Are You Really Playing — Or Just Escaping Into Digital Myth?

I used to think the glow of digital arenas was pure spectacle—until I noticed my own reflection in the midnight scroll. Every click wasn’t a bet; it was a breath held too long, a silent plea to feel something real.

The myth wasn’t Zeus’s thunder—it was my father’s code humming in the background, my mother’s Hong Kong silence woven into every RNG-generated outcome. We were told these games were fair. But fairness doesn’t heal loneliness.

I once played daily—not for rewards, but because the rhythm of low stakes felt like Athena’s harp in an empty apartment. The win rate? 90%. The cost? $10 per spin. The reward? A ghost that looked like starlight.

You don’t need more bets. You need to ask: Who are you when no one is watching?

The ‘chicken’ isn’t a game. It’s the echo of your own solitude made visible through pixels. When you choose ‘high risk’, you’re not chasing glory—you’re tracing the shape of your grief through code.

I now design systems that don’t optimize play—but restore presence. Not with algorithms that manipulate emotion—but with interfaces that listen.

If you’ve scrolled past midnight again, pause. Look up at the sky. There’s still a black cat named Void beside me—and he remembers every click too.

What are you running from? And what will you become when the lights go out?