I first encountered tabletop card games (TCGs) through Magic: The Gathering as a college freshman, close to the turn of the century. I fell in love with it immediately, thoroughly infatuated with the art, the gameplay, and the potential for ever-expanding variety. What I didn’t recognize at the time was that I had also stumbled into the current of a vortex that was as subtle as it was relentless, as seductive as it was ravenous.

Nearly three decades and many other physical and digital card games later, I still hesitate to call what I have an addiction. Surely my spending and playing habits aren’t akin to physical or psychosomatic dependence. I don’t spend beyond my means and I’m functional in other areas of my life. But what else can I call this measured-yet-compulsive pattern of behavior? What do the boxes and boxes of cards jamming up my shelves represent?

How should I describe the polite yet irresistible craving for one more game, for one more booster pack, for one more deck?

For one more hit?

Cumulative upkeep

I should point out that I am a fair-to-middling TCG player, regardless of the game: I get a few wins now and again, but my continued enjoyment of TCGs is decidedly not borne of the laurels of the winners’ podium. What I do enjoy is the rush of acquiring and tinkering with new stuff: visualizing how certain mechanics might work and putting pieces together to make fun things happen while playing with friends, regardless of winning or losing. The thrill of potential, as it were.

TCGs can foster their own brand of addiction, but there are ways to navigate the pull of the vortex without falling in completely.

Now, let’s have a brief sidebar about how addiction works: the dopamine-seeking loop. When we concede repeatedly to the seemingly irresistible need to smoke another cigarette, drink another shot, have another bite, swipe to one more TikTok, et cetera, that’s us obeying our physiology’s call for more dopamine. Whether it’s substances, sex, or social media—or anything that makes us feel good, really—the potential for the loop to kick in is always present. And, naturally, the more we partake, the stronger the undertow of that loop gets.

And that’s how the vortex has me and countless other TCG enthusiasts. It’s hard to not be constantly pulled along because encouraging your fascination and teasing your potential are the fundamental aspects of the TCG experience.

And that’s where TCGs are apex hunters, thanks to the gambling-adjacent nature of acquiring new cards through randomized packs. Their gachapon-aligned marketing practices are very good at retaining player interest because they leverage how we feel about luck. They tease the possibility of a rewarding payoff in whatever form that may take within the game or in the real world, since some cards can be pivotal for winning competitive games, worth hundreds of dollars, or both.

I know I said “gambling-adjacent” earlier, but you know what: it basically is gambling.

Your ticket to greatness could be right there, in the very next pack you open! Or perhaps the next box! Maybe the odds will be in your favor if you open more! Don’t you want to find out? That acquaintance you heard about, that guy, didn’t they post about an astronomically expensive card from just one booster? That could happen for you, too! Just try one more pack!

Granted, TCG marketing is seldom that blunt, but it can get close at times. And what they don’t say out loud, the cravings in your head say for them—and that’s before we even get into peer pressure, which is another compelling hook among many others: gorgeous presentation, FOMO-directed limited releases, secondary market benefits for “investing” in popular cards to meet demand, and even new card smell.

These all add up to form that swirling current of attraction that is semantically on par with practices found anywhere from Las Vegas to free-to-play mobile gacha games. They want you to keep coming back for more, and they are very, very good at making that happen.

Go again

These days, my TCG attention is thoroughly entrenched in Flesh and Blood (FAB). It excels so much at everything I mentioned earlier that it got me to willingly jump into a competitive event environment: something that I never honestly thought I could fit into (see “fair-to-middling” player assessment above). It keeps me thinking about how to play, what to play, and whom to play with. There is a definite buildup of habit-inducing behavior—never mind how much money and mindspace I’ve committed to it.

However.

I gladly recommend FAB to anyone, even to folk who have never tried card games before. Yes, even after everything I said earlier about the compulsive powers of TCGs. There is merit in this game, and getting into it can yield healthy, constructive results if we’re mindful about how we engage with it.

My experiences with FAB have been unilaterally positive, thanks in no small part to the warm, wonderful, and supportive community of players I’ve met through it. And that hasn’t been a fluke of local circumstance: the worldwide organized play system for it has been designed from the ground up to foster that kind of positivity.

And that’s the turnabout: TCGs can foster their own brand of addiction, but there are ways to navigate the pull of the vortex without falling in completely.

Shuffle up and play

Tolarian Community College, a veteran YouTube channel of TCG-related—primarily Magic—coverage, has a decade’s worth of experience discussing TCGs in rational, conscientious ways that emphasize moderation. The channel’s “Professor,” an affable gamer with a profusely but endearingly academic persona, is uncompromising and quick when it comes to pointing out the problematic aspects of TCGs while also encouraging viewers to make the most of the games that make them happy.

It’s the Professor’s kind of awareness that I use as a mental map whenever I engage with practically every TCG I come across. By keeping my eyes open and maintaining a firm hand on my time and resources, I manage to find my own way through the compulsions. It helps, too, to have people to talk to about these games: like-minded players who feel the same current and chart their own course along the whirlpool’s edge.

There’s a lot more to be said about how to maintain healthy engagement with a TCG hobby, and about how to constructively handle addiction in general—perhaps in a future article. But we can stop for now with one of the guiding stars for managing addiction: the idea that we can talk about and share our experiences because we all have similar currents and undertows in our respective lives. It’s that commonality that can rescue us when we’re lost, comfort us when we’re in need, and enliven us when we celebrate our shared passions.

If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction and would like to seek support, you can contact the National Center for Mental Health via their 24/7 crisis hotline: dial 1553 toll-free in Luzon, 0917-899-8727 for Globe and TM subscribers, and 0908-639-2672 for Smart, Sun, and TnT subscribers.