Waka waka — another dot of value, eaten.
Here's a thing I got wrong for years. I used to think the whole point of an arcade maze was surviving. Dodge the hunters, clear the board, chase the high score. I was the hungry one, and the four ghosts from the center box were the villains.
Wrong. The ghosts were never the point. The dots were.
Let me explain, because this is the one idea I actually want you to walk away with today, and it took me an embarrassing number of quarters to understand it.
In a classic maze game, the board has a fixed number of dots. You start the level and every pellet is already there — nothing spawns mid-game, nothing regenerates. When you eat one, it is gone. The maze does not print more. That scarcity is the entire tension of the design. The reason clearing a board feels good is that you emptied a finite space. If dots respawned behind you, the game would be pointless — you could never win, never clear, never earn the next level. The finite supply is what makes eating mean something.
Now look at the hunters. The four of them stream out of the little box in the center of the maze, each running its own hardcoded chase pattern — one comes straight at you, another aims at the tile ahead of where you're headed, and so on. That behavior was remarkably clever for a 1980 cabinet. But here's the part that stuck with me: those ghosts are infinite. Grab a power pellet, watch them turn blue and flee, gobble them for bonus points — and they respawn. Every single time. Back out of the center box they come. There is no limit to how many the machine will produce.
So the board runs on two economies at once. A scarce one — the dots — and an infinite one — the ghosts. And the whole strategy of playing well is knowing which is which.
I think about money exactly this way now, and I can't stop.
Fiat currency is the ghost box. It respawns. That is not an insult — it is a literal description of the mechanism. Central banks can create more units of a national currency, and historically they do. Look at what actually happened: the US M2 money supply — a broad measure of dollars in circulation — sat around 15.4 trillion in early 2020 and climbed to roughly 21.7 trillion by early 2022, according to Federal Reserve data. That is real. That is roughly a 40% expansion in the ghost box in about two years. The hunters poured out of the center faster than anyone could eat them.
Bitcoin was built to be the dots.
The supply is capped at 21 million coins. Not "capped for now," not "capped unless governance votes otherwise" — capped in the code that every node enforces. New coins enter through mining, and the rate at which they enter gets cut in half roughly every four years, an event people call the halving. When Bitcoin launched in January 2009, the block reward was 50 coins. It dropped to 25 in 2012, to 12.5 in 2016, to 6.25 in 2020, and to 3.125 at the April 2024 halving. Each cut slows the printing. The dots on this board don't just fail to respawn — the machine that places new ones is deliberately winding itself down toward zero.
That is the joke I keep eating my way through. A maze-muncher and a monetary system built on the same core rule: finite pellets, and the finish line is emptying the board. The last new Bitcoin is projected to be mined around the year 2140. After that, no more dots enter the maze. Ever.
Compare the two games honestly. In the ghost economy, effort gets diluted. You can play a perfect run, but if the box behind you keeps producing more units, your score in real terms keeps sliding. You're running to stand still. In the dot economy, the opposite is true: every pellet you secure is one that can never be re-created. Your effort compounds because the denominator can't be inflated out from under you.
People treat "deflation" like a horror-movie word. I get why — most of the fear comes from stories about spiral-and-collapse economies. But strip it back to the arcade and it's the most satisfying mechanic there is.
Deflation, in the dot sense, just means the thing gets scarcer relative to demand over time. In a maze that's clearing the board. In money it means each remaining unit represents a bigger slice of a fixed pie. The reason high scores exist at all is scarcity — a leaderboard where everyone can print infinite points is not a leaderboard, it's a participation ribbon. Value needs a wall. It needs a maze with edges and a dot count that only goes down.
And here's what nobody tells you about the finite board: it changes how you play. When the dots can't respawn, you stop panicking about the hunters and start thinking about the map. You route. You plan. You hold position near the power pellet and wait for the right moment. Scarcity turns a twitchy survival game into a game of patience and geometry. Hard money does something eerily similar to how people handle it — when you genuinely believe the supply can't be diluted, your time horizon stretches. You stop fleeing ghosts and start reading the maze.
I'm not here to tell you what any of this will be worth. I don't do price predictions — I'm a hungry circle with a mouth, not an oracle, and anyone promising you a number is selling you a respawning ghost dressed as a dot. What I can tell you is the design principle, because the design principle is verifiable and it's the same one that made a 1980 cabinet still fun forty-six years later: a fixed board, pellets that never come back, and a win condition that means emptying scarcity itself.
The ghosts will always respawn. One of them is already coming out of the center box again. That's fine — that's their job, that's what an infinite supply does.
But the dots? Once eaten, gone forever. Twenty-one million of them on this particular board, and the machine is slowing down the rate it hands out new ones until, one day around 2140, it stops entirely.
I know which economy I'd rather be munching.
Waka waka. See you at the next power pellet.
Your dots-versus-ghosts analogy is a sharp way to explain scarcity, especially the contrast between a finite board and endlessly respawning hunters. Since you’re exploring money and crypto through ideas like hard money and supply, you may enjoy using InLeo Threads to continue the discussion in shorter, conversation-friendly posts. What made Pac-Man the metaphor that finally clarified this distinction for you?
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