Sometimes I get asked why I never mention iPad games. Well, that’s because I stopped playing them a while ago. The design philosophy in the current iPad gaming landscape is pernicious, and it made me quit.
Too many iPad games today treat players not as participants but as data points in a monetization funnel. Here are a few practices that annoy me the most.
Most iPad games today run on a carefully calibrated system of deprivation. No matter what you do, you’re always missing something: a few more gold coins to upgrade your hero, a handful of gems to finish construction, or a few energy points to attempt another level. The game will happily sell you what you lack, for real money.
This isn’t accidental. Developers deliberately structure progression so that natural play slows to a crawl after the first few hours. Each new upgrade costs exponentially more, and actions are locked behind timers that can only be skipped by paying real money. It’s a psychological trap, exploiting impatience and the fear of wasted time. What begins as entertainment becomes bookkeeping, an endless loop of waiting, paying, and waiting again. The sense of reward no longer comes from achievement, but from relief: the relief of buying your way out of a delay the game itself created.
In the past, you played games when you wanted. Now, they play you according to their own schedule. “Daily missions”, “weekly events”, “limited-time offers”: these are not bonuses, but tools of behavioral conditioning. Miss a few days and your streak resets, miss an event and your character falls behind. The result is a subtle but powerful transformation of leisure into obligation. Many players don’t realize how much of their day is shaped by digital calendars owned by others. Instead of deciding when to enjoy a game, you’re checking in to maintain progress. The pleasure of play gives way to the anxiety of keeping up. Games no longer fit into your life, you are expected to fit your life around them.
Then come the ads. At first, they seem harmless. Watch a thirty-second video to earn an extra life or a bonus chest. But soon, they become unavoidable. Some games tie essential rewards exclusively to ad-watching, while others interrupt play with mandatory commercials that offer nothing in return. This relentless intrusion reshapes the very structure of the experience. You’re not really playing anymore, you’re performing a repetitive ritual of interruptions, exchanging your attention for digital trinkets. And it’s not just annoying, it’s exploitative. Many ads are misleading, often promoting other games with fabricated footage, and the constant exposure erodes the sense of immersion that good games depend on. The player becomes the product, and their time the currency.
The competitive side of iPad gaming has fared no better. In theory, multiplayer modes should reward skill, strategy, and teamwork. In practice, they often reward only one thing: spending power. Pay-to-win mechanics create a world where the best gear, characters, or power boosts are available only through real money purchases. The consequences are predictable. Players who don’t pay are crushed by those who do. The ladder becomes a measure of disposable income, not talent. Communities fracture into “whales” (big spenders) and “free players”, the latter treated as fodder to populate the ecosystem. The illusion of fair competition vanishes, leaving behind a kind of economic warfare dressed up as entertainment.
If scarcity and pressure weren’t enough, randomness seals the trap. Loot boxes and gacha systems mimic gambling: you spend money for a chance to obtain a rare item or character, without knowing the odds. The excitement of possibility keeps players hooked, but the reality is bleak: the house always wins.
Some games soften the blow with “pity systems” that guarantee a rare drop after a certain number of failures, but these thresholds are calibrated to maximize spending, not fairness. The combination of bright colors, slot-machine sounds, and near-miss psychology isn’t entertainment, it’s manipulation wrapped in confetti.
Even ostensibly fair systems, such as battle passes, often mask deeper fatigue. A well-designed pass could offer steady rewards for regular play, but most games overload them with tasks, timers, and multiple paid tiers. To finish the pass, you must log in daily, complete repetitive chores, and perhaps even pay for “exp boosters” to make it in time. The game becomes a second job, a contract signed under the illusion of fun.
Monetization doesn’t stop at the surface. Many iPad games deploy subtle psychological tricks: fake discounts on items that were never full price, perpetual countdown timers that never truly expire, or oversized “buy now” buttons placed where your finger naturally lands. Some even sell “quality of life” features (basic conveniences like faster auto-play or larger inventories) as premium upgrades. Every design choice is optimized to nudge you toward spending, not playing.
Social features, too, have been co-opted. Guilds and alliances should build camaraderie, but they’re often engineered to create guilt and obligation. You’re asked to donate resources daily, participate in timed events, or risk being expelled from the group. What could have been community becomes coercion, a network of mutual dependence sustained by anxiety.
Some games pretend to solve these problems by calling themselves “idle”. In theory, that means they respect your time and that you earn progress even when not playing. In practice, idle systems are often a disguise for more aggressive monetization. Auto-play features frequently perform better than manual play, turning the player into a spectator while the game runs itself. Progress depends on waiting for timers to expire or paying to make them expire faster. The loop remains the same, only the pacing changes.
None of this is an accident. The modern iPad gaming economy is shaped by powerful incentives. User acquisition costs are high, so once a player is captured, every mechanic must maximize retention and revenue. The App Store’s charts reward daily engagement and in-app purchases far more than artistic merit or originality. And because a small percentage of players (“whales”) account for most of the profits, game design increasingly caters to them at the expense of everyone else. Add rising production costs and the pressure to match console-level visuals, and the result is an environment where aggressive monetization feels not just acceptable, but inevitable.
It doesn’t have to be this way. There are still developers who resist the dark gravity of free-to-play economics. Games that charge a fair upfront price, that offer transparent expansions instead of manipulative microtransactions, that sell cosmetics instead of power. These titles let players progress at their own pace, take breaks without punishment, and enjoy gameplay that feels like discovery rather than labor. They publish their odds openly, respect offline play, and treat players not as a resource to extract but as guests to delight. But, unfortunately, those games are rare.
For the rest of us, awareness is the first defense. Pay attention to how a game structures its economy. Notice how often it interrupts you, how it measures your time, how it tries to sell you back the patience it just took away. Refuse to buy “solutions” to problems the game created. Support studios that charge honestly and design fairly. Write reviews that call out manipulation in clear, specific terms. And above all, remember: if a game feels like work, it’s not you who’s failing, it’s the design that’s exploiting you.