueur for new gaming destinations from California to Connecticut? What is it about the storied game of golf and the legendary earning power of casinos that make such a powerful alliance? The answer lies in the similarities between this sport and these games, in the irrepressible human need to gather and in the thrill that always accompanies risk.

Golf and gambling are at some level activities that take up the middle ground between sport and game. They ask for some element of costume, for a decision to commit time, energy and money.

They also require travel. Seen from above, it must look like a sort of migration—by car, plane, bus—headed in their inevitable formations to the course and to the adjacent casino. We’re talking about journeys, and upon arriving, you want to stay. Both gambling and golf favor those who dwell in their events.

Consider then the golfer, surrounded by a foursome yet isolating himself, undertaking his game with the knowledge provided by myriad books, magazines and self-help guides. The gambler does the same, taking a seat in a casino ringed in by friends, but solely focusing hard on what he knows from studying “the book,” along with various tipsters and know-it-alls.

In golf, the isolation is physical—the distance between tee and flag, between the players. With gambling, the isolation is more in the mind. Sitting in a casino in the heart of the Las Vegas Strip, you aren’t alone by any means, but you certainly are far away.

So people travel, isolate themselves and set themselves in competition against the house. But they also gather. Between the periods of isolation, golf and gambling are notoriously social events. A craps game is a talker’s paradise, as is a foursome of college buddies.

Sure, as there is always the singleton clip-clopping along the fairway, there are those solo gamblers who sit quietly, trying to master on their own the subtleties of letting it ride.