At age 8, I discovered “Adopt Me,” a Roblox game that looked harmless but was, in fact, a kind of deal with the devil — the kind where you end up feeling like you’re selling your soul.
In the game, players collect all sorts of pets ranked by rarity, take care of them, trade them, earn money and run around a colorful map. Little did I know this game would completely destroy my sleep schedule, cut short my childhood and even lead to questionable ethical choices.
In elementary school, all my friends played it after school, so I naturally was sucked in. When we weren’t playing Grounders in the playground, it would be the hottest topic to discuss “Adopt Me” during recess. After class, it was our ritual to spend hours upon hours grinding the game together. Eventually, we had the bright idea to share passwords with each other because we wanted to play on each other’s accounts. I entered my (short-lived) villain arc when I locked one of my rich friends out of her account and proceeded to act innocent when everyone asked who did it.
In my defense, I was only 8, meaning my brain was basically running on autopilot. We shouldn’t be judged for our inexplicable decisions when we’re still in single digits, right?
Still, I’m fearful to confess that the addiction only seemed to get worse from there. The constant addition of new pets and events (my favorite event of all time being the Christmas 2019 event) kept me hooked and always coming back to the game. I remember every morning I’d wake with only one goal on my mind: obtain daily prizes from the in-game advent calendar. At some point, I clocked in around six hours daily, which made my parents ban me from video games altogether
This did not stop me. I started sneaking screen time on any unattended device like my dad’s phone, computers, KidsPad — anything that had Roblox installed. And if it didn’t, I would add it.
The addiction spiralled further from there. As a 10-year-old, I would stay up until 3 a.m., crouched under the dinner table grinding away at the game. My eyes burned and my back ached, but the successful high-risk pet trades seemed to make it all worth it. I later evolved to starting an eBay side hustle with my dad’s account and eventually made $50 from it by selling my “Adopt Me” pets high while buying others low. Later, my dad lied to me about getting banned from eBay to get me to stop doing this.
My parents realized the problem had gotten out of hand when my half-awake dad stumbled upon me mid-trade staring at my phone under the table at 3 a.m.
After this traumatic incident, my parents kept an even tighter watch on my devices and I lost any privileges I originally had. My obsessions didn’t disappear immediately, but instead slowly faded into something less chaotic. Over time, the game also started losing hype and even though I wasn’t playing as much anymore as a high schooler, I never completely stopped.
Looking back, “Adopt Me” taught me more than you’d think a Roblox game could. Some Roblox games like “Grow a Garden” can become mindless clicking of buttons, but “Adopt Me” taught me negotiation skills from trading with other players and convincing them my pet is worthy of trading. It also taught basic market logic — supply and demand — and how to recover from virtual scams like when someone conveniently asks to “try” your pet. Most disturbingly, though, I learned that I’m among the millions of kids who can get addicted to video games easily, especially when we’re all programmed to seek the easiest source of dopamine.
At 8, I didn’t realize this was what addiction looked like. While I do regret the sleepless nights and stress it caused my parents, I’m not sad about the memories or weird nostalgia that I was left with. Whether it was good or not, “Adopt Me” will forever be a defining period of my childhood.
