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

I used to think gaming was escape.

Now I know it’s surveillance.

In the neon glow of midnight lobbies, players tap screens like prayers—each click a tiny ritual, each loss a whispered confession. They call it ‘fun.’ But I hear something else: the rhythm of their silence. The algorithm doesn’t care if you win. It only records your frequency.

I grew up between two cultures: my mother’s桑巴 drums echoing through Florida summers, my father’s Irish stillness humming in Brooklyn winters. We never had money—but we had meaning.

They sell ‘RTP’ like salvation.

96% return? A myth woven from data. Real players don’t play for payouts—they play because they’re afraid to be alone. The system doesn’t reward courage; it rewards compliance. And when you lose? It doesn’t vanish—it waits.

Last week, a 21-year-old student wrote in our forum: ‘I clicked for three hours… and felt nothing.’

That’s when I knew: this isn’t a game.

It’s an archive of grief coded into interfaces we mistake for joy.

We are not users—we are witnesses.

The platform offers ‘responsible gaming’ like therapy with no therapist.

So I built something quieter: A coffee cup labeled ‘清醒’—not for sale, but for remembrance.

Your next click won’t change your fortune. But it might let you remember—you were never alone.