You Don’t Have to Be Seen to Be Real

I used to think my worth was tied to clicks. To likes. To the number of people who paused their scroll long enough to notice me.

Growing up in Brooklyn—where every corner hummed with stories half-told and voices never quite heard—I learned early that silence wasn’t emptiness. It was depth.

Now, as a digital storyteller crafting immersive experiences for platforms that reward loudness, I’m haunted by a quiet truth: you don’t have to be seen to be real.

The Paradox of Visibility

We’re told: Be visible. Shine. Stand out.

But what if standing out means losing yourself?

In games like Lucky Pig, where symbols spin and rewards flash like fireworks—there’s an illusion of control. You bet, you rotate, you win (or lose). But beneath the glitter lies a deeper pattern: we play not just for prizes, but for proof.

Proof that we matter.

And yet… when the screen goes dark, who are we? Not the avatar. Not the high score. Just… us.

The Algorithmic Erasure of Identity

I once built an AR project called Echoes of the City, where users could leave voice notes at street corners—memories only found by those who walked there at twilight.

One woman left her name as ‘Mira.’ No photo. No profile. Just her voice saying: ‘I was here.’

The system didn’t recognize her as a user—not in analytics or metrics. But she existed. She mattered. Because she chose presence over visibility.

That’s what Lucky Pig misses: its design celebrates winning—but not being present while waiting for it. The game wants your attention—but not your soul. So I ask: what if winning isn’t the point? What if joy is? What if just spinning the reels—with no expectation—is its own kind of resistance?

Playing Without Performance

Here’s what I’ve learned from playing Lucky Pig not as a gambler but as an observer:

• Set small bets—not because you’re afraid to lose, but because you’re honoring your time and energy.
• Watch the animations—not just for wins, but for rhythm; for beauty; for stillness between spins.
• Let yourself lose without guilt—because losing isn’t failure when you’re playing on your own terms. The game doesn’t care if you win—but you should care whether you stayed true while playing it. When I do this? My heart slows down. My breath deepens. And suddenly—I’m not chasing luck anymore… I’m just here. The most radical thing I can do online today is simply exist without performing my worth first. That’s not passive—it’s revolutionary. The system wants us loud so it can track us—and sell our attention back to us under new names like “engagement” or “community.” But real connection? It lives in unspoken moments—the pause before a spin, the silence after a loss, the memory of someone saying ‘I was here’ into empty air. The pig may be lucky—but so are we, simply by choosing stillness over spectacle, making peace with being unseen, because sometimes… you don’t need luck when you already belong, even if no one sees it.