I actually think gaming is amazing for your mental health.

Host: The night was alive with the electric hum of screens and the faint clatter of keyboards. A soft neon glow from the arcade machines washed over the room, casting shifting blues and violets across the faces of two people seated in a small corner booth. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, each drop a pulse in the silence between them. Jack sat with his arms crossed, eyes sharp, jaw tense. Jeeny, across from him, had a small, knowing smile, her fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Asim Chaudhry once said, ‘I actually think gaming is amazing for your mental health.’”

Jack: (leans back, smirking) “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Sounds like something a gamer would say to justify losing hours of their life to a screen.”

Host: The arcade lights flickered against his grey eyes, reflecting a mix of mockery and weariness.

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point. For a lot of people, it’s not about escape — it’s about connection, about finding a world that makes sense when the real one doesn’t.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s about avoiding the real world altogether. A digital drug, Jeeny. People use it to forget, not to heal.”

Host: Her brow furrowed, but her voice stayed soft, the kind of calm that could cut through a storm.

Jeeny: “Tell that to the soldiers who play simulation games to cope with PTSD. Or the kids who make friends online when they’re bullied at school. You think that’s ‘escape’? Sometimes it’s the only way to survive.”

Jack: “You’re confusing coping with curing. It’s one thing to play to get by — it’s another to depend on it. Look around.”

Host: He gestured toward the rows of glowing machines, where teenagers and adults alike were immersed, their faces blank, their hands twitching in rhythmic bursts of motion.

Jack: “Half of them can’t hold a real conversation anymore. They know how to talk to avatars, not people.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those avatars listen when no one else does.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, like dust motes drifting through neon light.

Jeeny: “You always think healing has to look like medicine — like pills or therapy sessions. But sometimes, it’s just about belonging. About finding a space where you can fail, restart, and try again. Isn’t that what life’s supposed to be?”

Jack: “Games don’t give you life, Jeeny. They simulate it. A fake victory, a fake loss, all designed to trick your dopamine into feeling something.”

Jeeny: “So what? Even if it’s simulated — the feeling is real. The joy when you win, the frustration when you lose, the bond when you play with someone halfway across the world — it’s all human emotion. Why does it matter where it comes from?”

Host: The rain grew heavier, a rhythmic murmur echoing through the windows. Somewhere behind them, a group of players erupted in cheers, the sound of victory filling the air like a sudden burst of fire.

Jack: “Because it’s temporary. When the game ends, they still have to face their bills, their loneliness, their regrets. Gaming gives people the illusion of control. But once the console powers off, the world doesn’t wait for them.”

Jeeny: “Neither does depression. Or grief. Or life. But you wouldn’t tell someone listening to music that they’re running from reality. You wouldn’t tell an artist to stop painting because it’s not ‘real.’ Games are just another way to feel, Jack.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the arcade attendant adjusted a flickering bulb. The faint smell of coffee and ozone lingered. For a moment, both were silent — a pause that felt like a checkpoint in the story of their conflict.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound noble. But what about the people who lose themselves completely? The ones who can’t stop? The World Health Organization literally classifies ‘gaming disorder’ as a mental condition now. There’s a reason for that.”

Jeeny: “There’s a reason alcohol exists too — and yet we toast to life with it. It’s not the thing that’s toxic, Jack. It’s how we use it.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with anger but with a kind of earnest pain, as though she’d seen what she spoke of — not as a theory, but as a truth.

Jeeny: “You remember my brother, Alex? When he came back from Afghanistan, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t talk, couldn’t even look people in the eye. But he started gaming. A silly survival game — building cities, defending them. It gave him something to protect again. A reason to care. I watched him come back to life through that screen.”

Jack: (softly) “And now?”

Jeeny: “He teaches kids game design. Helps them make their own worlds — better ones.”

Host: The arcade lights caught the faint shine of a tear sliding down her cheek, and for once, Jack didn’t interrupt. He looked away, his jaw tightening, his hands clenched under the table.

Jack: “I’m not heartless, Jeeny. I get it — for some, it’s a way out. But for many, it’s a way in — into deeper isolation, deeper addiction. That’s not healing. That’s sedation.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe healing and sedation aren’t as far apart as you think. Maybe sometimes you have to numb the pain before you can face it.”

Host: A game machine near them let out a sudden 8-bit melody, a nostalgic tune from another era. It cut through the tension like a small reminder of innocence.

Jack: “So what — you think gaming’s therapy now?”

Jeeny: “In its own way, yes. Think about it — games teach resilience. You fail, you try again. You learn patterns, strategies, patience. You collaborate. Isn’t that therapy? Just... interactive.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “So was believing people could heal through art. Or poetry. Or love.”

Host: The neon light flickered once, then steadied, as though it too were listening.

Jack: (leans forward) “Let me ask you this — do you think someone playing for ten hours a day is improving their mental health?”

Jeeny: “Depends. Are they lonely in that game, or lonely outside it? You think loneliness is better just because it’s offline?”

Jack: (pauses) “You’re twisting it.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m humanizing it.”

Host: Their voices lowered, no longer sharp with argument but weighed with introspection. The room hummed with the low sound of digital worlds continuing without them — universes that didn’t care who won, who lost, or who healed.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… in the early 2000s, doctors in the UK started using games like Tetris and Minecraft to help with trauma recovery. The repetitive focus of it helps the brain rewrite memories — less vividly, less painfully. That’s not addiction. That’s science.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “I’ve read that. And I’ve also read about people dying in internet cafés from exhaustion because they couldn’t stop playing. There’s light and dark in everything.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. So maybe we shouldn’t dismiss the light just because the dark exists.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a faint mist that blurred the window glass. The city lights outside glowed like distant galaxies, each one a pixel in a much larger world.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in things.”

Jeeny: “And you always try to erase it.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Maybe that’s why we keep talking.”

Host: The air between them eased, like a string slowly releasing its tension. The sound of a nearby machine’s victory chime broke the silence, a small anthem of human persistence.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Asim Chaudhry was right — gaming is amazing for mental health. Not because it fixes people, but because it gives them a place to exist when the world feels unplayable.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a reminder that even in fiction, people still want to win.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t wanting to win the first step to healing?”

Host: The question lingered like smoke, wrapping around their shared silence.

Jack didn’t answer, but his eyes softened, and in that small gesture, Jeeny saw something close to agreement.

Outside, the rain stopped. A beam of streetlight broke through the mist, scattering on the wet pavement like fragments of glass.

Host: And in that faint, flickering glow, two souls sat surrounded by the hum of machines, caught between reality and illusion, between pain and play — both knowing that sometimes, the game isn’t what heals you.

Sometimes, it’s just what reminds you you’re still alive.