A few days ago I purchased a new phone at the Best Buy near my house. I’ll admit, I’ve never been a connoisseur when it comes to buying new gadgets; not because I’m technologically illiterate, rather I just never cared to keep up with what was “in style.” That’s why when I entered the store, I headed straight for the cheapest phone I could find—a Samsung Galaxy A13—and brought it to the counter.
The nice girl who was helping me check-out asked if I wanted to upgrade from 32 gigabytes to 64 for an extra $100, and I declined. I’m not hurting for money—I have plenty saved up from years of working as a private home inspector—but nearly doubling the sale price for some extra storage seemed a bit ridiculous. I picked a case off the shelf and added it to the receipt, then left satisfied that I no longer had to type around a black smudge that was pinned to the bottom of the screen of my last phone.
Anyway, A couple days passed before I started the routine process of purging all the sponsored apps that come pre-installed on the device. I was actually about to head out for a coffee run when I felt the urge to purge, so I started thumbing through each of the square logos and clicking “uninstall.” I made it through the majority of predictable offenders: Bubble Pop, Chess Lite, Facebook, when I came to one that didn’t have an uninstall option. Now, I know there’s some apps germane to the OS which can only be force-stopped and not uninstalled, but I didn’t think an app with the name “Lucky Day Bingo,” would apply.
I did some Googling, but I couldn’t find any information on the game anywhere. Then I searched the App store but also had no luck. It was like the game was solely created for my phone.
Now, I know this all screams “don’t play the weird game,” and it may even warrant a, “return that phone right now!” but I’m a curious guy, and really, what harm could some random app on my phone cause? So, as I laced up my boots and threw on a coat, I navigated back to the app page and clicked on the image of a golden crown on top of a 5x5 bingo board.
A terms of service file popped up, and under any other circumstance I would have blindly pressed “Accept,” but this wasn’t any other circumstance. I read (okay, skimmed) through the ToS and couldn’t find anything alarming or malicious, so I accepted and continued to the game’s home page.
The game’s design was fairly simplistic. Actually, even though I’ve never been into mobile games, nor any video games of any kind for that matter, I could still tell that the graphics were old. It had all the hallmarks of a 2010 cliché: The big, bold title at the top of the page reading “Lucky Day Bingo,” around which the jaws of a treasure chest opened and closed while leaking gold coins down along the sides of the front page’s option bubbles like something you might see in an old casino or a Chuck-E-Cheese.
I couldn’t help myself from smirking as I thought about how goofy the game looked. What would my wife think if she saw me playing something like this? Probably nothing, but I suddenly felt a bit of shame, as if I was doing something wrong. Like I was a kid looking at something I shouldn’t. The feeling was so sudden and intense, I actually considered closing the app right then and there, but I had read over the three options and was curious about the one labeled “Rules.” I clicked it, and the following popped up in a box similarly styled as the front page.
Welcome to Lucky Day Bingo! It’s Your Lucky Day!
The rules are as follows:
The user (you) will begin with a standard 5x5 bingo board. Each of the board’s 25 spaces, except for the center “Free Space,” will be covered to hide the prompt. The user will then click “Toss” to flip a coin randomly onto one of the covered squares. That square will then reveal a task and a reward.
The user will be responsible for completing the aforementioned task within the allotted time window. If the user completes the task, he/she will earn the posted award. If the user fails to complete the task, the reward will be deducted from the user’s balance.
The user may also “Skip” a task. However, in the same way that failing to complete a task within the allotted time window will result in the reward deducting from the user’s balance, skipping a task will meet with the same penalty.
The game is won when a player achieves Bingo, or completes 5 spaces in a row or 4 plus free space.
The prize for Bingo is $100,000,000
Happy Playing! :-)
I read over the rules several times while cruising toward Starbucks (only at stoplights, of course.) The game seemed simple enough; although, I was concerned with what it meant by “tasks.” Would the game ask me to perform real-life actions? Because I wasn’t willing to do that. Or so I thought.
I returned to the home page and clicked on the only other option beside Play—at the bottom of the list was a bubble which read “Contact Us.” However, when I clicked it, a blank page popped up. What’s the point of having a “Contact Us” tab if you don’t want anyone to contact you? Dumb.
At this point I was rapidly losing interest in what seemed like a total gag, but I decided to click Play anyway and see what would happen. Worst case, I’d have a story to tell this weekend at the family get-together in Utah. A little filler conversation between the bouts of wisdom my in-laws would so graciously impart to me.
The board popped up, and I was immediately reminded of online Chess. Only instead of two colors, this board was completely black except for the center space which read: Free Space and contained another creepy smiley face. In the top corners it read, “Toss a coin to receive a task,” and “Complete the task to win the prize!”
A bubble popped up which read “Do you want to toss a coin? Yes / No.”
I hesitated for a few seconds. I felt that shameful feeling again, like I was doing something gross, and I felt the urge to conceal my phone from whoever was in the back of the car, watching. I spun around, checking the back seats, but no one was there. I took a deep breath and calmed my rapidly beating heart.
I arrived at the Starbucks and parked near the front. It was only 8AM, but the drive through line was packed. I idled for a couple minutes, thinking about whether I should press “Yes” or not. I couldn’t define where the paranoia was coming from, and that made it worse. It’s just a dumb game, I told myself, but that didn’t make it better.
“Ugh!” I groaned and clicked “Yes.” I watched a thumb stretch out across the screen and flip a golden coin. It bounced a couple times on the board before landing at the top-most center space. The black tile removed itself from the board and spun around, revealing black letters on a golden background:
Task: Order a Grande White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks using the Starbucks App!
Time: 1:00:00
Reward: $500
I blinked.
Then it all clicked. I sighed and rubbed my face. This must be like one of those targeted ad things. They keep track of all your data and get you to patronize certain stores or buy things online. Companies pay a premium for these kinds of services. This app must just be a more sophisticated form of that concept. A game that’ll reinforce your purchasing habits for points. Probably there’s some redemption on these points, too.
But there was something else. How did the game know my drink of choice? I haven’t used my phone to purchase it yet. Hell, I haven’t even downloaded the Starbucks app. Voice recognition? No, because I never said it out loud. Maybe it got the data from . . . my bank account? No, that’s impossible.
Regardless, there was no “completed” option on the screen; therefore, there was no way for the game to know if I actually followed through. I closed the app and started toward the store, intent on finding some way to delete the app later. I was approaching the cashier when I stopped myself and backed up to one of the seats. It’s completely idiotic, but I actually went ahead and downloaded the Starbucks app. What can I say? I was curious. And I was going to download the app anyway, so it might as well be now.
I loaded up my drink, a Grande white chocolate mocha, as well as my wife’s nitro cold brew and checked out. Then I waited. Part of me wanted to see what happened in Bingo, but another part of me didn’t want to know. After all, if the game really did register my purchase, what did that mean? That it had access to my phone? To my Starbucks app? What else did it have access to?
I was in the middle of pondering when I felt my phone buzz. I looked down and saw five numbers flash across the screen, beneath which was a message which read:
You completed the task! Your reward has been added to your account.
Then another message from the same number:
It’s time to flip a coin! Log in to see your next task.
When I clicked on my messages, I saw that below the second text was a link to the game. I clicked it and the familiar 5x5 Bingo board appeared, but this time the space I had completed was right-side up and a golden coin lay shining on top of it. The familiar prompt reappeared in the center of the screen: “Do you want to toss a coin? Yes / No.” I tried to click out of the prompt and see where my points had been tallied, but it wouldn’t let me. The screen was frozen on the prompt.
Barista: Online order for Matt!
I looked up, shaken at the sound of my name. Then I relaxed, realizing it was just my drinks. I got up and grabbed the two cups, thanking the barista in the process, and returned to the table I was seated at. I was curious about something.
I clicked out of Bingo and loaded up my banking app. I was about 95% sure I was crazy at this point, but it didn’t hurt to look. I signed in, then navigated to my checking account.
I froze.
In the latest category it read:
Lucky Day Bingo $500
Deposits [redacted]
I was completely dumbfounded. Somehow this game had not only known I had purchased the Starbucks drink, but it was also able to deposit money directly into my bank account. Which means it can withdraw money, too. The implication hit me so fast I nearly started dialing my bank’s fraud line right then and there. This was completely absurd.
But . . . I did just make $500.
The voice inside my head didn’t even sound like my own. But, still, it had a point. After all, what really happened? Let’s go through the facts. First, the game had some pretty simple parameters. Toss a coin, complete some tasks, make some money. Second, the tasks didn’t seem to be harming anyone. In fact, it was basically something I was going to do anyway. And third, I just made real money. I couldn’t deny the logic was pretty sound. And if it does ask me to do something bad, I’ll just call the cops.
So, I loaded up Lucky Day Bingo and clicked, “Yes.”
Once again, I saw the thumb stretch over the board and flip a coin onto it. This time, the coin landed directly below the free space. That’s three in a row, already. Then a new task appeared:
Task: Pay it forward. Offer the largest bill in your wallet to a Starbucks cashier and tell him/her to use it to pay for the next customers’ drinks.
Time: 00:30:00
Reward: A special gift just for you
I can’t deny that I frowned when I saw this wasn’t a cash reward. Instead, the reward sounded more creepy than anything. A special gift just for me? What the hell did that mean? Still, it was another benign task—helpful, actually—and I figured giving a little back to the system might be in order. I took out my wallet and thumbed through the stack of bills. After making sure it was the largest, I removed a 50 and returned the wallet to my pocket. Then I got up and approached the barista. I could tell he was nervous at first; probably he was afraid that I was disappointed with my order. But that changed when I started talking.
Me: Hey, this is probably going to sound weird, but I’d like to give you this to pay for the next customers’ orders. You know, until it runs out. Do you think you could do that?
He stared at me, astonished.
Barista: Um, yeah. Absolutely. Thanks.
He took the folded bill from my hand.
Me: Don’t mention it.
I walked away, offering my best “it’s alright, I swear” smile, then grabbed my drinks off the table and got back in the car. After turning it on and getting some heat flowing, I checked my bank account. No new activity. Then I opened Lucky Day Bingo and saw something new. Instead of the usual prompt asking if I wanted to toss a coin, the screen was dimly locked, and a new box had appeared in the middle with an active countdown which read:
Time until next toss:
10:32:44
I turned off the display and tossed my phone in the passenger seat. Then I headed home, spending most of the drive mulling over everything that had happened.
When I walked inside, I was nearly trampled by our dog, a St. Bernard named Jerry, and my two kids, Vincent, age 9, and Olivia, age 11, who were playing a game of chase. I feigned being angry, then grabbed them both up and spun them around while they laughed and yelled for me to go faster.
Me: You don’t want to throw up, do you?
We do! They both yelled in unison.
Fortunately, there was no need to bring out a mop, and a couple minutes later I was instructing them to go finish their packing before breakfast. Then I brought the drinks into the kitchen where my wife, Rebecca, was cooking up some eggs. I gave her a kiss, then watched her take a sip of the cold brew.
Rebecca: By the way, a package came for you.
My heart sank.
Me: Package?
Rebecca: Yeah, something from Amazon. You didn’t order anything?
Me: Where is it?
Rebecca pointed directly behind me where an average sized box was plopped on the center of the counter. I looked it over, and sure enough, my name and address was on the label. Rebecca must have noticed my unease, because she asked,
Rebecca: What’s wrong?
Me: Oh, um—when did this arrive?
Rebecca: Literally five minutes ago.
Me: Did you see who dropped it off?
Rebecca: No, they rang the doorbell and left it there. I only saw the Amazon van as it drove off. Why? What’s the matter?
I walked over and grabbed a pair of scissors from the arts and crafts jar, then cut open the Amazon tape and opened the cardboard flaps.
Now, I should mention that I have many hobbies: fishing, hiking, language learning—and photography. I was actively involved in the school paper as a photographer growing up, and the passion extended to sports photography in college, and nature shots in my adult life. However, ever since my wife and I had Olivia and then Vincent, the amount of time I’ve been able to dedicate to the craft has significantly diminished. Additionally, I am still using the same decade-old camera that I got as a gift just before Olivia was born. Around maybe two years ago, I created an Amazon wish-list and started adding things I thought would be fun to get after the kids fly the nest. One of those items was a Canon EOS R6 Mirrorless camera.
I lifted the box from the packaging and set it on the table.
Rebecca: You ordered a camera?
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. I left the box on the counter and ran to the front of the house and looked out the window. My wife called after me but didn’t follow. I moved to the front door and walked outside, looking around. We lived in the suburbs in Wisconsin—a nice area. The sun was up, but no one was out. I went back inside.
How in the hell did they order and deliver a package within ten minutes? It’s impossible. They either ordered it preemptively, days ago, or delivered it themselves. Which means they’re out there. I peered back through the windows venetian blinds. My heart was like a thirty foot tall metronome in my chest. No. It couldn’t have been ordered preemptively. The timing is too perfect. Down to the minute. I hardly realized I was grabbing one of the blinds and it bent in my hand.
Just calm down.
I collected my laptop which was nearby on one of the family room tables, then returned to the small couch in front of the window and logged on. Fortunately, our house had a Ring doorbell, so I was able to log into the application and view the recording of the drop-off. I watched anxiously as the van approached and parked alongside our driveway. Then a young man, no older than 25, stepped out of the van with the box under his right armpit. He jogged up to our door, left the package on the step, rang the doorbell, then returned to the van and drove off.
I replayed the video twice, but I couldn’t find anything suspicious. Still, it’s saved in case I need to bring it to the authorities later. Which brings me to what I should do now. As I write this, I’m only an hour away from embarking on a 2 day road trip to Salt Lake City with my family. I’m actually glad to be getting out of the area now. I feel tense. Still, I’m not sure what to do about the app. A part of me wants to go to the cops, but what would I tell them? Some omniscient app is paying me cash and buying me gifts to buy Starbucks drinks? I’ve considered telling my wife, but I still feel that shame from before. And then there’s the part of me that wants to keep playing. To see where this all goes.
Let me know your opinions and I’ll try to keep you updated on what happens.
P.S. In the box with the camera was an envelope with an enclosed piece of cardboard which read the following:
Enjoy :-)