Credit: Lance Skundrich/Riot Games
By Jack Clarke
The first PC I owned came from the back room of Bowlers Market in Manchester, rammed into a grey box that looked like a mini fridge with wires pissing out of it. It was cobbled together by a man who wore a Bluetooth headset like it was welded to his skull and promised, swear down, that it could run anything “except maybe Crysis 3.” It couldn’t. But it could just about run Populous. And it could definitely run League of Legends.
It was my mate Liam who put me on to LOL. We were about 15, both walking hormone storms on a Salford estate where the council hadn’t finished fixing the last thing before something else fell off. He said it was free, give it a go. At first I hated it. League is a MOBA, which is nerd-speak for ‘five-a-side chess with wizards where everyone blames you.’ I played it like someone learning maths from an angry cat. Items, lanes, cooldowns, jungling, it was like getting jumped by an algebra textbook.
Two years in, another mate found this website that showed how much you’d spent on League. I clicked for a laugh. My mate had spent about a grand. Mine? £367.46.
Credit: Jack Clarke
Now, if you’re from a leafy suburb, that might be a weekend in Cornwall. For me, that was multiple birthday funds. That was pocket money I’d prayed into existence. That was three months of teenage dinners from the yellow sticker section. On what? Pixelated skins. Fancy clothes for virtual people. And I wasn’t alone.
League markets itself as ‘free to play.’ Technically, yeah. You can play the base game for nothing. But to actually play who you want, look how you want, or not feel like the poor cousin at a digital dinner party, you pay. And pay. And pay.
Every champion has skins, visual redesigns, outfits, vibes. They don’t make the game easier. They just make you look cool. And that is exactly what makes them valuable. It’s pure image capitalism: self-expression through consumerism, except the thing you’re dressing up isn’t you, it’s your clickable avatar. It’s late-stage capitalism’s wet dream: rent the feeling of identity, pay for the illusion of uniqueness.
This is where gaming taught me how capitalism feels. Not just how it works, how it grips. How it rewards those who have the spare cash. How it dangles luxury, exclusivity, and relevance behind a paywall. You don’t buy skins to win. You buy them so you don’t feel less than. It’s aspirational. It’s cosmetic class war.
Credit: Petar Vukobrat
But I do recall a time, misty-eyed, thumb-calloused, Xbox 360 humming like a wounded microwave, when gaming transactions actually meant something.
See, I came up in the DLC era. Back when ‘additional content’ didn’t mean a clown outfit for £3.99 or a gun that looks like a vape pen. It meant more game. Whole-ass chunks. Real meat on the bone. I’m talking Fable: The Lost Chapters, not just extra quests, but a whole epilogue slapped onto the end of your hero’s journey, like someone leaned in and whispered, “fancy one more round, lad?” And Mass Effect 2’s Lair of the Shadow Broker? That wasn’t a side mission. That was cinema. That was Bond with aliens. Car chases on rooftops. Espionage. Emotional damage. Dialogue options that made you pause the game and stare at the wall for a bit.
But the pinnacle, the filet mignon of DLC, was The Witcher 3: Blood & Wine. A DLC so generous, so lovingly built, that it felt like you were robbing CD Projekt Red blind. New map, new plot, new monsters, new wine. Actual vino. You went from mucking around with drowners in Velen to solving vampire murders in sun-drenched vineyards like some cursed Sommelier Batman. That wasn’t DLC. That was Game of the Year: Bonus Disc Edition priced less than a triple AAA modern title.
And that was the pact: real content, fair coin. A gentleman’s agreement between dev and player. Here’s more of the thing you love.
Credit: Jack Clarke
Loot boxes and problem gambling
Now? You pay £4.99 for a gun that doesn’t even make your bullets hit harder. You pay £9.99 for ‘loot boxes’ that spin like slot machines and might give you something shiny, might not. These mechanics mirror the psychological structure of gambling so closely that researchers have raised alarms about their addictive potential and links to problem gambling behaviour. Loot boxes offer randomised rewards for real money, exactly the sort of behaviour seen in casinos and betting machines.
In fact, academic research has repeatedly found statistically significant links between spending on loot boxes and problem gambling symptoms. One comprehensive review of multiple studies found that the more players spend on loot boxes, the more likely they are to score higher on standard measures of problem gambling behaviour, with effects appearing even after controlling for how much time people spend gaming overall. Another study found that young players aged 12–16 who engaged with loot boxes were significantly more likely to show gambling‑related behaviours, and that a majority of adolescents in that sample still encountered these mechanics regularly.
Loot boxes aren’t just statistically linked to gambling traits, they physically mirror the behavioural mechanisms gambling uses to condition players. They are randomised reward systems where the ‘hit’ comes unpredictably, but the urge to buy again after a loss remains exactly like a slot machine. That’s why some researchers and regulators describe them as “gambling‑like elements” and argue they should be regulated as such.
Studies have even suggested that spending on loot boxes might act as a “gateway” into broader gambling behaviour, so buying packs of players or skins in a game could potentially influence later engagement with betting or casino games. And this isn’t just academic hair‑splitting: according to the Children’s Commissioner for England, children themselves have reported worrying that loot boxes feel like gambling, with some admitting they spent hundreds of pounds chasing virtual items rather than real progression.
Credit: FGZ
Look at FIFA’s Ultimate Team packs, essentially loot boxes disguised as football card packs, which have been described by industry commentators and consumer advocates as a “casino in football boots” because players spend real money for the chance of getting better players, with no guarantee of return. Or look at Diablo Immortal, where critics have pointed out that the pay‑to‑win and random reward systems are so dominant that players can spend tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to max out builds, far outstripping what even classic paid games once earned over years.
Even major developers have admitted these systems are central to revenue: Blizzard’s leadership defended the microtransaction design in Diablo Immortal by saying loot boxes and paid progression are just part of how mobile free‑to‑play games make money, effectively acknowledging that monetisation now isn’t optional, it’s the business model.
And it’s not confined to one or two titles. Loot boxes were predicted to generate tens of billions of dollars for the industry as early as 2018, nearly as much as entire physical entertainment segments, before many governments began to scrutinise them. The economic scale of these mechanics means millions of gamers, including kids, are exposed to randomised purchasing mechanics that are functionally indistinguishable from gambling, without the legal or societal protections that gambling would normally require.
Credit: Persistancemarketresearch
The real‑world consequences can be striking. In Australia, health researchers linked loot box purchases to anxiety, impulsivity and stress, highlighting how these mechanics can operate similarly to addictions seen in conventional gambling and creating real mental health harms. In the UK, testimonials from parents recount teenagers unknowingly spending hundreds of pounds on loot boxes from their parents’ cards, blurring the lines between in‑game currency and real financial cost. And more recently in the US, the Federal Trade Commission fined the developer of Genshin Impact $20 million for reportedly misleading players, including children, about loot box odds and pricing, accusing the company of obscuring costs and effectively marketing gambling‑like purchases to minors.
It’s no wonder then that countries, from Belgium to Brazil, have adopted stricter regulations, classifying loot boxes as a form of gambling or banning them entirely for minors. Games that were once global phenomenons now face legal crackdowns because their monetisation strategies are no longer sustainable in a world questioning the ethics of gaming as commercial entertainment.
The game world today is no longer a world. It’s a showroom. A billboard. A Hunger Games of clout and credit. And that breaks my heart because once upon a time video games felt like a place to escape capitalism, not get sold a subscription to it.
But all is not lost. The world of games isn’t entirely a giant showroom selling you clout and credit for the highest bidder. There’s a seam of creativity, messy, human, low‑budget, uncompromised, breaking through the monetised noise. While Ready Player None (Fortnite) churns seasons and Triple‑A studios chase ever‑larger live‑service revenue models, there are games and approaches out there that still treat play like culture, not a shopping mall.
Modern gaming capitalism
Still, you can’t talk about this shift without talking about Fortnite itself, because Fortnite is the prototype for modern gaming capitalism. What started in 2017 as a free battle royale that could run on anything with a screen has turned into a global entertainment hub that makes billions. Between 2018 and 2026, Fortnite pulled in an estimated $42.2 billion in revenue, with annual profits consistently in the multi‑billion‑dollar range, in some years over $6 billion by itself.
Yes, a free game makes more money than the GDP of some small countries. And it doesn’t just make that money off a few skins you click on, it weaves brand partnerships into the gameplay fabric itself. Marvel superheroes, Star Wars lightsabers, Nike Jordans, Lego crossovers, in‑game concerts with real pop stars and limited‑time events that feel like grand marketing spectacles more than traditional gameplay, Fortnite isn’t just monetising players, it’s selling them culture wrapped in pixels.
Credit: EPIC Games
The Battle Pass model it popularised is significant not just for Fortnite, but for how entire studios monetise modern games now: seasonal content sold as a progression system that continually pulls players back in and ties identity to spending. Where once you bought a game and played, now you subscribe to phases of an endless parade of content drops, cosmetics and collaborations. That’s not play, that’s loyalty with a price tag.
It’s worth acknowledging that Fortnite’s brand integrations are clever, and from a marketing perspective almost ingenious. Brands are no longer advertised at in Fortnite, they are lived through by millions of players in interactive worlds, virtual concerts, and crossover seasons. That’s the thing, Fortnite didn’t just sell skins; it sold a space for brands to exist inside the game’s social fabric, a kind of participatory billboard that players engage with as entertainment.
But here’s the kicker: a game that once felt like just play is now a world where global franchises, billion‑dollar revenues, and endless cosmetic pushes are the norm. Fortnite’s model, free to get in, expensive to truly be, has become the default template for free‑to‑play games everywhere, reinforcing a broader industry shift where player identity, fashion and presence are effectively commodified.
And while Fortnite itself has argued that users get non‑gameplay enhancements and experiences worth engaging with, the larger question remains: does this model serve players, or does it serve the machine built on their attention and money? When the game stops feeling like a shared world and starts feeling like a relentless parade of branded hooks, what’s left of the imaginative space that once made video games feel like a world instead of a marketplace?
Titles like Saltsea Chronicles, a narrative adventure focused on community and interdependence rather than battle passes, and Hardspace: Shipbreaker, a mechanical, meditative exploration of labour and meaning, point toward games that engage with ideas rather than wallets.
Credit: Blackbird Interactive
These games don’t ask you to gamble for a rare cosmetic or chase endless seasons of content drops. They give you work, worlds, memory, story and agency. They treat the player as a participant, not a consumer. They are possible because teams, often tiny, often indie, deliberately reject the predatory temptations of loot boxes and microtransactions that dominate the mainstream. These monetisation schemes are designed to extract constant spending with variable reward systems that mirror gambling more than traditional gameplay, a tactic that has drawn scrutiny from regulators and consumer advocates alike.
And this pushback isn’t just aesthetic, it’s structural. In recent years, workers in the video game industry have started to organise for their own rights. Developers from major franchises like Overwatch have formed unions under the Communications Workers of America, creating a “wall‑to‑wall” guild that spans disciplines from design to quality assurance. This was a reaction to decades of questionable labour practices, chronic crunch culture, and a corporate ethos that often prioritises profit over people. Developers have voiced that unionisation isn’t just about better wages or job security, it’s about creative agency, professional dignity, and the ability to shape the industry’s values rather than being shaped by them. This matters because the conditions under which games are made inevitably shape what games are made. Workers with voice and protection are more likely to create work that isn’t purely engineered for monetisation.
This movement hasn’t been easy. Across the industry, organisers have faced resistance from corporate leadership, legal complexity and cultural inertia. But the very fact that QA testers, programmers, artists, and engineers are now unionising, something almost unheard of a decade ago, shows that there’s a growing desire within the industry to reclaim games from the extractive model that has dominated for so long.
Credit: David Lumb/CNET
The difference between an indie game and a live‑service behemoth isn’t just budget. It’s intent. Indies like the ones shaping 2026 prioritise narrative nuance, systemic reflection, and community meaning over quarterly earnings reports. They remind us that games can be art, that they can critique labour, class, identity, and even the systems that produce them, instead of constantly monetising addiction and impulse. They offer experiences that ask questions rather than sell solutions.
Call It What It Is: Gaming Needs Real Regulation, Not PR-Friendly Self-Policing
The loot box debate isn’t new. It’s just unresolved. Despite mountains of research, mounting mental health concerns, and kids draining their parents’ bank accounts to roll digital dice, the UK government has spent the last five years batting it around like it’s a hot potato laced with Red Bull.
The legal problem starts with the Gambling Act 2005, a piece of legislation written two years before the iPhone and nearly a decade before loot boxes became a dominant revenue stream. Under the Act, gambling is defined by whether a player can win money or ‘money’s worth.’ Because most loot boxes award digital items rather than cash, they fall outside this definition. The Gambling Commission has repeatedly stated that it has no formal power to regulate loot boxes under current law, even while acknowledging concern about the “blurring of lines between gambling and gaming” and the psychological similarities between the two.
In practice, this has produced a regulatory vacuum. Rather than extending the Gambling Act to cover loot boxes, successive governments have relied on industry self‑regulation. In 2023, the trade body UK Interactive Entertainment (UKIE) introduced voluntary ‘industry guidance’on loot boxes, following a government call for improved player protections. The guidance encourages transparency and parental controls, but carries no statutory force: there are no binding legal obligations, no automatic penalties for non‑compliance, and no independent enforcement mechanism. Implementation is still being ‘monitored’ by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport, with future legislation merely ‘kept under review.’
Meanwhile, the economic scale of the system is not marginal. UK parliamentary research estimated the domestic loot box market to be worth around £700 million annually by the end of 2020. Surveys cited by the Children’s Commissioner for England indicate that between 25% and 40% of children who play video games have purchased loot boxes, and that children themselves often perceive these mechanics as resembling gambling. Academic research has also found consistent statistical associations between loot box spending and problem gambling behaviours, even when controlling for time spent gaming.
Credit: Children’s Commissioner
This is not a grey area created by cultural confusion. It is a grey area created by law. A government serious about protecting children and treating gaming as culture rather than a casino would need to do what existing policy has avoided: update gambling legislation for the digital age, replacing voluntary codes and industry promises with statutory rules capable of addressing randomised, monetised reward systems as they actually function in practice.
So what would that look like?
- Close the legal loophole. Update the Gambling Act 2005 to explicitly cover loot boxes and similar ‘chance-based’ mechanics, regardless of whether a cash prize is involved. If it walks like a slot machine, spins like a slot machine, and trains 12-year-olds to behave like gamblers, then maybe it’s time we stop pretending it’s harmless.
- Mandatory odds transparency. No more hiding drop rates in sub-menus or only revealing them after you buy in. Odds should be up front, in bold, before any transaction happens — and not buried like the small print in a payday loan ad.
- Ban underage purchases. If gambling is illegal for kids, so should digital gambling. Enforce parental approval mechanisms for all games with randomised purchases, and use age verification tools that actually work, not just click-a-button-and-lie.
- Platform accountability. Hold distributors like Steam, PlayStation, and Xbox financially responsible for facilitating games with exploitative monetisation. If they can take a 30% revenue cut, they can take a 30% cut of the blame.
- Loot boxes? PEGI 18. If your game has a mechanic that mimics a slot machine, it gets an adult rating. Full stop. We don’t rate scratchcards PEGI-7. Why are we doing it with Roblox?
- Real fines for fake ethics. If studios ignore advertising rules around loot boxes, like the 90% of mobile games found in breach, there should be meaningful consequences, not just press releases. You break the rules? You pay.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop asking a gambling regulator from the pub fruit machine era to understand how modern games work. Games are complex, dynamic, culturally significant. We need a games regulator, independent, tech-literate, and resourced enough to track this evolving digital terrain. Someone who understands that selling virtual footballers to 13-year-olds for a chance at dopamine isn’t just dodgy, it’s dangerous.
Until then, we’ll keep spinning. Keep chasing. Keep normalising the grind. But it doesn’t have to be like this. Because games can be more.
Gaming can be art. It can be radical. It can be resistance. But only if we see it clearly, and only if we demand more than buy‑buttons and loot crates. If we stop pretending a pixelated skin is worth our dinner money. If we call a loot box what it often is: a con wrapped in flash and psychological tricks. And maybe most importantly, if we support the people who make these games, stand with them as they organise for fairer workplaces, creative freedom, and an industry that values culture over clickbait metrics, then there’s a future where gaming feels like something that matters again, not just another showroom floor.
Credit: From Software.
