India–Pakistan Asia Cup match would normally trigger massive fantasy-gaming activity; that frenzy is now quiet after the government banned real-money gaming (RMG).
The piece compiles accounts of players driven into debt, despair and, in many reported cases, suicide linked to RMG.
Platforms deployed aggressive retention strategies — retention teams, manipulative messaging, repeated WhatsApp/call nudges, loans, bots and allegedly rigged algorithms — to maximise daily revenue.
Former executives confirm internal pressure to prioritise addictive engagement strategies despite knowing the harm it caused
When India and Pakistan clash at the Asia Cup in Dubai this Sunday, passions will run high and television audiences will swell, as always.
But with the government banning real-money gaming (RMG) platforms, the frenzy of fantasy play that once gripped living rooms, cafés, and office cubicles during such duels has been silenced. Many say, for good — literally.
This story pieces together accounts of real people driven to debt, despair, and, in many cases, suicide by companies that deployed retention teams, manipulative messaging, loans, bots, and rigged algorithms to pump up their daily profits.
Executives who once worked inside these platforms now confirm that they were pressured to fuel an addiction they knew could only end one way: badly for the players, who could never win.
The shattered families they left behind are convinced the ban was long-overdue. It has come too late, they say. But not too late to save may others from falling prey. For many former RMG employees the demise is a relief.
In 2021, Manu (name changed) joined a gaming company backed by a Mumbai-based businessman who had earlier built his fortune in operating government-licensed lotteries. On paper, it seemed like an exciting place to work: decades of industry presence, a loyal customer base, and promises of “dynamic, day-to-day learning.”
“I was recruited as a senior manager of retention and marketing and communications,” Manu recalls. “We were told it would be a great learning experience, very dynamic. But the reality was 60 to 70 hours a week, constant reviews with the CEO, and pressure that followed even into family vacations. I’d stop while driving, open my laptop, finish work, then get back on the road.”
For Manu, the work revealed not just the high-pressure culture of online real-money gaming companies, but also the devastating human stories tied to the addiction many players fell into.
Unlike typical consumer apps that chase new users, Manu says his employer’s survival depended almost entirely on retaining existing players. “The new acquisition was not much,” Manu explains. “Retention was the focus, getting people to play every day. Every day we would WhatsApp them multiple times, sometimes 10 to 15 times a day. We’d also call twice daily, once in the morning to ask how yesterday went, and in the evening to check if they’d play today.”
This was not a light engagement. Players who tried to step back often found themselves pulled in again. “If a player didn’t have money, we would loan them money,” Manu admits. “Then we would pressurize them to bring it back by playing again. If we had lent money, we’d keep calling, following up daily.”
One such player was a young man from Tamil Nadu who worked at a hostel in Bangalore. “He earned around ₹25,000 a month,” Manu says. “He sent ₹5,000 back home, and spent most of the remaining ₹20,000 on gaming. He even borrowed from friends. He had become a debtor to almost everybody in his circle. We would reassure him, telling him he was a good player, that he’d win if he kept trying. Even when he said he had no money, we kept pushing him.”
Some of the stories Manu encountered are heart-rending. One case involved a schoolteacher with a modest salary. “He earned ₹18,000 a month and was playing for more than ₹1 crore of prize money every day on the platform,” Manu recalls. “He managed this by selling his family land. He had five to seven kids, and yet all his money went into the game.”
Such instances, says Prof. Arvind Narayan, public policy researcher on gaming regulation, “show how the system actively targeted vulnerable users. Regulation needed to enforce responsible gaming measures, including limits on deposits, mandatory risk warnings, and support for at-risk players,” were absent.
For Manu, calling the players relentlessly became distressing. “I had horrendous experiences talking to them. I was asking them to put in money, to keep playing, even when I knew nothing would come of it for them.”
The Fantasy Sports Trap
Das (name changed) never worked in the industry, but he watched a close friend’s life collapse under the weight of fantasy sports addiction. “He started with small amounts, ₹200-500,” Das says. “But soon he was putting in ₹10-15 lakh, then ₹20 lakh at a time. In total, he lost ₹60-70 lakh. He thought this game was made for him, that he had understood its working. He even told me, ‘The money will keep increasing, it will keep coming in.’ But it didn’t. It only went.”
Das explains how the psychology of fantasy platforms is carefully engineered. “There is a dopamine rush. You keep checking the app every ten minutes to see if you’re winning or losing. Sometimes, even if you win, it’s just enough to keep you playing.”
“India’s online gaming sector had grown far faster than its regulatory framework. Companies exploited vulnerable users because their business model depended on it. Unlike mature jurisdictions, there was no mandate for transparency about odds or limits on addictive play,” says Prof. Narayan.
According to Das, his friend’s fantasy line-ups were often almost identical to the teams that topped the league. “Sometimes the whole team was the same.” Still, he wouldn’t even be in the race. “He kept believing he was just one choice away from winning big.” A win that never came.
Both Manu and Das point to the role of algorithms and bots in keeping players hooked. “The purpose of bots is to get you acquainted with the platform, make you play more,” Manu explains. “Difficulty levels would change. Sometimes easy so you’d win, then harder so you’d lose and want to play again. If we wanted to maximise profits, we’d just increase the difficulty level.”
Das adds that platforms lure players back with freebies and credits. “If you haven’t played for 15-20 days, they would give you ₹500 free to bring you back. “They wouldn’t let you leave.”
Manu emphasises this wasn’t limited to one company. “It was pretty common across real money gaming. All the big platforms have VIP teams and bots. The difference is just scale.”
Inside the company, Manu says employees themselves were under constant stress.
“The CEO’s involvement in daily and weekly reviews often came with harsh criticism,” he recalls. “Sometimes the CEO would yell at us, saying we weren’t capable enough. My team had one person from brand marketing, another from customer support, and two new hires. None of us had done retention before. But we were expected to keep players engaged at all costs.”
This atmosphere left Manu questioning his role. “I didn’t feel right telling players these things, but it was the job. Over time, I realized I couldn’t keep doing this.”
Debt, Borrowing, and Family Ruin
Das describes how addiction ripples outward. His friend, he says, borrowed extensively to keep playing. “He took money from lenders, friends, even family. He would borrow one lakh, play, lose it, then borrow again. Soon, he couldn’t pay anyone back. His relationships broke down; his parents were devastated. At one point, he even thought of suicide.”
Online gaming addiction works in the same way as substance abuse. “The brain begins to crave the anticipation and reward, not just the win itself. Over time, this can lead to disrupted sleep, poor academic or work performance, and even depression or suicidal thoughts when losses spiral,” said Dr. Radhika Mehta, clinical psychologist specialising in behavioural addictions
For Das’ friend, the descent was swift and devastating. “These games are presented as harmless, even aspirational. Ads show cricketers smiling, saying you can win big. But no one shows you the person who loses his house, his land, his family.”
Both Manu and Das agree that the industry’s survival depended on keeping people hooked.
“It was like alcohol,” Manu says. “With alcohol, at least there are warnings. With gaming, platforms kept claiming it was entertainment.” It was safe and about having a good time. “But it was not.”
Das echoes this, pointing to aggressive advertising. “They used celebrities, cricketers, movie stars. They made it look glamorous. But inside, it was only about one thing: how much you can keep playing, how much you can keep paying.”
Walking Away
Eventually, Manu left the company. “I had experience in data and marketing, so I found another job. I knew I couldn’t continue in an environment where I was forcing people to spend money they didn’t have. People were losing their families, their homes, their lives. I didn’t want to be part of that anymore.”
Das, meanwhile, is still trying to help his friend recover from massive debt and psychological damage. “It will take years. He has lost money, but also trust, relationships, confidence. That’s the real cost.”
Long after the Dream11s of the world have faded, stories like these will haunt families ruined by the greed of companies that gamed their lives. Or, as Manu puts it: “Gaming companies claimed it was entertainment. But I’ve seen what it did to people.” It was certainly not cricket.
