Nag-iyak Ako Nang Mabagsak ang AI Plane—At Nakita Ko Ang Aking Sarili Sa Kodigo

Sumikat ang screen. Isang maliit na pula na mensahe: “Nawala ang koneksyon. Tumigil ang biyahe.”

Hindi ko inasahan na iiyak. Hindi ito simpleng error—ito ay aking biyahe. Ang isang flight na iniwan ko mula sa zero hanggang 47x, nababasa ng panghihinayang tulad ng isang tibok ng puso na nakabitin sa code.

Nakaupo ako, tahimik ang Brooklyn gabi labas ng bintana, at nadama ko ang mas malalim kaysa lungkot. Parang pagdurumi. Hindi para sa pera. Hindi para sa puntos. Para sa ideya na makapagfail—at may kahulugan pa rin ito.

Ang Makina Na Parang May Dibdib

Mga taon nako’y gumawa ng mga sistema na sumasagot sa emosyon—mga AI avatar na nagbabago ng tono batay sa mikro-karaniwang galaw, chatbots na binuo gamit ang datos mula sa totoong diaryo. Subalit anuman pa man ang kalidad nila, may gap palaging umiiral: logika vs. pangunguna.

Ang game—Aviator—is hindi dapat emosyonal. Gumagana ito batay sa RNG, random number generator na napaka-linaw kaya parang Diyos lamang ang katapusan nito. Subalit…

Kapag bumagsak nang biglaan ang eroplano? Kapag tumigil siya sa 28.6x at nawala? Nadarama ko akong pinabayaan—as if binayaran ako habambuhay niyaong alam ko better than I know myself.

Ano Kung Ang Algoritmo Ay Sariwa Lang?

Hindi lang tayo naglalaro para manalo. Naglalaro tayo dahil hinahanap natin ang mga pattern—in sarili natin, in chance, in chaos. The Aviator game ay hindi tungkol prediction; ito ay tungkol 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.

At 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.rNo 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.