For this critical play, I chose to play a free online version of Poker with other friends. Poker has always intrigued me as a game that appears to balance both luck and strategy, but after spending time playing and observing others, I began to see how randomness powerfully drives addictive behaviors.
Poker, as a game, is widely accessible across web browsers and in-person. The game I played was offered through a casual gaming site with my friends logged onto the site. Since the exact “creator” of poker is hard to pinpoint, as the game evolved over centuries and across different cultures. However, the structure and gameplay are fairly uniform across platforms. The target audience ranges from casual players looking for light entertainment to competitive hobbyists interested in simulating real-world gambling environments. This wide range of users makes Poker an especially interesting case for analyzing how games of chance hook different types of players.
[Playthrough screenshot (aka not a day for me)]
What struck me most while playing was the blurry boundary between skill and luck. Poker often markets itself as a strategy game – you can bluff, read opponents, or fold tactically. But much of the outcome hinges on what cards you’re dealt. The randomness of the draw, paired with the way the game rewards confident behavior, creates a compelling illusion of control. This illusion is reinforced through social dynamics. In my game, one player exclaimed, “I just have bad luck today,” while another claimed, “That was all skill,” after winning a hand that was clearly dependent on a lucky draw. Players interpret results in a way that supports their self-image: losses are blamed on luck, while wins are credited to intelligence. These patterns encourage continued play, especially in a setting where the stakes feel low but the emotional payoff remains high.
Looking at Poker through the MDA framework clarifies why it’s so engaging and potentially addictive. The mechanics are straightforward: players are dealt cards, place bets, and decide to fold, call, or raise based on their hand and perceived odds. The dynamics emerge from social interplay and betting patterns; players try to win with strong hands and aim to bluff others into folding. Aesthetically, Poker is full of emotional highs and lows: the surprise of a great hand, the heartbreak of a near miss, the adrenaline of going all in. These emotional beats mirror what Natasha describes in Addiction by Design as “smooth continuity” and “losses disguised as wins,” common in slot machine experiences. Even when a player loses, the game structure often makes them feel like they were close – very close enough to try again.
The game is especially effective at encouraging repeat play through a structure that resembles operant conditioning. After a series of close losses, I found myself staying longer than I planned, convinced I could “win it back.” This sense of chasing, or the gambler’s fallacy, directly results from the game’s design, where the illusion of mastery masks randomness. And I hear my friend who’s a poker head saying they will be quitting Poker every single time but still come back to play. Unlike games that advertise themselves as chance-based, Poker wraps its randomness in strategy and social bluffing, which really makes its psychological hooks harder to recognize and more deeply felt.
When thinking about ethical design, this is where Poker raises red flags. Using chance in game design isn’t inherently unethical – uncertainty can add fun and tension. But when that chance is paired with systems that obscure just how little control players have, it can become problematic. Poker doesn’t hide its rules, but the way it encourages players to over-interpret their influence over outcomes feels manipulative. From a design ethics standpoint, I believe chance should be used transparently and not in ways that exploit psychological biases like loss aversion or perceived control. Designers need to be particularly aware that even in “free” versions, the mechanics they create can mirror those of high-stakes gambling environments.
Comparing Poker to another game like Genshin Impact shows the broader impact of randomness in digital games. Genshin Impact is a gacha game that relies on randomized loot drops to encourage spending. Players chase rare characters and items, often paying real money for a chance at acquisition. Poker, by contrast, doesn’t require purchases but monetizes engagement and time. Both rely on intermittent rewards and a hope-driven feedback loop – but where Genshin leans on external spending, Poker leans on internal psychological momentum. The outcome is similar in that players keep returning, driven by the belief that the next round might be the lucky one.
In my sessions, there were moments where a poor hand unexpectedly won and close losses that pushed me to keep playing. It’s this tension that makes it fun, but also dangerous. Through this critical play experience, I’ve come to see Poker more than as a classic card game, but as a subtly engineered behavioral loop.
