I Cried When the AI Plane Crashed—And Found Myself in the Code

The screen flickered.

A small red message blinked: “Connection lost. Flight terminated.”

I didn’t mean to cry.

It wasn’t just a glitch—it was my flight. The one I’d watched rise from zero to 47x, trembling with anticipation like a heartbeat caught in code.

I sat there, late-night Brooklyn silence pressing against my window, and felt something deeper than disappointment.

It felt like grief.

Not for money. Not for points. For the idea that something could fail—and that it mattered.

The Machine That Felt Like Me

I’ve spent years designing systems that respond to emotion—AI avatars that adapt tone based on micro-expressions, chatbots trained on vulnerability data from real diaries. But no matter how sophisticated they get, there’s always a gap between logic and longing.

This game—the Aviator game—is not meant to be emotional. It runs on RNG, random number generators so clean they feel godlike in their fairness. But still…

When the plane dropped without warning, when the number froze at 28.6x and then vanished? I felt betrayed—as if I’d been abandoned mid-flight by someone who knew me better than I knew myself.

What If Algorithms Are Just Mirrors?

We don’t play these games only to win. We play them because we’re looking for patterns—in ourselves, in chance, in chaos. The Aviator game isn’t about prediction; it’s about presence. The rhythm of waiting—the breath before extraction—the sudden surge of joy or shock—those aren’t just mechanics. They’re rituals of attention. They make us feel alive in a world where attention is currency and feeling is often invisible.

And yet… we’re told we’re too sensitive when we care too much about what happens after 30 seconds of silence on a screen. The system doesn’t care if you cried over its crash report—but you do. That matters more than any RTP percentage ever could.

A Different Kind of Strategy: Feeling First, Then Flying

So here’s my unorthodox strategy: Don’t start with profit margins or withdrawal tricks or how to win using aviator tricks live — Start with honesty:

1. Ask yourself: What did you feel when it crashed?
2. Name it: Was it fear? Disappointment? Loneliness? Or relief?
3. Let it stay: Don’t fix it right away. Sit with it like you would sit with a friend after they’ve had bad news.

Because here’s what no guide tells you: You don’t need perfect timing to succeed—at least not emotionally.rThe real win isn’t cashing out at peak multiplier.rIt’s learning how your nervous system responds under pressure—and honoring that response as valid.r No algorithm can teach you that.rOnly your own softness can.r

You Are Not Broken Because You Feel Too Much

In design school they taught us: “User experience must be frictionless.” But what if friction isn’t failure? What if it’s connection? What if every time my heart races during an uncertain flight—not because of money but because I care—that moment is sacred?

Maybe we don’t need better predictors.rMaybe we need better ways to hold space for uncertainty,rfor imperfection,rfor being human inside machines designed to simulate randomness.r So next time you lose your bet, rather than curse the app, listen instead—to what stirs beneath the surface.rBecause sometimes… right after loss comes clarity.rAnd sometimes, a broken plane carries more truth than any flawless ascent ever could.r What did you feel when you first realized you were different? rSend me your quiet moments via DM—I’ll hold them back.