aAs far as I recall, my wife began her daily routine with a 30-minute Candy Crush session. From her perspective, I kicked off each day by declaring it a trivial pastime. Now that I’m writing for the Guardian, I feel the need to articulate my thoughts more elegantly. Please, for your own sake, don’t follow in my footsteps. Candy Crush Soda Saga nearly derailed my life in just a week.

I appreciate the game mechanics. As Oscar Wilde famously said, those who fail to appreciate contoured chains of matching candies truly miss out on life’s joys. Wrapped in charming candy visuals—think fizzy bottles and gummy bears—the game captivates visually. Match a color bomb with a candy fish, and suddenly the colors transform, with candies resembling animated eyes gobbling up everything, creating a delightful explosion of sensory joy.

“What’s that clicking sound?” my wife inquires.

“Would you prefer tactile feedback?” I respond.

“Yeah, I thought it was damaging my phone, so I turned it off.”

“How so?”

“I felt it was exerting too much… pressure.” She compares her phone to a USS company, and herself to Scotty, who diverts an alarming amount of power from the shields.

We’ve had countless discussions about Candy Crush while playing in bed. Our dialogue has evolved from printed broadsheets to matching Jelly Beans on our mobile devices. Fortunately, you can engage with one hand while the other repeatedly punches you in the face as you reflect on the futility of your existence.

Ultimately, this game serves no purpose in the grand scheme. There’s no compelling narrative or tangible outcome. I might climb the levels with a board game pass, but whether I’m at level 150 or my wife at 8,452 (gulp!), the patterns remain unchanged.

That’s when the game unveils its microtransactions. At that point, you’re ensnared by the mechanics and candy colors, ready to spend your money quicker than the children who grab their fixes. Truly, Candy Crush Soda Saga seems like a creation that Stringer Bell would’ve devised in business school. Once praised as the most effective delivery system for poison, it’s now outperformed.

This game “suggests.” Often it’s not a coincidence when the suggestions lead to failure. The design incentivizes spending money for enjoyment. While I understand the purchase, it isn’t outright gambling—though it feels akin to it, especially now that gaming companies are screaming about setting limits, while this game implores you to continue just one more time.

I’ve lost count of my many obsessions in life. (I’ve even struggled with counting addictions.) Yet, this ranks among the worst. It took me just three days to fall dangerously deep. Last Sunday, I devoted three hours to Candy Crush Pop Saga and nearly missed the Scotland Cup final. Unlike my wife, I was left reeling for the rest of the day.

A wave of self-loathing as an addict consumes me. I recognize the futility, yet I can’t detach. At least cocaine has a quick fix. In comparison? In a week, I wasted half the time of *Twilight Princess*, or a third of *Majora’s Mask*. And those games at least provide a narrative. Had it not been for this deadline looming over me, I might have contemplated burying my phone to escape the grip of Candy Crush.

Ironically, there’s little distinction between this and the arcade games I cherished as a child. Titles like Pac-Man, Frogger, and Space Invaders were all engineered to siphon another coin for another round. They were far more repetitive. Thus, examining Candy Crush critically, I’d argue those games were time-wasters too.

But why didn’t they feel that way?

Back then, all I had was time. In my 50s, however, it feels like a dwindling resource. Perhaps if I played Galaxian now, it would feel akin to Candy Crush: a descent into a hellish gaming experience, akin to watching that event horizon movie on a treadmill while donning LEGO pants. A game that offers nothing continuously. It’s waiting for Godot, but with gummy bears instead of humans. Nothing changes; no one arrives, and the emptiness is excruciating.