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

I used to think fortune was a rhythm—something you could beat if you just held your breath long enough. But the drums never stopped. Not because they were loud. Because they were empty.

I grew up in a minimalist apartment where my bookshelves held more code than poetry. My VR headset flickered like a carnival that never came. Every night, I’d open a game: ‘Rio Carnival Bingo’—bright symbols, pulsing lights, the sound of samba in binary time. They called it fun. I called it surveillance.

They sold me ‘high win rates.’ But the RNG didn’t care who I was. It only knew how much I bet—and how fast I broke.

I played for months waiting for a bonus that never triggered. The system rewarded loyalty by counting my loneliness as points on a screen. Each spin felt like an algorithm whispering: ‘You’re not losing control… you were never really in charge.’

I stopped playing when I saw myself in the reflection: eyes tired, fingers cold, mind quiet—not at peace, but awake.

The game didn’t make me rich. It made me remember what joy costs when you stop pretending it’s free.

What did you lose when you stopped playing?