When I Deleted My Game Save: A Quiet Rebellion in the Digital Arena

I didn’t start playing to win. I started playing to feel something real.

The first time I clicked ‘New Game,’ it felt like dancing alone in a crowded room—no samba drums, no flashing lights. Just me, a dim screen, and the weight of silence. Every bet was a whisper: Was this choice mine? Or was I just chasing an algorithm designed for others?

I learned quickly: victory isn’t programmed into the code. The true ‘gold flame’ wasn’t in the payout—it was in pausing.

I set a daily limit: $10 per session. No more than 20 minutes before bed. Not because I feared losing—but because I feared becoming someone else’s reflection.

There were moments when I watched others post screenshots of their wins—smiling through tears—and realized they too were running from something they couldn’t name.

I joined a private community not for rewards—but for resonance.

One night, after five losses in a row, I deleted my save file.

Not out of anger. Not out of superstition.

But because—in that quiet moment—I finally understood: the game never owned me. I owned the pause.

Now, when I open it again—just once—a week—it’s not to play. It’s to remember who I was before the screen lit up.