Crypto Gamblers: The Illusion of Control in a 24/7 Betting Machine

The Machine That Never Sleeps

You think you’re trading. In reality, you’re pulling a slot machine lever—except this one runs ²⁴⁄₇, pays in digital tokens, and feeds on your dopamine. As someone who analyzes smart contracts for a living, I’ve watched countless rational minds dissolve into this black hole of perpetual betting. It’s not greed—it’s design.

The real danger isn’t losing money. It’s realizing you’re trapped in what cultural anthropologist Natasha Dow Schull calls the “machine迷境”—a feedback loop so finely tuned that even when you know you’re sinking, you can’t stop.

The Fall of a State-Owned Vice-Manager

Take “Zhe Li Chong Sheng,” once a mid-level official at a coal processing plant in Handan—stable income, house, car, daughter. Normal life by any standard. But then came Bitcoin.

He started small: $500 on spot trades. A few quick gains? Suddenly he believed he could quit work forever. Then came leverage: 10x, 50x… until he was borrowing from friends and tapping credit lines just to “get back to break-even.”

He lost four times—from \(22k to \)65k—but each time his response wasn’t reflection; it was another bet.

His wife filed for divorce. His father sent one message: “This home has no place for you.” Today? He drives rideshare for $30/hour after working 13 hours straight just to survive.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even feel the numbers anymore.

Emotional Gambling as Performance Art

Then there’s Liang Xi—a 19-year-old who made headlines after doubling 1k into ~$40M during the 2021 May crash. Viral fame overnight.

But that win became his curse—not because it ended badly (it did), but because it created an illusion: I can do it again.

So he kept playing—with higher stakes, wilder emotions—and eventually racked up over $200M in debt while performing mental breakdowns on livestreams like clockwork.

Every loss? A performance. The next recovery? A redemption arc for his fans. He didn’t trade—he starred in his own drama series where every market swing was script-driven emotionality.

His audience didn’t care if he was broke or stable—they cared if he stayed dramatic enough to keep watching.

That’s not investing—that’s attention capitalism disguised as trading.

James Wynn: The Algorithmic Performer?

And then there’s James Wynn—the man who turned \(0 into \)87M in 70 days on Hyperliquid—a public ledger showpiece with real-time profits visible to all.

For weeks everyone cheered him as the new crypto messiah—until collapse hit hard: a near-total wipeout within five days despite early success.

Instead of stepping back? He launched an open USDC fundraiser—”to fight corrupt makers.” Claimed return-on-investment at 1:1 ratio if successful (which wasn’t verified).

dethective later published chain analysis suggesting hidden addresses were consistently profitable while his main account burned through capital—possibly running two parallel narratives under one identity.

could be legitimate risk-taking… or could be theatrical manipulation designed for virality and funding. The line between trader and performer blurred beyond recognition—and that’s exactly what makes this ecosystem dangerous today: it rewards spectacle more than substance.