I'm not addicted to games—I'm rewriting human emotion in code

I used to think gaming was a way out—until I realized it was a mirror.

Every spin of the chicken, every flashing bet, every carnival rhythm in that algorithmic arena—they weren’t entertainment. They were echoes of my grandmother’s voice humming under fluorescent screens in a Manhattan loft, where she whispered: ‘You don’t win by luck. You survive by stillness.’

I studied RTP like a lullaby—not as a statistic, but as an elegy for loneliness. The system doesn’t care if you win. It cares if you stop.

I’ve watched young players scroll through nights with headphones on, eyes glazed from their own reflection in the glow of virtual feeds. They didn’t play games—they tried to be heard.

We call it ‘luck’ when it’s really just noise dressed as meaning.

The algorithms don’t read your heart—they read your absence.

I built this not to sell escapism—but to map the ache beneath each click.

Let me be clear: you’re not addicted to games. You’re grieving what you never got to say out loud.

Come sit with me at midnight. Click once—and then breathe.