When the Game Stops Feeling Like Fun: A Quiet Reflection on Digital Addiction and the Cost of Virtual Glory

I used to think winning was the point.

In my work as a behavioral analyst, I saw it over and over: players scrolling through late-night feeds, chasing streaks of virtual glory—each spin a quiet ritual, each win a fleeting spark in an empty room. The games didn’t care if you won. They cared how much you were willing to pay for it.

We were told the odds were fair. RNG certified. Transparent data. Yet still, people played as if their worth lived in a screen.

I remember one woman who said, “I play because I forget who I am.” She was 28, like me—raised by a Jamaican nurse and Scottish engineer. She spoke two languages: one of logic, one of longing.

The algorithms weren’t designed for joy. They were engineered for dopamine loops—deliberate pauses built into rhythm so thin, so beautiful, so cruel.

The “White Ram” theme wasn’t mythology—it was marketing dressed as meaning. The star charts? Just metrics with lavender-gray-blue gradients, drawn lines on mobile screens where loneliness lives in plain sight.

I don’t play to win. I play to remember who I am.

If you’ve ever paused mid-game—not from fatigue—but from grief—I want you to know: your next click doesn’t have to be another bet. It can be silence. It can be breath. It can be you.