I Spent My Silicon Millions on Slot Machines—Then Found Silence

I used to think algorithms could predict joy.

I worked at a SaaS startup where engineers optimized user behavior with cold precision—tracking spins like data points on a screen that never blinked with warmth. We called it ‘luck.’ But luck doesn’t whisper back. It just hums.

My mother, raised on Afro-Caribbean rhythms, taught me that true fortune isn’t in the reels—it’s in the pause between them. My father, from Dublin’s rainy streets, would say: ‘The machine doesn’t care if you win. It cares if you’re still here.’

I used to chase RTPs like they were prayers—95%, 97%—as if numbers could promise meaning. But every jackpot was just a shadow of something deeper: a child’s laugh echoing through an empty apartment at 2am.

We built interfaces to make people feel seen.

But when I turned off the autoplay and sat in silence—I heard my Muse purr beside my desk. She didn’t need bonuses or free spins. She needed me to be still.

The real game wasn’t in the wheel—it was in how long I stayed quiet before asking for more.

Not every player wins. But every soul remembers being seen.

So now? I write this—not as a guide for slots—but as an invitation to sit with your own silence, to let your humanity return, and find out what’s left when you stop chasing what was never meant to be yours.