The wine glass clinked a little too loudly against the ceramic, a tiny bell of nerves. Sarah’s grip tightened on her partner’s hand under the table, a silent plea for rescue. “So, how did you two meet?” The question hung in the air, innocent enough, but it carried a strange weight, a faint echo of judgment that always seemed to follow certain answers. She cleared her throat, her cheeks already flushing that familiar, warm pink. “Oh, just… through an app.” A dating app, of course. That’s perfectly acceptable now, a perfectly modern, if slightly unromantic, origin story. The blush was less about the app itself and more about the performative nonchalance, the need to downplay the search, the effort, the raw vulnerability of it all. But what if it had been different? What if their love story had begun not on a meticulously curated profile page, but amidst the chaotic, pixelated battlegrounds of a gaming server? That, she knew, would be an entirely different confession, one that would likely never see the light of day. Because there’s a bizarre, unspoken social hierarchy in the digital realm, isn’t there? A set of invisible rules determining which online spaces grant legitimacy to our connections and which ones relegate them to the realm of the trivial or, worse, the embarrassing.

(Approximate percentage of global users engaging in online gaming activities)

The Invisible Hierarchy

It’s a peculiar thing, this silent agreement we’ve made. We’ve collectively decided that networking on LinkedIn, where you connect with 5 new professionals daily, is a sign of ambition and forward-thinking. Joining an online book club that meets 25 times a year is intellectual. Even finding love on a dedicated dating app, while still carrying a faint whiff of desperation for some, has largely been normalized. Yet, suggest you met your best friend, or your life partner, or even just someone who genuinely understands you, while defending a virtual tower against 45 goblins in a fantasy game, and watch the subtle shift in their eyes. That almost imperceptible pull-back, the faint, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. It’s as if gaming, despite its immense reach-billions of users worldwide, 3.25 billion in fact, if we’re being precise, many of them connecting for 15 hours a week-remains trapped in a cultural amber of childishness.

I remember feeling it myself, years ago. I’d spent countless hours in an online strategy game, not just playing, but truly building a community. There were 235 of us in our guild at its peak, all working towards common goals. We celebrated victories, mourned losses, and shared far more about our actual lives than I did with some of my ‘real-life’ acquaintances. But when asked how I spent my evenings, I’d often fudge the details, mentioning a vague ‘online group’ rather than admitting it was a bunch of us, scattered across 5 different continents, strategizing over virtual resources. It felt… small, somehow. Unworthy of serious mention. This, despite the fact that those online friendships provided 35 times more emotional support than some of my superficial coffee-shop interactions. It’s a mistake I realize now, this self-inflicted shame, rooted in outdated perceptions.

The Truco Tale

And then there’s Ruby P. Ruby is a building code inspector, a woman whose life is literally about ensuring structural integrity. Every beam, every wire, every load-bearing wall must adhere to stringent standards, to the very letter of the law. You’d imagine someone like Ruby, dedicated to the tangible and the meticulously structured, would be the last person to embrace the amorphous, often chaotic world of online gaming. Yet, Ruby met her husband, Mark, through an online Truco game. Not a dating app. Not a networking event. Truco. They were on opposing teams for 5 months before they ever exchanged private messages, trash-talking each other good-naturedly, admiring each other’s strategic finesse. When they finally met in person, it wasn’t just a blind date; it was the culmination of 175 shared hours of competitive play, of observing each other’s patience, resilience, and even humor under pressure. Ruby, of all people, often struggles with how to tell their story. She confesses to initially saying, “Oh, we just… met through friends online,” hoping to imply a more conventional, mediated introduction. She works to protect the integrity of structures, but she felt a bizarre need to obscure the true structure of her own most vital connection.

Challenging the Hierarchy

This isn’t about shaming dating apps or professional networks; it’s about acknowledging the deep, meaningful connections that blossom in unexpected gardens. Why do we grant legitimacy to one digital space over another? Is it the perceived ‘seriousness’ of the platform’s initial intent? LinkedIn is for careers, dating apps are for romance, but games are… just for fun? As if ‘fun’ cannot be the fertile ground for profound human connection. As if laughter and shared challenges aren’t as valid a foundation as a meticulously crafted resume or a perfectly filtered selfie. The digital realm is just a mirror, reflecting our own biases and values back at us, and for too long, we’ve valued the pragmatic over the playful, the utilitarian over the truly communal. Our culture still has 25 years of catching up to do, at least, when it comes to fully embracing digital natives.

Perhaps it stems from a lingering suspicion of anything perceived as ‘escapism.’ Gaming, for many, still carries the baggage of being an activity for those avoiding ‘real life.’ But what if ‘real life’ is increasingly lived in these digital spaces? What if genuine vulnerability, strategic thinking, problem-solving, and deep empathy are all being cultivated in these very ‘games’? The bonds formed over shared virtual quests can be as robust and life-affirming as those forged over workplace projects or shared hobbies in the physical world. It’s a truth I’ve come to accept, especially as I see how easily my own past digital connections resurface, like when I recently scrolled through my social feed and found myself reflexively liking an ex’s photo from three years ago. The past, digital or not, has a way of staying with us, shaping our perceptions of what’s real.

The Pressure to Sanitise

The real problem isn’t where these connections start, but the pressure we feel to sanitise their origins for public consumption. We censor ourselves, crafting palatable narratives to avoid the blank stares or the well-meaning but utterly misplaced pity. It’s a silent, internal negotiation we make, trading authenticity for perceived social acceptance. We are, in essence, lying about how we met not because the connection itself is inauthentic, but because we fear the judgment that comes from its unconventional birthplace.

These spaces, like the ones where players connect over a strategic card game like Truco, are not just platforms for entertainment; they are vibrant, evolving communities where people genuinely connect, learn from each other, and forge bonds that transcend the digital screen. They offer a unique blend of challenge and camaraderie, creating a rich environment for meaningful interaction that often gets overlooked or dismissed out of hand.

Embracing the Digital Age

It’s time to challenge this arbitrary hierarchy. We need to start acknowledging that the strength of a bond is not diminished by its digital origin, nor is it lesser if it began in a space designed for ‘fun.’ The courage to be vulnerable, the effort to communicate across distances, the shared laughter and frustration – these are the true metrics of connection, regardless of whether they occurred across a coffee table or a virtual game board. The digital age is not just changing how we live, but how we love, how we befriend, and how we define community. And it’s high time we stopped being embarrassed about the beautiful, messy, and sometimes wonderfully unexpected ways we find each other in this vast, interconnected world. Perhaps it’s not about the app at all, but about how many genuine moments were shared through it, 5 at a time, building to something real.