Growing up, video games were a huge part of my life. I played everything—from SNES classics like Super Mario World to FPS trilogies like Halo and Call of Duty, and PC favorites like Runescape and Minecraft. However, what started as a fun pastime gradually transformed into something worse. Looking back, I can break down this transformation into three stages: hobby, obsession, and addiction. To explain these stages, I will share experiences from my childhood up to my post-college years and how video games affected my identity. My goal is to help you honestly reflect on your gaming habits so you don’t have to learn the hard way like I did.
Stage 1: Gaming as a Healthy Hobby
Video games are fun—there’s no denying it. They’re designed to entertain us, and over the years, they’ve become even more engaging. Compare Pong, one of the first games ever developed, to something like GTA V, essentially a life simulator. Video game design is an art—color, sound, story, levels, mechanics, consoles, controllers. People now spend hundreds of dollars collecting their childhood favorites to relive not just the good old days but the culture. As a child with more free time than a bill-paying adult, I loved playing games. I was introduced to SNES classics by older family members and quickly developed a knack for gaming. During this time, I mostly played games without matchmaking, partly because it either didn’t exist or was fairly new. Nintendo consoles marked different stages of my childhood, from the SNES all the way to the revolutionary Wii.
Couch co-op or multiplayer was the only option, and I kind of miss it. Yes, you and your friends stared at the same screen, much like you can do in your own homes now thanks to the Internet, but they were there with you. You could hear them laughing, raging—the shared experience felt special. I remember inviting friends for sleepovers and creating fortresses out of pillows and blankets by the TV and console. We’d hide in our fortresses long into the night playing games, occasionally peeking out for washroom breaks, pizza, and snacks. I also remember playing LAN Call of Duty Zombies using a 14-foot Ethernet cable while devouring Pillsbury Doughboy cookies. These memories make me smile and are examples of how games can bring us together in a meaningful way.
In this stage of life, however, I had multiple hobbies. I played soccer after school and was enrolled in martial arts classes for many years. I played tag, had water gun fights, went to the movies, played in playgrounds, and much more. I suppose I had an identity and social life outside video games, enough so that I can’t pinpoint a single game consuming all my time. Video games were kind of like a bonus to the fun I was already having. When you’re a kid, society is structured for you to have fun this way—at least in my day—school with the same classmates made it easier to make friends.
I cannot comment on video games for children today. Being born in the ’90s meant I was probably part of the last generation to experience life where technology wasn’t so pervasive. Maybe couch fortresses and couch co-op are a thing of the past now. I see toddlers sitting at restaurant dinner tables playing games on their iPads. I feel a little sorry for younger generations not knowing a simpler life.
If video games are just a bonus in your fulfilling life and represent only a small facet of your complex identity, then you’re in the Hobby Phase—the stage I believe is the healthiest.
Stage 2: When Passion Turns into Obsession
Video games begin as a hobby and change into something bigger when we come across a game that truly excites us. We spend so much time playing this game that it becomes part of our identities. You play this game not simply because it’s popular but because it’s popular within your social network. You actively research how the game works and discuss it daily with friends. You become obsessed.
Matchmaking combined with status acquired through winning and loot makes us care not only on a personal level but also because your friends share the same status structure. Imagine a school playground or a basketball court. In these settings, there’s some sense of hierarchy, and we position ourselves mentally against the pack. Video games amplify this dynamic by making clear status symbols. A classmate might be better than you in basketball, but it’s difficult to quantify how much better. Now suppose you both are playing Valorant: you can get a clear picture of the skill gap thanks to the ladder system. Naturally, you want to impress your friends through this status, and that means investing time in the game.
My gaming hobby turned into an obsession when I started playing League of Legends. In my second year of high school, it was the game to play. All my friends were talking about it during class, lunch, and when walking back home. Even our school’s sound system would play “Warriors” by Imagine Dragons, the theme for the League of Legends 2014 World Championship. I eventually gave in to the peer pressure and started playing. At first, I wasn’t interested because the MOBA genre was foreign to me—I was used to FPS console titles, platformers, fighters, and racers, but I’d never played this genre. The learning curve for MOBAs is steep—you have to learn so many things before you can actually play and enjoy the game. I remember uninstalling the game because it didn’t click with me right away like previous games, but my friends convinced me to reinstall it, saying this experience was common. They were right. After learning the basics, League of Legends quickly became my favorite game, and I was obsessed.
The problem—I wasn’t the best at it. This is understandable given the difficulty of the genre, and it takes time to reveal your skill potential. My ranked placements assigned me to Bronze 4, one tier away from Bronze 5, the lowest you can get. My friends, who were Silver and Gold, teased me about my rank. Their friendly insults fueled my motivation to improve. The true motivation came from within because I knew if I practiced enough, I could “beat the game,” like the ones I’d played up to this point. While League doesn’t have a clear end, many people then and even now say that reaching Diamond is a sign of completion. After my first season of playing ranked, I finished Platinum 1. Shortly after, in the next season, I reached Diamond 5. My friends congratulated me on my accomplishment, and I finally earned their respect as a gamer.
When you invest a lot of effort into something, even if it’s video games, it feels great to receive recognition because it validates that part of your identity. The only reason I received recognition was also because my friends were invested in the game too. When the game you play is popular, achieving a high status means more than achieving, say, Diamond 5 in a game no one has heard of. The combination of my intrinsic motivation for mastering games and the extrinsic motivation from my friends is the reason I fell in love with the game.
Even outside gaming, I still had an identity beyond League. I participated in a business club and had the amazing opportunity to compete in international tournaments for mock-up startup pitches. I would still play a bit of soccer during and after school and go out occasionally with friends for a movie, board games, and bubble tea. League of Legends was part of my social life, not my entire social life—almost like a social lubricant where I could talk to friends about the game.
If you are passionate about a specific game and it plays a role in your social life and identity, then you’re in the Obsession Phase. I believe this stage can still be healthy if you carefully manage your lifestyle.
Stage 3: When Gaming Becomes an Addiction
When I started college, I slowly drifted apart from my friends because we pursued different degrees. I took a break from video games to focus on my studies, but I didn’t socialize or make new friends, something I now regret. College is meant to be fun and exciting, but for me, it was pretty lonely. Even after graduating with a decent job, my life remained dull, and the pandemic only worsened my circumstances. I had no school, hobbies, friends, nor interesting goals. I had no identity. Instead of building my life from scratch, I found an easier solution—I started playing League of Legends again. I poured myself into the game and escaped from my reality.
I would wake up and go to sleep every day thinking about League. Sometimes, I would skip breakfast—even lunch too—just so I could grind more games. I drew crosshairs on my computer desk with a Sharpie to ensure my keyboard, mouse, and monitors were in the exact position every time. My mood swung from amazing highs to crushing lows depending on my elo gains. I would record and review every game to analyze my mistakes. I also joined a paid community of like-minded League gamers and sought coaching from top players. I hid my online presence from what friends I had left so they couldn’t invite me to casual games. I worried that if I played unranked games, my skills would regress to mediocrity. In the end, I peaked at Diamond 1 75 LP on the North American server and decided to quit League of Legends for good.
My accomplishment was a sizzle, a flash of emotion followed by a deafening “What now?” After the excitement settled, I was left wanting more from my life. I wanted to travel the world, improve my physique, and achieve financial freedom. Therefore, I decided to quit because I knew climbing the ranked ladder further would require more time and energy.
During my grind, I learned invaluable skills like self-reflection, emotion regulation, and teamwork. I learned to accept full responsibility and that, even if you play perfectly, you can still lose. What’s important is learning from your mistakes and losing gracefully.
Saying goodbye to League of Legends was difficult, yet soon enough, I replaced one grind with another—Halo Infinite. When the game was released, I grinded to Onyx rank at the cost of my sleep and well-being. One night, I played from 1:00 a.m. all the way to 7:00 a.m. when I had work the next day. It wasn’t enough to stop playing League and expect my urge to play something to go away. I needed to fill my life with other activities so that gaming was no longer a huge role in my identity.
If your identity is largely based on a video game and gaming negatively affects your nutrition, sleep, or mood, then, in my opinion, you’re at risk for addiction.
Moving Forward: Building a Life Beyond Gaming
A lot has changed since I stopped playing. I moved to a new country on the other side of the world, miles away from home. I learned to make new friends and flirt with women (I still have a lot to learn). I started writing this blog. I’m more serious about the gym than before. I have a job that is not completely boring. And I have amazing new friends who are smart, funny, and kind. No urge to grind games anymore—only a couple of hours of Minecraft from time to time to keep in touch with friends and family.
I hope my story helps you reevaluate your relationship with video games. If I could go back in time and speak to my younger self, I would encourage him to try building a life in the real world, as hard and intimidating as it can be. A whole world of exciting adventures and lovely people are out there, and you have to take a leap and look like an idiot for a couple of years. I promise you the effort is worth it because after you’ve built yourself an enjoyable life, you won’t get sucked into video games, and they can remain the fun bonus that they should be.