When I Deleted My Game Save

I deleted my game save last Tuesday at 2:17 a.m.—not out of frustration, but because I realized it was the only thing left that felt real.

I grew up in a New York apartment, son of an engineer and a teacher—raised on Confucian silence and Brooklyn’s electric night rhythms. My parents believed in discipline; I learned to find meaning in algorithms.

The First Bet Wasn’t Luck

I used to chase wins like a dancer at Rio’s Carnival—but here, in my dim screen, each load was just another echo. The payout data? 25% win rate. The risk? A 5% water tax. No one talks about it.

My Budget Was a Ritual

I set my daily limit: \(50–\)70. Not to win. To feel alive. Each click became a breath. The rhythm wasn’t the game—it was the pause between spins.

The Arena Was Empty

The ‘Golden Arena’ had no crowd. Just me, headphones on, watching pixels flicker like ancient drumbeats. No jackpot came—but something did: stillness.

From Novice to Guardian

I stopped chasing bonuses. Started reading other players’ screenshots—not with envy, but with tears in their laughter. We all pretend to be happy.

Victory Is a Choice

Not fate. Not prophecy. The moment you press ‘bet’—that’s when you meet yourself. The game didn’t change me. I did.