Do We Really Need 'Perfect' Games? 5 Forgotten Experiments in Digital Alienation

I used to think games were designed for joy—until I realized they were designed to numb us.

My mother, raised on Harlem’s midnight jazz and my father’s Stockholm silence, taught me that every spin wasn’t luck—it was a ritual. In the fluorescent glow of casino apps, players don’t chase jackpots—they chase the echo of a self they’ve stopped recognizing.

I built an experimental game prototype last year—a digital altar where symbols aren’t wilds or scatters but fragments of unspoken grief. The RTP was high (96%), yes—but so was the alienation. We were told ‘play responsibly,’ while the RNG spun our hopes into loops no one else could break.

In ‘Starlight Paradise,’ players deposit $800 expecting fireworks. But what if the lights are just LED reflections? What if ‘free spins’ are not bonuses—they’re apologies from a system that never asked if you wanted to be seen?

I interviewed three former players in Brooklyn co-living spaces. One said: ‘I played for two years until my hands stopped moving.’ Another: ‘The jackpot didn’t come. But I kept spinning… because it felt like walking on a red carpet alone.’

We call it ‘immersive narrative’—but who gets to choose the story? The algorithm doesn’t care if you feel anything. It only cares if you click.

When I launched my indie project—‘Digital Alienation: A Silent Game’—no one bought it. But five people cried.

Maybe perfection isn’t the goal.

Maybe presence is.