Dota 2 isn’t a game.
It’s a crime scene I keep returning to, even though I know exactly how the blood will dry.

I hate it — the chaos, the ego, the teammates auditioning for a documentary called How to Ruin a Lead in 30 Minutes. Every match feels like a slow dissection of my patience. And yet… I queue again. Like a moth circling the same flame that’s already burned its wings clean off.

Dota punishes you with precision. It studies you. It waits. Then it gives you one perfect moment — the clutch fight, the immaculate execution, the hit of dopamine sharp enough to make you forget all the misery that came before it.
That’s the trick.
That’s how the darkness keeps you.

I don’t play because I love it.
I play because somewhere between the frustration and the thrill, I found a part of myself that refuses to let go.

So here’s my review:
Dota 2 is a game I despise… and somehow, the only one I keep coming back to.

A toxic ritual.
A beautiful disaster.
My favorite mistake.