I played Blackjack, which is a card game found in casinos and online gambling platforms that offers a compelling blend of luck and perceived skill. It developed centuries ago and standardized by casino operators and appeals to a wide audience of casual players, competitive gamblers, and increasingly, online users seeking fast-paced betting experiences. But beneath its clean interface and familiar mechanics lies a deeply manipulative system that uses randomness not just to entertain, but to addict.
What makes Blackjack particularly dangerous is that it disguises its addictive structure under the illusion of strategic control. Unlike slots or roulette, Blackjack gives players a handful of interactive decisions—hit, stand, double down, split—that suggest agency. This structure convinces players they can master the game, when in fact they’re playing against meticulously balanced odds that, over time, always favor the house. Randomness fuels addiction by creating a feedback loop of unpredictable rewards, which triggers dopamine release and encourages compulsive behavior. This unpredictability makes every loss feel like a step closer to a potential win, and every near miss reinforces the belief that victory is just around the corner. I remember playing Blackjack with my friends in a casino. I noticed frequent phrases like “I’m on a bad streak” or “I know the dealer’s due to bust.” These reflect common cognitive distortions: luck is externalized when it fails and attributed to skill when it succeeds. People speak like randomness is part of their identity, and success becomes a justification for reinvestment.
I believe Natasha Schüll’s Addition by Design can help explain this deeper psychological architecture. Though her research centers on slot machines, the same principles of behavioral conditioning apply to Blackjack. She describes how modern gambling devices are designed to sustain play through mechanisms like losses disguised as wins, which stimulate reward centers even in losing scenarios. Blackjack employs a similar mechanism in its near miss moments, for example, drawing 20 but losing to the dealer’s 21. These outcomes are technically losses, but feel close enough to reinforce the urge to continue. When I encounter this situation, I will even click to start the next game faster than usual. Schüll also emphasizes the zone, a psychological state where players are so immersed in the game’s rhythm that they lose track of time, self-awareness, and even money. While slot machines use lights and sounds to maintain this trance, Blackjack sustains it through rapid rounds, subtle suspense, and escalating bets. The randomness is not raw or natural, instead, it is calculated and repeated until it becomes invisible, a background condition for behavioral capture.
Just one point away from beating the dealer, reinforces the urge to play again
Another particularly compelling example of how randomness drives addiction in Blackjack comes from the decision-making tension around receiving a hand value between 15 and 17. This range sits in a psychological gray zone: too low to feel confident in standing, but too high to draw another card without risking a bust. This creates what Natasha Schüll would describe as a designed moment of uncertainty and engagement. Players become trapped in an anxious loop: Should I draw and risk it? Or play it safe and likely lose? The randomness of the next card becomes the source of fixation. I remembered once I held a 15, and the dealer was showing a 7. I decided to take the hit and then busted. But then the dealer’s hidden card turned out to be a 6, totaling 13. If I had just stood, they likely would have had to hit and possibly busted themselves. That moment haunted me, not just because I lost, but because it felt like I had almost made the right call. It’s not just about the numbers, it’s about how the randomness manipulates emotional stakes, turning every decision into a gamble with heightened tension. This is the precise kind of psychological trigger that feeds compulsive play: not the result, but the anticipation of a possible win, engineered through carefully tuned odds and emotional ambivalence.
Hit on 15 against the dealer’s 7, and busted
Besides, Edwin Evans-Thirlwell, in his article, describe two kinds of live service game. Some are zombies, hollow grinds based on repetitive loops, while others are vampires, seductive, cinematic experiences that string players along with narrative fragments and ever-expanding content. Blackjack, in many ways, operates as both. It is a zombie in its endless repetition of rounds, each inviting you back with the same promise of possibility. But it’s also a vampire in how it entices players with the myth of mastery and control. It cannot offer closure. There is no win condition, but only a forever loop.
From an ethical perspective, I believe that chance is morally permissible in games when it creates meaningful uncertainty, enhances replayability, or invites creativity. In well-balanced roguelikes, for instance, randomness ensures that each playthrough is unique and creative and luck is one layer of a fair system. I played Hades last week. The boon selection, room layouts, and enemy encounters are randomized each run, but the randomness adds surprise without undermining agency. Players can always make meaningful choices and adapt. In contrast, in Blackjack, chance is not just a game mechanic, but a psychological trap. The odds are structured to make players feel like they’re always one move away from a win, even though the system is designed for long-term loss. What makes it even more troubling is that many players actually know the system is stacked against them, but they keep going. when they do win, they tell themselves, “Just one more win and I’ll stop.” But when they lose, the mindset shifts: “I just need one win to recover.” This cycle repeats endlessly. When chance is used to manufacture this kind of compulsion and denial, it becomes ethically impermissible. Randomness must serve the player’s experience does not prey on their vulnerability.
