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

I used to believe the glitter of slot machines was art.

Growing up with my mother’s Harlem jazz and my father’s Berlin concrete silence, I saw how players chased glowing jackpots like they were chasing validation—each spin a ritual, each win a temporary balm for the hollow self. The industry calls it ‘entertainment.’ I call it digital alienation.

The ‘Super Star’ games don’t reward joy—they sell the illusion that randomness is fair. They package RGT (Random Number Generator) as poetry written by algorithms meant to numb your longing. A 96% RTP? It’s not generosity—it’s a carefully calibrated trap wrapped in neon velvet.

I once coded an experiment: a minimalist slot game where the only symbol was silence. No lights. No chimes. Just one button—press it, and wait.

In Figma, I built ‘The Quiet Spin’ prototype: no wilds, no scatters, no jackpot pools. Just a grayscale wheel turning against a black background with one faded star—a single point of light you could never reach.

Players called it broken.

I called it honest.

We are told to ‘enjoy the process.’ But what if the process was designed to keep you from ever feeling?

I joined an underground forum last winter—not to share wins, but to share silences. Someone wrote: ‘I played for 47 minutes and didn’t win once.’

They didn’t leave.

They just stopped pressing buttons—and finally began creating something else.

We don’t need perfect games.

We need games that let us be alone without pretending.