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

I used to think the machines were listening—until I realized they were reading me.

Every click, every spin, every flashing reward—it wasn’t luck. It was conditioning. The algorithms didn’t care if I won or lost. They only measured my hesitation, my silence, my rhythm.

I grew up in a loft above Manhattan, raised by parents who spoke Spanish lullaby and Irish lullaby—two cultures that never merged but taught me this: we don’t play games to win. We play them to remember who we were before the screen.

The ‘lucky key’ they sold? It’s not a casino. It’s a mirror.

In Brazil’s Carnival, they dress chickens in gold feathers and call it ‘victory.’ But here—in this algorithmic arena—the real prize isn’t money. It’s the moment you pause.

I’ve watched players sit for hours—some chasing RTP like saints chasing grace. Others scroll through feedback loops like ghosts haunting their own reflections.

We are not users. We are echoes.

When you feel trapped by the feed—when your last bet feels like an echo of your mother’s voice—it’s not addiction.

It’s grief encoded in pixels.

And maybe… that’s why we’re still here.

Join me tonight—not to win—but to whisper: What did you lose when no one was watching?