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

I used to think gaming was a distraction—until I realized it was the only place where my loneliness spoke back.

In this digital arena, every click is a whisper. Every spin of the wheel doesn’t just generate random outcomes—it replays fragments of our unspoken grief. I grew up in a loft above Manhattan, raised by two cultures: one humming桑巴 beats at midnight, the other whispering Irish lullabies through winter windows. My mother taught me that joy isn’t won—it’s remembered.

The industry calls it ‘RTP’—Return to Player—but what if it’s really Return to Person? When you see your name in the algorithm’s log, do you feel seen? Or are you just another data point in someone else’s feed?

I once spent 47 minutes watching a斗鸡 game on a Tuesday night—not because I believed I could win—but because I needed to hear myself breathe again. The screen flickered. The music faded. And for three seconds, I forgot my own name.

This is not gambling. It’s grief encoded as gameplay.

We’ve been sold a myth: that immersion means escape. But true immersion is when the algorithm pauses—just long enough—to let you remember who you were before the login.

I design systems now not to keep users hooked—but to help them unhook from themselves.

The next time you click ‘Spin,’ ask yourself: Who are you when no one is watching?

And if no one answers? Then perhaps—the silence becomes currency.