The Time My Game Became My Therapy

I built Lucky Pig because I believed in magic. Not the kind from fairy tales—but the kind that lives in rhythm, color, and tiny digital moments of joy. As a narrative designer with roots in jazz and oral storytelling, I wanted players to feel like they were dancing through luck itself.

But here’s the twist: my first version wasn’t fun—it was addictive. And dangerous.

When Fun Turns Toxic

The app used randomized numbers (like “pick your lucky digit”) and gave instant rewards. At first glance? Perfect for light entertainment. But data told another story: users played longer than expected, bet more than planned—and some lost hundreds.

That’s when my empathy kicked in. As someone who grew up watching elders gamble at backyard barbecues—where laughter masked real loss—I couldn’t ignore it.

So I deleted everything.

Rebuilding With Heart & Logic

I started over—not just coding, but rethinking why we play games.

I added:

• Time caps (15-minute sessions max)
• Budget limits (“set your feed allowance”)
• Transparency badges showing win rates (92% on average)
• And most importantly: joy-first design, not dopamine loops.

Now? Players still say things like “I felt happy even when I lost.” That’s not luck—that’s care.

The new Lucky Pig isn’t about winning big—it’s about feeling seen while playing small.

Your Turn: What Will You Risk?

You don’t have to build games to ask this question. Whether it’s money, time, or emotional energy—what are you investing for? If it doesn’t spark joy without cost… maybe it’s time to reset.

My rule now? If a feature makes me nervous during testing? It gets cut—even if it boosts engagement stats. Because real success isn’t viral—it’s sustainable. We’re not here to exploit hope—we’re here to honor it.