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

I used to think games were just noise—bright flashes of dopamine disguised as joy. But sitting alone in my Manhattan loft, listening to the hum of servers at 2 a.m., I realized something deeper: every click is a heartbeat recorded by an algorithm that doesn’t know you’re lonely.

We call it ‘luck’ when the system rewards you with bonus spins and dynamic odds. But what if those odds aren’t random? What if they’re designed to mirror your anxiety—the same one you feel when no one answers your text? I’ve seen players stay up all night chasing wins because they’re afraid to be still.

My mother’s Samba rhythms taught me that rhythm isn’t luck—it’s resilience. My father’s Irish silence taught me that stillness isn’t emptiness—it’s space. In ReFGB’s ethical framework, we don’t optimize engagement—we optimize presence. The RTP isn’t a statistic; it’s a mirror.

The most dangerous game isn’t high volatility—it’s the quiet one where the screen never blinks, and you keep clicking because you forgot what it felt like to be understood. I’ve interviewed teens who say: ‘I play so I don’t have to speak.’

So here’s my counter-offer: stop betting on outcomes. Start auditing your inner RNG—your real-time noise generator. Pause after three minutes. Breathe before you click again.

This isn’t about winning. It’s about remembering you’re still here.