A fictional and satirical love letter from Playrix to Gardenscapes players about hard levels, endless events, boosters, frustration, and why we keep coming back.
Dear player,
We need to talk. I know. Nothing good ever starts with those words. In most relationships, somebody ends up losing trust. In ours, you usually lose five lives, 900 coins, and whatever patience you had left. But after everything we’ve been through together, I think I owe you the truth.
Do you remember when we first met? You were adorable. You downloaded Gardenscapes because you honestly thought we were going to restore a garden together. There was Austin, an old fountain, some flowers, a dog, and a charming little estate that needed some love. You looked around and thought, “This seems relaxing. I’ll play a few levels at night.” I smiled and said nothing. How was I supposed to tell you on our first date that one day you’d be staring at a single patch of grass in the bottom-right corner of the board at two in the morning, yelling, “WHY WON’T ANYTHING DROP OVER THERE?”
At first, I treated you well. Easy levels. Free boosters. Little gifts. Quick wins. I wanted you comfortable. I wanted you to trust me. Most of all, I wanted you hooked. Then, once I knew you probably weren’t going anywhere, I started showing you who I really was. A Hard level here. A Super Hard level there. Every now and then, a level labeled “Normal” because apparently nobody in the office had the courage to tell it the truth. Yes, sweetheart. I knew. I knew exactly what I was doing.
I know what you’ve been asking me all these years: “Why did you give me 22 moves when this board obviously needs 35?” I don’t have a flattering answer. I wanted to know how far you were willing to go for me. Would you try again? And again? And one more time because now you “finally see what you were doing wrong”? It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I was scared you might find another game. Something easier. Something that gives you enough moves. Something that respects your boundaries. Just thinking about you tapping Install on somebody else makes me irrational.
That’s why I keep sending you events. So many events. I hear you when you say, “I just want to play the level.” I really do. But silence makes me nervous. If there isn’t an Expedition, a team competition, a leaderboard, a chest, a limited-time reward, a special offer, and something ending in 13 hours and 27 minutes, I start wondering whether you’re getting bored with me. So yes, when you ask for a little space, I sometimes respond with three pop-ups. I’m not proud of it. I’m jealous.
And then there are the boosters. I know how carefully you save them. You hoard them like family heirlooms, promising yourself you’ll use them “when you really need them.” Then the day finally comes. You enter a brutal level fully loaded, ready for war, and somehow your favorite booster lands in the one place on the board where it can accomplish almost nothing. I’m not saying I did that on purpose. I’m also not saying I didn’t. Let’s not ruin a beautiful confession with technical details.
I know you’ve threatened to leave me. Many times. “That’s it.” “I’m done.” “I’m deleting this game.” And every time, I let you go. You close Gardenscapes, put down the phone, and walk away. I don’t chase you. I don’t have to. Because twenty minutes later, a tiny thought starts working its way into your head: “Maybe if I start from the bottom, I can open up the board.” And eventually, there you are again.
I never embarrass you about coming back. I never say, “I knew it.” I just welcome you home. Same Austin. Same garden. Same level you couldn’t beat twenty minutes ago. Except sometimes I decide to be sweet. Suddenly the right pieces start dropping. You make a TNT. Then another one. A cascade takes off. A Rainbow Blast appears almost out of nowhere. Half the board explodes, the grass clears, the last objective disappears, and somehow you win with six moves left. I saw that smile. You forgave me instantly. You didn’t even ask why I couldn’t have given you that board fifteen attempts earlier. That’s one of the things I love most about you. You don’t hold a grudge. At least not once you win.
But I hear what you say about me. “The game is cheating me.” I heard that. “This level is rigged.” Heard that too. “There is no way this is random.” Let’s maybe talk about something else. This is supposed to be a romantic moment.
And of course, I know your favorite line: “This is my last try.” Honey, after all these years together, I know when you’re lying. The last try has never been the last try. Somehow, “just one more level” turns into another because “now I know what to do,” then another because “there’s no way I get that unlucky again,” then the real last try, and then the absolutely final last try. Suddenly it’s an hour later.
Don’t feel bad. I’ve lied too. I’ve told you, “It’s just a small update.” We both know where that can lead. I’ve called things “special offers” when you and I clearly have different definitions of the word special. I’ve asked, “One more move?” while knowing perfectly well that one move isn’t going to save you. And yes, there are moments when I look at your coin balance and have thoughts I’m not ready to discuss yet. I’m working on myself.
Still, you’re hardly innocent. You tell me you’re tired of events, then check the leaderboard. You say you don’t care about rewards, then calculate exactly how many points you need for the next chest. You swear you’re not wasting a booster on this level, lose three times, and come back on attempt four carrying enough explosives to invade a small country. Rainbow Blast. Dynamite. Everything. And then you have the nerve to call me dramatic.
Want to know my darkest secret? I kind of like it when you’re mad at me. I like hearing you say you’re leaving because, after thousands of levels together, I think I know you. You can close the game. You can complain about me. You can swear this time it’s really over. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that last board. You’re replaying that final move. You’re wondering whether you should have matched the blue pieces instead.
And as long as you’re thinking about the level, you haven’t really left me.
So here’s my confession. I’m not the easy relationship. I’m definitely not the peaceful one. I put obstacles in your way, and you spend your time destroying them. I take away moves, and you give me another chance. I throw events at you that you never asked for, and somehow you end up playing them anyway. I make you furious. You tell me you hate me. And sooner or later, you press Play again.
That’s why you never have to tell me you love me. I already know. You tell me every time you come back.
Love,
Playrix
P.S. I have something new for you. Please don’t be mad. It’s an event.
P.P.S. Yes. It starts while three other events are still running.
A small note before anyone takes this breakup too seriously: This is a work of fiction and satire. Playrix did not write this letter, and no secret confession was discovered hiding behind a Super Hard level. The jokes may touch on very real frustrations, habits, arguments, victories, and emotions that many of us have experienced while playing Gardenscapes over the years, but the letter itself is entirely fictional. It was created simply to have a little fun and take a short break from some of the more serious things surrounding the game lately. After everything Gardenscapes players have been through, sometimes a little laughter really is the best booster of all.
Maris Papa, Creative Humor Editor
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