Why Do We Keep Casting When the Net’s Empty?

I remember sitting on my balcony in Chicago at 2 a.m., phone glowing like a tiny lighthouse. The screen showed another losing streak in Small Boat Fishing—just another round of “1” or “2,” no fish, no win. But I clicked again.

Not because I believed in luck.

But because stopping felt like admitting something deeper: that maybe I wasn’t enough.

I’ve always been drawn to games with rhythm—not just gameplay, but emotional pulse. As a psychologist who once designed games for teens battling loneliness, I know how easily systems can mimic intimacy. And Small Boat Fishing? It doesn’t just simulate fishing—it simulates hope.

The Ritual of Waiting

Every time you tap “place bet,” there’s a pause. A breath held between decision and outcome. That gap? That’s where meaning lives.

It reminds me of my mother’s habit: she’d light candles before checking her bank balance after payday—rituals for control when life felt chaotic.

We aren’t here for the fish. We’re here for the moment when we feel seen. Even if it’s just by an algorithm pretending to care.

The Illusion of Agency

The game tells you: You choose. You pick your number. You decide when to stop or go again.

But let’s be honest—how many times have you played past your limit because “just one more try” sounded like freedom?

Neuroscience shows our brain lights up during near-misses—the same way it does during real wins (Dong & Potenza, 2012). So yes, losing isn’t loss; it’s baited engagement.

And that’s where ethics matter.

designing games that feel meaningful while protecting mental space is not optional—it’s responsibility.

What If Winning Isn’t the Point?

Last week, I lost $40 in under 30 minutes—not from greed—but from grief over a missed call from home. Not funny? No. Real? yes. The game didn’t fix anything—but for those few minutes, it gave me something real: distraction with purpose.

Maybe that’s enough sometimes. The need to play isn’t weakness—it’s connection-seeking in disguise. The craving isn’t for money or fame; it’s for proof: you still have power, even if only over a single button press.

How Do We Play With Heart?

I don’t want to shame anyone who plays casually—or even obsessively—I’ve been there too. But as someone trained to see patterns behind behavior, i now ask myself: would i let a friend play this way without warning them about emotional risk?

too often, systems exploit our desire for dignity through fake control—and we pay with focus, sleep, sanity. i’m not against fun—but i am against invisible strings pulling us toward pain disguised as pleasure.

can we design games where joy comes not from chasing rewards but from being present?where quitting is celebrated as courage rather than failure? i believe so—and i’m building toward that world one thoughtful mechanic at a time.

to those reading this: if you ever feel trapped by a loop—stop.
take your hand off the device.
look out your window.
listen.
you’re already whole.