Cardboard Crack - Magic: The Addicting
TLDR: A personal essay on growing up with Magic: The Gathering—from childhood enchantment to adult obsession. I reflect on how the game’s incredible design, social reinforcement, and dark psychological patterns fed a decades-long addiction. It’s a cautionary tale about the fine line between passion and compulsion.I was about eight years old when Magic: The Gathering first cast its spell on me. My older brother, then thirteen, had been introduced to the game in 2000, and I remember being enthralled by the strange symbols, vibrant creatures, and mysterious artefacts printed on those little cardboard rectangles. I couldn’t yet grasp the rules or understand all the text, but it didn’t matter—the game’s allure was immediate. Magic soon became the most captivating game I’d ever play: a layered, strategic “game within a game” that rewarded imagination and obsession in equal measure. Within the community, we jokingly call it “cardboard crack,” and over time, I’ve learned just how fitting that name is. This is my story—a recollection of affection for a game that has gripped me for nearly thirty years, even as I wrestle with the reality that I’ve been addicted to it for a third of my life.
The First Taste (Childhood Beginnings)
I still recall the thrill of holding those first cards back in the early 2000s. As a kid tagging along with my brother, I was captivated by the idea of Magic: The Gathering long before I understood its rules. The cards were like tiny pieces of a limitless world—dragons, elves, vampires—and to my young mind it was real magic. My brother would let me organise his cards by colour and marvel at the artwork, a kind of play that foreshadowed the collecting obsession to come. Even then, Magic felt like more than a simple pastime; it was an adventure, a puzzle, and a treasure hunt all at once.
In 2001, at the age of ten, I purchased my very first deck: a Green-White preconstructed deck from the Invasion set called “Heavy Duty.” I had saved up allowance and convinced my mom to take me to the bookstore to buy it. Peeling off the plastic and smelling that new card smell was pure joy. The deck’s strategy was straightforward—play creatures, smash things—but to me it was perfect. I sleeved the cards carefully and brought them to the kitchen table to duel my brother. Those early games were clumsy and full of misplays, but they sparked something in me. Magic became our thing—a shared language of fantasy and competition between siblings. I started collecting cards, saving any money I got to buy booster packs, trading duplicates in the schoolyard, and dreaming up new deck ideas during class. Looking back now, I recognise that the seeds of addiction were already planted; I was utterly hooked on the thrill and creativity the game offered. Still, at that age it was innocent enough—just a kid enchanted by an amazing game.
Losing the Spark (Drifting Away in Adolescence)
As I entered high school, my attention was pulled in other directions. New school, new friends, sports, and the general turbulence of teenage life meant Magic fell by the wayside. By 2005, the cards that once never left my side began collecting dust on a shelf. Perhaps I felt I’d “outgrown” the hobby, or maybe I just didn’t have a playgroup anymore—in any case, the spark of Magic flickered out for a while. In hindsight, it was probably a healthy break; I focused on studies and other interests, and I thought my card-slinging days were over. Little did I know, the embers of that old love were still glowing quietly. Magic was evolving during those years I was absent—new sets, new mechanics, whole story arcs I knew nothing about. Every so often I’d stumble on a card or see a reference online and feel a pang of nostalgia. But I resisted. I told myself it was just childhood nostalgia and that diving back in would be a “waste of time.” If only I’d realised that for someone like me—someone with an addictive personality when it comes to games—you can never truly quit Magic; at best, you’re just in between hits.
The Return of the Addiction (Hooked Again in 2013)
Fast-forward to 2013. I was in my twenties, browsing a local BT Games (game shop) for a new video game with my girlfriend (who would later become my wife). That’s when I saw it on the shelf: Duel Decks: Sorin vs. Tibalt. The product was a neat little box containing two ready-to-play decks themed around two iconic characters. Something in me stirred. I felt the old excitement rush back—the same heart-fluttering anticipation that eight-year-old me felt opening my brother’s card binder. On a nostalgic impulse, I bought the Duel Decks, thinking “It’s just a self-contained game for a fun night in. No big commitment.” Famous last words. My girlfriend and I played that very evening. I taught her the basics as we squared off: vampire Planeswalker Sorin versus the direct damage dealing Tibalt. To my delight, she took to the game quickly—perhaps too quickly. We swapped decks, played again and again, each duel more exciting than the last. I was experiencing Magic anew, through both my own rekindled love and her fresh-eyed enthusiasm. The hook was set—deeper than ever. By the end of that week, I wasn’t just back in the game; I was all in.
Thus began the cardboard binge. I started buying cards again… and boy did I buy a lot of cards. It started reasonably: a booster pack here, a few singles there to tweak the Sorin/Tibalt decks. But the floodgates had opened. Soon I was making regular trips to the game store, walking out with fat packs, booster boxes, new preconstructed decks—whatever I could get my hands on. I introduced my girlfriend to commander (a format where you choose a legendary creature to build a 100-card deck around), and that became our favorite way to spend our nights together. Before I knew it, Magic had reclaimed my life. It was now our shared hobby, which on one hand was wonderful—it brought us closer and gave us a fun distraction—but on the other hand, it provided even more justification to spend, spend, spend on more cards (after all, it’s “quality couple’s time,” right?). I was earning my own money by then, and I poured a shocking amount of it into Magic. We’re talking tens of thousands of rands over the next few years—something I half-jokingly rationalised as “cheaper than some other hobbies or addictions”, which is a common refrain among us Magic die-hards.
By 2015, I had built multiple commander decks and filled boxes with thousands of cards. I subscribed to Magic websites, monitored various spoiler sites, and spent hours on deck-building (something I affectionately call “tinkering”). In truth, I barely recognised that I was now deeply addicted—after all, this was fun, social, mentally engaging. How could it be bad? I told myself I could stop or slow down whenever I truly wanted. I told myself I was in control. But if I’m honest, by that point Magic controlled me.
The Best Game Ever… by Design
Even now, with all the hindsight in the world, I will argue that Magic: The Gathering is the best game ever designed. This isn’t just nostalgia talking—the game genuinely has a unique blend of strategy, creativity, and social interaction that few other games can match. It’s a strategic game that rewards skill and planning; it’s a collectible game that scratches the itch of building and customising; it’s a social experience that brings people together face-to-face. Magic’s depth is practically limitless—with over 25,000 unique cards printed and countless combinations, it offers an endlessly fresh challenge. Playing Magic develops your decision-making and problem-solving skills as you navigate complex board states and try to outwit your opponent. It teaches resource management, probability assessment, and adaptability. In my years of play, I’ve learned to calculate odds on the fly and anticipate strategies—mental muscles that Magic trained well.
Magic is often called “the game within the game” because so much of the excitement happens outside the actual matches. There’s the deck-building puzzle: selecting 40, 60 or 100 cards that synergise and execute your cunning plan. I can spend hours tinkering with deck ideas, shuffling and goldfishing (solitaire testing) to see how a new brew performs. That process is a whole game by itself—a creative outlet akin to writing music or solving a riddle. Then there’s the metagame, the ever-shifting landscape of which decks are strongest in a given week. Competing in Magic is like an arms race of ideas; you’re constantly iterating and refining, chasing that perfect formula to stay ahead. For those of us with the itch for mastery, this aspect is pure bliss—and dangerously absorbing.
And let’s not forget the simple tactile joy of the cards. Wizards of the Coast (Magic’s publisher) has mastered the art of making these little cardboard rectangles feel magical. The artwork is gorgeous, drawing you into fantasy worlds. The flavour text and lore make each card a tiny story. The rarity system makes some cards gleam with special foil treatments or alternate art—like treasure waiting to be found. Even the smell of freshly opened cards triggers a dopamine hit of excitement for me (and I’m not alone in that; the “new card smell” is a well-known pleasure in the community). In short, everything about Magic’s design—from gameplay to aesthetics—is crafted to engage and delight.
It truly is, in my eyes, the greatest game ever made. But herein lies a paradox: Magic’s very greatness is intertwined with its addictiveness. The game’s design brilliantly ensnares our attention and imagination—and, if you’re not careful, it can ensnare much more than that.
Dark Patterns: The Addiction by Design
Magic isn’t addictive by accident; it’s addictive by design. As I’ve come to learn, the game employs a host of psychological hooks and what some researchers call “dark design patterns”—design strategies that create experiences against our better interests, often without us realising. When I reflect on my own journey, I can identify many of these hooks that kept me coming back for more even when I knew I should slow down. Let’s unpack a few of the big ones:
Random Reward Loot Boxes (Booster Packs)
Magic’s primary way of selling cards is through blind booster packs—you pay a set price but the valuable cards inside are completely random. This is effectively a gambling mechanic, analogous to a slot machine or a video game loot box. Every time you crack a pack, you could hit the jackpot—a rare card worth lots of money or perfect for your deck—but most of the time you won’t. The design banks on something known in psychology as a variable ratio reinforcement schedule, which is a fancy way to say intermittent, unpredictable rewards trigger the strongest habit-forming response. You’re enticed to open “just one more pack” over and over, chasing that elusive win. As one MTG player observed about booster pack habit: “They don’t call it ‘cardboard crack’ for nothing!”. The truth is, opening Magic boosters basically is gambling. Yes, you always get some cards (it’s not like a slot machine that might give you nothing), but if we’re honest, a bulk common card you don’t need feels like nothing, whereas pulling a mythic rare feels like hitting the lottery. Psychologically, it’s disturbingly similar to pulling a lever and hoping for triple-sevens. Researchers have pointed out the parallels between loot boxes and trading card packs—in fact, physical card packs might pose even more of a gambling risk to the vulnerable because the cards can often be resold for real money on a secondary market. Magic players joke about being “pack addicts,” but behind the humour lies a real compulsion fueled by this randomised reward cycle.
The Thrill of the Chase (Rarity & Collectability)
Magic’s collectible nature means there’s always another holy grail to seek. Some cards are printed in low quantities or special editions, creating artificial scarcity. A recent extreme example was the release of a collectible One Ring card (from The Lord of the Rings crossover set) where only a single copy of a special version was ever printed. The odds of opening that one-of-a-kind card were astronomically small—effectively a golden-ticket lottery. Yet that didn’t stop countless fans (yours truly included) from buying extra packs just for the remote chance of pulling it. Why? Because the hype was sky-high: that single card was bountied at over $1,000,000 by collectors. The lure of ultra-rare cards exemplified: in 2023, Wizards of the Coast printed a unique “The One Ring” card (serial 1 of 1) hidden in packs—a marketing move that drove collectors into a frenzy. The mere possibility of finding a lottery card like this fuels addictive pack-opening behaviour. Beyond such outliers, even the routine rarity system creates a chase. There’s always a list of coveted mythics and rares each set that spike in price due to power or collector demand. The secondary market in Magic is massive; cards become stocks to invest in.
I’ve felt the tug of FOMO (fear of missing out) many times: “If I don’t buy this key card now, it might triple in price by next month!” That fear leads to pre-ordering sets, camping online for flash sales, or impulsively buying cards “before they go up.” Magic’s design deftly exploits our human impulse to collect and complete. There’s always another card, another set, another shiny foil variant to tempt your wallet. The game encourages a mindset that you need more cards—to stay competitive, to enhance your collection, or simply to experience that rush of owning something rare. It’s a never-ending chase by design.
Constant New Content (Never Satisfied)
Magic’s release schedule is relentless. New card sets now come out almost every other month, each with its own themes and powerful new cards. While this keeps the game world fresh and exciting, it also means there is never a natural stopping point. The fire is continually stoked. No sooner have you digested the last set and maybe taken a breather, the spoiler season for the next set begins and you’re hyped all over again. Wizards of the Coast knows how to keep us on the hook—they drip-feed card previews, announce flashy upcoming products, and run events that highlight new cards. This creates an environment of perpetual anticipation. In recent years, even hardcore fans started feeling product fatigue. 2019 was jokingly dubbed “The Year of Wallet Fatigue” because so many new Magic products were released that players literally felt financially exhausted trying to keep up. I can personally attest that year emptied my wallet like never before. Yet, the fear of missing something great kept me spending. The limited-time offerings (like promotional cards, crossover sets with other franchises, special edition packs) are explicitly engineered to trigger FOMO – “get it now or you might never get a chance again!”. I’ve been that person refreshing the webpage as a Secret Lair drop (a limited print run product) goes live, anxious to snag a copy before it sells out. It’s exhausting, and it’s meant to be. The more pressure and urgency the company can place on each purchase (“Buy now! Limited print run!”), the less time you have to rationally decide if you really need it. Rational me would say I already own thousands of cards, more than I could ever play with—but the design manipulates me into feeling like my collection will be incomplete or obsolete without the next new thing.
Visual & Sensory Appeal
This one is more subtle, but Magic stimulates our senses in ways that create strong positive associations. The cards are beautiful to look at—that’s visual dopamine right there. Collectors love showcasing full-art lands or holographic foils that shimmer. The tactile feel of cards, the act of shuffling a deck, the snap of a card as you play it—these small pleasures reinforce the habit loop. I’ve caught myself idly shuffling a deck just because it’s comforting. All these sensations—sights, sounds, even the aforementioned smell of cards—form a web of triggers that can pull a Magic addict back in. Walk into any card shop and that distinctive smell of cardboard and booster wrap hits you; for me, it’s like an old friend tapping on my shoulder saying “welcome home, stay awhile.” In game design terms, these are seductive elements—they don’t directly make you buy more, but they make the whole experience so enjoyable on a primal level that you want to repeat it.
Social Reinforcement and Identity
Magic is not a solitary pursuit for most; it’s a community. And being part of that community can entwine the game with your very identity. I’m not just a person who plays Magic—I became, in a sense, a “Magic player” as a core identity. One’s social environment can normalise and even encourage addictive behaviours. If everyone I know is buying cards constantly, drafting every week, and pouring hours into the game, then my own excessive engagement doesn’t seem unusual—it feels like just what everyone does. This is classic enabling behaviour, even if unintentional. Additionally, the validation one can get in the Magic scene can feed the addiction. I’ve experienced how good it feels when you start winning or become known as a semi-skilled player. When your hobby becomes your identity and your main source of esteem, you’re going to cling to it even harder, to the detriment of other facets of life.
In short, Magic’s design and culture keep us hooked. The game taps into our brain chemistry—chasing that “one rare card” literally activates reward circuits in the brain—and layers on marketing and social hooks to ensure we stay in the loop. It’s the quintessential example of what one writer called “a subtle, relentless, seductive vortex”: you get pulled in deeper and deeper, often without realising how far you’ve gone until you’re completely submerged.
Psychology of an Addiction
So, is my obsession with Magic truly an addiction? By colloquial standards, absolutely—I’ve jokingly called myself a “cardboard crack addict” for years. But looking at it through a more serious, psychological lens is important if I’m to understand and caution against it. The American Society of Addiction Medicine (ASAM) defines addiction as a chronic brain disorder characterised by compulsive engagement in rewarding stimuli despite adverse consequences. Does my relationship with Magic fit that definition? Let’s see: compulsive engagement—check. I often play or buy cards almost on autopilot, compelled by urges I struggle to control. Continuing despite harmful consequences—check. I’ve spent money I shouldn’t have, neglected other responsibilities, and experienced stress and regret due to Magic, yet I continue. It may not be a substance I’m ingesting, but behavioural addictions (like gambling disorder, gaming disorder, etc.) are very real and similar in how they work on the brain.
One concept that resonates with me is the dopamine loop. Dopamine is the neurotransmitter of wanting—it spikes when we anticipate a reward. Magic triggers dopamine in many ways: the anticipation of a booster pack’s contents, the excitement of a winning topdeck in-game, the thrill of unveiling a new strategy. Each time I give in to “one more game” or “one more pack,” I reinforce neural pathways that make me want it again. Over time, it can become an entrenched loop: cue (feeling bored or stressed), craving (“I want to play or open a pack”), response (I do it), reward (I feel good briefly), repeat. This is the same cycle involved in substance addictions, just with a different trigger. And, as with any addiction, tolerance and escalation happen—what used to satisfy me for a week (say, one purchase) eventually wasn’t enough, so I needed more frequent fixes.
Another psychological aspect is escapism. I’ve come to realise that Magic has often been my coping mechanism during hard times. Stressed about work? Play Magic to forget it. Feeling down or lonely? Design a new deck to lift the mood. To a point, escapism via games is fine—even healthy. It provides a break from reality’s pressures, and Magic does offer genuine relaxation and joy in moderation. However, I crossed that line where escapism became avoidance. I started using Magic to dissociate from real life problems. Instead of addressing issues or processing emotions, I’d lose myself in the game. During a particularly rough patch—for example, when I was feeling directionless—I threw myself even deeper into Magic. I’d justify it as “at least I’m being productive in something (like improving at the game)”, but in truth I was running away. This kind of heavy immersion can contribute greatly to addictive behaviour, as one analysis noted: high immersion + using games to escape are risk factors for developing problematic gaming habits. I saw that in myself, clearly.
Furthermore, in those psychological terms, I definitely showed signs of loss of control. An anecdote from pro player Ryan Saxe, who wrote about overcoming his MTG addiction, really struck me: he described blacking out on the way home from class and ending up at a game store drafting, almost as if on auto-pilot, forgetting he had other plans entirely. He literally lost agency to the point he “blinked” and found himself cracking packs. While I haven’t experienced anything quite that dramatic, I have promised myself I wouldn’t spend more money this month and then dropped R1,000 on singles because I couldn’t resist. Those moments are sobering because they reveal the powerlessness that defines addiction. It’s not simply a matter of willpower or “choosing to do something else,” as outsiders might say—when you’re in the grip of it, the game calls the shots, not you.
Interestingly, not everyone is equally susceptible to Magic addiction. Research has compared different types of gaming and found that collectible card games generally rank lower on addiction scales than, say, video games or internet gaming. Many Magic players are able to engage in the hobby without it becoming destructive. They can treat it as just a fun pastime. I envy those folks, honestly. Studies even found that some gamers who thought they were “addicted” were actually only showing mild habits, not full-blown addiction, unless they had underlying issues like low self-esteem or depression fueling their game use. This suggests that Magic, in isolation, isn’t typically as chemically or psychologically hijacking as, for example, a casino slot machine or a drug—unless you have certain vulnerabilities. In my case, I can identify some of those vulnerabilities: I’ve had bouts of anxiety and low self-esteem throughout life, and Magic was a convenient refuge where I knew I could feel competent and in control. That’s fertile ground for an activity to take deeper root and potentially overgrow.
It’s also worth noting that some research draws a distinction between physical gambling and opening card packs. One study found that opening booster packs was less tightly correlated with problem gambling behaviours than opening loot boxes in video games, partly because buying physical packs takes more deliberate effort and time (you have to go to the store, or wait for mail, etc., as opposed to instant online purchases). That’s a small silver lining: the friction of physical card acquisition perhaps slowed down how rapidly I could indulge compared to if Magic were purely digital. (Of course, now there is a fully digital platform, MTG Arena, which indeed makes spending money frighteningly quick and easy—I have to be careful with that one!). But even if the addiction potential per hour is lower with physical cards, the problem is I just dedicated huge chunks of my life to those hours. The mental addiction remains the same “cardboard crack” problem, even if I couldn’t feed it at slot-machine speed.
Bottom line: Magic: The Gathering addiction is real—I’m living proof. It may not wreck your health like a drug addiction or bankrupt you as quickly as a casino might, but it can insidiously erode aspects of your life. It starts as harmless escapism and fun, but can evolve into a compulsion that shrinks your world to just the game. I’ve seen my free time consumed by it, my finances covertly drained by it, and even my self-worth tied to it. That’s when you know the scales have tipped from passionate hobby to problematic addiction. It’s a slow tip—so slow you don’t notice until you’re teetering on the edge.
A Cautionary Reflection
Writing this piece is as much an act of self-reflection as it is a warning to others. I adore Magic: The Gathering. I likely always will. It’s given me incredible joy, lasting friendships, and even shaped my thinking in positive ways. It’s not an exaggeration to say that Magic has been a defining pillar of my life—a source of identity, comfort, and excitement. However, as with any powerful force, it has a dark side. For me, Magic became an addiction that I must actively manage.
I wish I could end this reflection with a neat success story—that I heroically broke free from the addiction and swore off buying cards forever. The truth is, I haven’t. As of today, I still play, I still collect, and yes, I still spend more than I probably should on this game. The difference now is that I’m aware of the blade’s edge I’m walking. Temptation is always there, and I do slip up. But awareness is the first step toward any kind of change.
To anyone reading this who sees a bit of themselves in my story: I urge you to also reflect. It’s okay to love a hobby—even obsess over it—but pay attention to the line between healthy passion and harmful addiction. Are you spending money you don’t have on cards? Is the game interfering with your relationships, work, or well-being? Do you feel unable to cut back or stop even if you want to? These are tough questions, but important ones. It’s easy to stay in denial (I did for a long time, masking my overindulgence as “normal for a gamer”). Sometimes it takes a stark moment—like me finding duplicate rare cards in an unsorted pile and realising how excessive my collection had become—to jar you into recognising the problem.
I also want to address the broader industry: The makers of games like Magic know exactly what they’re doing with the dark pattern techniques and addictive mechanics. Wizards of the Coast designs an amazing game, but I wish they would acknowledge the fine line between engagement and exploitation. The rapid-fire product releases, the $100+ exclusive boosters, the casino-like randomness—it’s all great for profits and keeps players like me enticed, but it can lead to real distress for some fans. I don’t expect a corporation to police my behaviour, but I do think transparency and moderation in these practices would go a long way. (For example, some jurisdictions have started questioning if loot boxes should be regulated like gambling; it’s not far-fetched to consider similar scrutiny for physical card games if evidence of harm mounts.)
Ultimately, my aim here isn’t to demonise Magic: The Gathering—it is, truly, a brilliant game that I cherish—but rather to shed light on the shadow it can cast on one’s life. My introspection is a cautionary tale: love what you love, but keep your eyes open to its effects on you. Introspection is key. I’ve laid bare my own experience in the hope that it encourages others to reflect on theirs.
In a way, I’m trying to turn my addiction on its head by openly talking about it. There’s a kind of empowerment in naming it, analysing it, and sharing it. It breaks the spell of secrecy and shame that often accompanies addiction. As I write this, I feel both saddened by the ways I let Magic overreach in my life and optimistic that acknowledging all this will help me strike a better balance going forward.
Magic: The Gathering is my passion, but it is also my poison. Like any potent drug, it must be respected. I intend to continue enjoying the game. I’m not “quitting Magic” today… But I’ll do so warily, with a healthier dose of skepticism towards its siren song.
Shuffle well and remember: the cardboard may be crack, but you are always more important than the game.
