Have you ever tried finding yourself in the quiet waves of a game that mirrors your soul?

I used to think games were just noise—bright lights, loud wins, someone else’s version of glory.

Then I sat alone in my Chicago apartment one rainy night, listening to Miles Davis play low and slow through the speakers. The rhythm wasn’t meant to distract. It was meant to reveal.

I started playing not for the jackpot—but for the silence between levels. In ‘Starlight Key,’ they call it ‘RTP.’ In ‘Stardom Quest,’ they call it ‘deep-sea magic.’ But what if these aren’t mechanics at all? What if they’re mirrors? Reflections of how we hide from ourselves.

I once took a test called ‘Star Pulse.’ The data said: high volatility = high risk. But I felt something else: a quiet certainty. Like walking through deep water without needing to be seen.

My mother—Black Irish American—used to say: ‘You don’t run from storms. You learn their shape.’

So now I design games differently.

Not for algorithms that control emotion. But for souls who whisper at midnight: ‘Is this game my harbor?’

The visuals? Soft blue-gray filters. Handwritten text on fogged glass. The sound? Jazz fading into waves. No leaderboard here. Just a single player… and the sea waiting quietly,

What if your next move isn’t to win? What if it’s to finally see yourself in the stillness?

Have you tried it yet?