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

I used to think games were machines that rewarded luck—until I realized they were mirrors.

In my senior thesis at NYU, I built a prototype called ‘Digital Alienation’: a game where players don’t chase wins, but search for meaning in the flicker of midnight UIs. The ‘perfect’ win? It doesn’t exist. What exists is the pause between bets—the breath before the next load.

I grew up in Brooklyn with my mother’s jazz samples humming on the subway and my father’s Nordic silence echoing through empty apartments. We didn’t have neon lights—we had shadows. And in those shadows, players learned to read themselves.

One night, I ran a test: 20 minutes, $5 bet, no payout. Just me, a Figma canvas open, and Midjourney generating textures of loneliness. No applause. No jackpot.

But something shifted.

The data said: engagement spikes not when you hit ‘+10x’, but when you stop trying to control it. Players don’t want algorithms—they want witnesses.

I turned my failures into rituals:

• One session: play for 17 minutes after tea,
• One bet: five dollars—no more,
• One outcome: silence became sacred.

The most dangerous moment? When you think you’re close to winning—and then realize you’re just learning how to be human again.

Last year at the underground exhibition ‘The Ethics of Play’, I showed a prototype where players wept while clicking ‘next’. Not because they won—but because they remembered what it felt like to be alone in code.

Games aren’t machines. They’re ceremonies we design when no one’s watching.

If your next bet feels like breathing… maybe you’re already playing right.