It took me nearly a decade to realize this: competitive gaming consumes more cognitive and emotional energy than most activities—and being an IGL multiplies that cost.
Over the last 3–5 months, I took on intensive IGL responsibilities in Valorant. It pushed me to the edge. Sleepless nights. Endless games. Constant aggression—both internal and external. I was always thinking: strategies, mistakes, adjustments, pressure. Eventually, it burned me down completely.
The breaking point came on our playoff day.
We reached the finals—and lost. Runner-up.
The entire squad was upset. As the IGL, I was carrying that loss heavier than anyone else. Not just because we lost—but because of why we lost. Because of me. Because of the squad. Because of small mistakes that snowballed into consecutive lost rounds. One early error changed the rhythm of the match, and everything spiraled from there.
What hurt more was this realization:
Out of the squad, only one or two were deeply passionate. The others were mildly invested or treated it as a hobby. But I was putting equal pressure on everyone—as if the stakes were the same for all of us.
That imbalance mattered.
A few weeks after that match, I stopped playing.
Not as a dramatic decision—just a quiet withdrawal. It’s been 2–3 weeks now, and I can clearly feel the difference. My mental stability improved. My mind feels lighter. I have more cognitive space—more energy to apply elsewhere.
I haven’t completely quit the game. I still play occasionally, but passively. Without obsession. Without responsibility.
And that distance taught me something important:
Intensity without boundaries eventually turns passion into damage.
This experience forced me to re-evaluate where I invest my focus, pressure, and leadership instincts—and whether the environment can actually hold that weight.