Have you ever tried finding yourself in the game of ocean waves?

I used to think games were distractions—until I sat alone in my Chicago apartment one rainy evening and opened my grandmother’s old journal. She wrote in Spanish and English: ‘The sea doesn’t drown you. It teaches you how to breathe.’

I started playing ‘Starlight Key’ not for points, but because the rhythm of the waves matched my heartbeat. The RPT wasn’t just a statistic—it was the quiet promise that someone else had once felt this way too.

In ‘Stardom Quest’, I didn’t chase glory. I chased silence. The deep-sea stories weren’t about victory; they were about being seen without speaking. My mother would hum jazz at midnight while tracing coral reefs on her skin—she said, ‘You don’t escape reality. You learn to see it.’

‘Star Pulse’ taught me that RNG isn’t rigged if you listen closely enough. The algorithms don’t control your soul—they only reflect what you’re willing to risk.

And ‘Star Crown Glory’? I never joined a leaderboard. I joined a community of others who also whispered their storms into journals instead of shouting them into feeds.

We don’t play games to win. We play them because somewhere, between the neon lights and salt air, there’s a version of ourselves waiting—to be found, not fixed.

Have you ever tried finding yourself in the game of ocean waves?