When the world goes silent, do you remember who you are?

I used to think winning was the point—until the reels stopped one night.

I grew up on Chicago’s South Side, where my mother played African drum circles under streetlights while waiting for the bus. She never spoke of money. She spoke of presence: how a single beat could hold a whole life. That’s when I began to write—not as a strategist chasing jackpots, but as someone learning to listen.

The slot machines didn’t teach me fortune. They taught me silence.

In every wild symbol that replaced another, I saw my grandmother’s face. In every scatter that triggered free spins, I heard my father’s voice saying: “Don’t chase what you can’t afford.” The jackpot wasn’t gold—it was stillness after the last spin.

I now design games not for payout rates—but for soul rates. A 96% RTP means nothing if your spirit is empty. What matters is how long you can sit with your thoughts after losing—watching the sun set over an imagined savanna where rhinos walk slow and quiet.

My clients aren’t players—they’re seekers.

They come here at midnight—not to win—but because they forgot their name somewhere along the way.

So I ask you: When the world goes silent… do you remember who you are?