I’VE never been much of a gamer. Anything that demands more than a minute of my feeble attention span gets tossed aside for the next shiny distraction — a lawyer in a cat filter on Zoom or an errant fluff on the floor.
Sure, I played The Last of Us on PlayStation, but that’s the closest I’ve come to enjoying games of any kind.
It wasn’t until three years ago while passing a shop in the CityONE Megamall, my wife Jillian introduced me to the only game I’ve ever cared about with the fervor of a Wall Street hedge fund eyeing a billion-dollar deal.
Picture Bobby Axelrod in a highstakes showdown — that’s me, at the claw machine.
You know the one: that arcade game where you get 30 seconds to steer a mechanical claw over a pit of plush rejects, each staring up with the kind of sad hope that says, ‘Pick me.’
It goes by many names — Claw Crane, Mechanical Crane, or just That Thing at Shopping Centres — but to me, it’s nothing short of a work of beauty.
With a joystick in hand, you manoeuvre the crane until you swoop in on your prize — freeing it from a sea of unchosen, doe-eyed compatriots — using the claw’s precarious metallic grip.
You know the odds are stacked against you — each RM1 coin feeding a machine practically designed to outsmart you.
But you keep going, not because you’re a fighter, but because, somewhere in your soul, you’re a bit of a nihilist.
That first time with Jillian, I spotted a smiling Minion plushie and locked on.
What started as light-hearted fun took a turn the moment she cheered, “Let’s see if we can get it!” Then came the first heartbreak.
The first loss always stings the most. In cinematic slow-motion, the claw picked up Minion, only to drop him from its flimsy steel grasp right at the end.
I tried three, four, five more times — sweating, heart racing, nervously laughing, all while pouring coin after coin into the slot — until I finally gave up. Jillian once compared scrolling through social media to “a rat pressing a lever, waiting for a hit of a good meme.”
The claw machine taps into the same primal need.
Every couple hundred tries, you might win — just enough times to feel as though you’ve conquered the universe. Interestingly, the mindset the claw machine requires isn’t so different from my early days at Goldman Sachs back in 2009.
I was thrown into training at Susquehanna International, the world’s most formidable quantitative trading firm, enduring a grueling 200-hour marathon of cardplaying as part of a brutal 10-week Stochastic Calculus boot camp. Out of 155 quants, only six of us clawed our way through.
That crucible— practically a brain crucifixion — taught me a lot about stoic grit and persistence — and, more often than not, the reality that it doesn’t pay off.
Yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a gnawing hope that it might.
With the claw machine, you’re almost certain no good will come of spending so much time putting money in to feed your fun, but the stakes are never as big as in the real world.
Such are the inevitable lows and giddy highs it offers.
What I love most about the claw machine is that it doesn’t love you back.
Unlike the rhythm games or Dance Dance Revolution (DDR) machines blaring in the corner, there’s no sense of progress or skillbuilding — just frustration… and the hunger to try again. Six months after that first encounter, I returned to the arcade — this time with my six-year-old son, Hayek.
We had a couple of hours to kill before picking up Jillian from work, and I casually floated an idea. “Hahaha, wouldn’t it be fun if we stopped by the arcade?
No pressure, though… I mean, we don’t have to go…”
Predictably, the machine outsmarted us — or, well, me. Two weeks later, I found myself back at that same claw machine.
The original Minion toy had been swapped for a Minion key ring, which I thought might have better odds thanks to its metal hook. But could I really be sure?
There are endless articles on how to beat the claw machine but let’s be honest — I don’t have the attention span for that.
Besides, doesn’t dissecting the game kind of ruin the point?
After countless attempts, I was ready to throw in the towel when, miraculously, the claw clamped onto the keyring and held.
I flagged down a bewildered arcade attendant to take a photo — it felt like a moment worth memorialising.
I’d probably spent over RM100 to win that little key ring, but every ringgit was hard-won.
The claw machine is the kind of thing that should appeal to kids, not a 38-year-old dad.
Motorbike convoys and holiday trips sound appealing on paper, but there’s something uniquely satisfying about hanging out in a dimly lit arcade on a random afternoon.
That’s the draw of this ridiculous game.
For five minutes, you get to hit pause on your responsibilities, forget the candlestick charts, and pretend life is as straightforward as aiming for a plush toy.
It’s easy to get lost in the fluorescent colours of the screens, the sound of frustrated people arguing over whack-a-mole, and the loud music reverberating through the arcade.
Time freezes.
Everyone is chasing the same thing — winning a silly toy for someone they care about.
Am I tempted to try other games?
Do I feel a twinge of envy watching teens absolutely destroy DDR?
Should I branch out into something more ‘productive’?
Yes.
Absolutely. And also, no.
As someone who’s never been particularly good at any sport, I’m more than content with my quiet admiration for this one.
If I ever win another plush toy, it’ll go exactly where the Minion key ring now resides — in a drawer in the spare room, gathering dust.
The humble spoils of a small, improbable victory.
