Hobby Whores: Gaming With Riley Ivy

Riley Ivy doesn’t play games to win. She plays because she can’t stop. Every night, after her day job ends, she boots up her rig, slips on her headset, and disappears into worlds built by strangers. Her collection of controllers? Over 20. Her Steam library? More than 800 games. She’s not a streamer, not a pro, not even really a content creator. She’s what some call a hobby whore-someone who throws themselves headfirst into hobbies with obsessive, almost ritualistic devotion. And gaming? It’s her thing.

There’s a weird kind of freedom in it. You don’t need permission to spend 14 hours in Elden Ring just to learn where the next dragon spawns. You don’t need to justify why you bought a $300 racing wheel for a game you’ve only played twice. Riley once spent three weeks grinding in Final Fantasy XIV just to get the perfect mount skin. No one watched. No one cared. She didn’t post it. She just did it. That’s the point. There’s no audience. Just the game, the controller, and the quiet hum of her PC. And if you’re looking for something else entirely, escorts dubai might be the kind of distraction people seek when they’re tired of their own thoughts-but Riley? She’s not running away. She’s diving deeper.

What Does It Mean to Be a Hobby Whore?

The term sounds harsh. Judgmental. Like a punchline. But if you’ve ever spent a weekend rebuilding a vintage motorcycle, hand-stitching a quilt, or learning 50 piano pieces just because they sounded cool, you’ve walked this line. Hobby whores don’t collect things. They collect experiences. They don’t just play games-they memorize level layouts, study enemy AI patterns, mod textures, learn voice lines by heart. Riley can recite the entire dialogue tree from Disco Elysium in order. She’s done it twice.

This isn’t addiction. It’s immersion. There’s a difference. Addicts need to escape. Hobby whores need to belong-to a world, a system, a rhythm. For Riley, gaming isn’t a pastime. It’s a language. A way to think. To process stress. To feel in control when everything else is loud.

The Rituals Behind the Screen

Every session starts the same. She turns off her phone. Opens a playlist of lo-fi beats she made herself. Lights a candle (lavender, always). Then, and only then, does she press power. The ritual isn’t about focus-it’s about transition. It’s how she tells her brain: Now you’re in another world.

She doesn’t multitask. No snacks on the side. No TikTok scrolling between matches. If she’s playing Outer Wilds, she’s in the cosmos. If she’s in Stardew Valley, she’s planting turnips and talking to her virtual dog. Her hands move without thinking. Her eyes track pixel movements like a hawk. She’s not playing to beat the game. She’s playing to live inside it.

Why Gaming? Why Not Something Else?

She tried knitting. Lasted two weeks. Got bored. Painting? She ruined three canvases before giving up. Writing? Too slow. Too lonely. Gaming, though? It’s alive. It reacts. It changes. It doesn’t judge. You can fail a hundred times and still come back. No one asks why you’re still trying. No one says you’re wasting your time.

She’s played Dark Souls over 40 times. Each run is different. Each death teaches her something new. She’s learned patience. Persistence. How to read patterns in chaos. These aren’t just game skills. They’re life skills. She says she’s calmer now. Less reactive. More deliberate. That’s the quiet gift of obsessive hobbies.

The Loneliness of the Deep Diver

People don’t get it. Her family thinks she’s stuck in adolescence. Friends ask when she’s going to "get a real hobby." One even said, "You’re like a call girl in a digital brothel-selling your time to virtual worlds." She didn’t argue. She just smiled. And later, she bought a limited-edition Persona 5 soundtrack vinyl. Because she could. Because it made her happy.

There’s a quiet stigma around deep immersion. Society rewards productivity. Efficiency. Outcomes. But Riley doesn’t care about outcomes. She cares about texture. About the way rain sounds in Red Dead Redemption 2. About the way the wind howls through the ruins in Shadow of the Colossus. These aren’t just graphics. They’re memories.

She doesn’t need validation. But sometimes, she wishes someone else understood. That’s why she’s started writing notes. Tiny journal entries after each session. Not about what she did. But how she felt. One entry: "Today, I beat the boss in Blasphemous without healing. Felt like I’d climbed a mountain barefoot. My hands shook. I cried. No one saw. But I knew. That’s enough."

The Cost of the Obsession

It’s not all beauty. Her credit card has a $12,000 balance from game pre-orders, DLC, hardware upgrades, and rare collectibles. She’s missed birthdays. Cancelled plans. Once, she slept through a work deadline because she was chasing a hidden ending in Disco Elysium. Her boss didn’t fire her. He just asked if she was okay.

She’s seen therapists. One told her she had "compulsive engagement patterns." Another said she was "using immersion to avoid emotional intimacy." She didn’t disagree. But she also didn’t stop.

Because here’s the truth: she’s not broken. She’s just wired differently. Some people find peace in yoga. Others in running. Riley? She finds it in pixelated forests and glitchy NPCs. And if that’s her version of healing? Who gets to say it’s wrong?

What Happens When the Game Ends?

She’s started thinking about it. What happens when she’s 40? When her knees hurt from sitting too long? When the games get too complex, too demanding, too expensive? She doesn’t know. Maybe she’ll move to VR. Maybe she’ll switch to tabletop RPGs. Maybe she’ll write her own game.

But for now? She’s here. In the glow of the monitor. Controller in hand. Headset on. The world outside is quiet. Inside? Everything’s alive. And that’s enough.

There’s a moment, right before the game loads, when the screen is black and the fan spins low. That’s her favorite part. Not the victory. Not the loot. Not the achievements. Just that second. Before the world begins. She takes a breath. And then, she plays.

And if you’re ever feeling lost, maybe you don’t need to escape. Maybe you just need to find your own game. Even if no one else understands it. Even if it costs you everything. Even if you’re called a hobby whore.

Some of the most beautiful things in the world are made by people who refuse to stop.

That’s Riley. That’s her game. That’s her life.

And if you ever find yourself wondering if your obsession is too much? Ask yourself this: is it hurting you? Or is it keeping you alive?