I Thought I Was Just Playing a Game… It Saved Me

I used to think the Glow Disc Feast was about odds, algorithms, and high-stakes bets—something cold and mechanical, designed for thrill-seekers in neon-lit alleys. But then came the night when Miso, my orange cat, jumped onto my desk after my third spin. She didn’t pounce on numbers. She just stared—at the screen, at the flicker of a failing bonus round—and then curled up beside me.

I stopped playing.

In that silence, I realized: no algorithm predicted her stillness. No payout ratio explained why she stayed. Not because she won. But because she chose to be there—with me—in the dark.

This isn’t a game design document from UCL’s behavioral lab. It’s a memory carved into midnight hours by an INFP-T soul who learned that care is the only true reward.

The ‘free add-on’? It wasn’t coins or tokens—it was her purring as rain tapped glass windows outside.

I used to chase ‘lucky numbers.’ Now I watch for quiet moments—the kind no algorithm can measure.

You don’t need to win every spin to feel whole.

Sometimes… you just need someone—or something—to sit beside you while the lights fade.