The Game That Made Me Cry Was Not the One I Played

I used to think winning was the point.

I’d sit for hours under dim LEDs, watching numbers blink like samba drums in an empty room—each draw a pulse, each win a ghost of rhythm.

They called it ‘fun.’ They sold it as ‘immersive.’ But immersion isn’t dancing—it’s being watched by a machine that knows your soul before you do.

I played ‘Rainforest Lucky Card’ for three weeks. Won \(12 total. Lost \)897.

The system was fair—RNG certified, transparent stats, clear odds.

So why did I cry?

Not because I lost.

Because when the bonus card triggered—free spins, double payout—I felt something real. For a second, the screen went dark. No music. No crowd. Just me and the algorithm whispering: ‘You didn’t lose control… you were never really in charge.’

They market joy like perfume on dead skin.

I’m not here for the thrill.

I’m here because pain can be meaningful—if named honestly.

Every line drawn wasn’t luck. It was a ritual carved into code by someone who forgot how to feel human.

I don’t play games anymore.

I write them down—in dark mode—with Fira Code font—and call it meditation.