When jobs come at the cost of lives

A recent social media post defending India’s real money gaming (RMG) industry encapsulates the moral dilemma now confronting policymakers. The post, written by an old colleague of mine, argues passionately against the government’s ban, warning of devastating consequences: “We’re talking about an approximate Rs 20,000 crore industry that employs nearly 1 lakh young Indians, has contributed Rs 24,000+ crore in taxes, and invested Rs 8,000 crore in advertising.”

But another ex-colleague’s response cuts to the heart of the matter: “I have zero doubt that real money gaming needed to go… Have heard of far too many cases where gambling addiction to these has ruined lives. At almost 500 million users allegedly, the scale of losses to these games is simply unacceptable.”

This exchange perfectly illustrates the fundamental question: When an industry’s survival depends on society’s suffering, does the jobs argument hold any moral weight?

The addiction architects

The first colleague’s passionate defence misses the systematic nature of the problem. RMG platforms don’t accidentally create addiction—they engineer it. These companies employ behavioural psychologists, data scientists, and user experience designers specifically to maximise what industry insiders euphemistically call “player engagement.” In plain language, they design compulsion.

The business model is brutally simple: extract maximum revenue from users by exploiting psychological vulnerabilities. Variable reward schedules, near-miss programming, and loss-chasing mechanics are not bugs in the system—they are features, carefully calibrated to generate dependency. The platforms profit not from occasional entertainment but from users who cannot stop playing.

This makes RMGs fundamentally different from the industries cited in defensive analogies like “Farmers die of debt ? Ban banks?” A cinema creates jobs by providing enjoyable experiences; banks provide genuine utility despite risks. RMG platforms create jobs by creating problems—specifically, addiction and financial ruin among users.

The employment mirage and moral precedent

The claimed “1 lakh young Indians” represent a mix of legitimate technology roles and positions that exist specifically to facilitate exploitation. Software engineers and data analysts possess transferable skills valuable across India’s broader technology sector. But many RMG “employees” are actually contractors hired for customer acquisition—essentially modern-day touts paid to lure vulnerable users into gambling. Others work in customer retention roles specifically designed to prevent addicted users from quitting.

The colleague’s pointed observation about “individual choice” failing “with our literacy levels” reveals a crucial insight. RMG platforms specifically target financially vulnerable users, often those with limited digital literacy. The industry’s own marketing boasts about “democratising” gambling by making it accessible to users who would never enter a casino. This democratisation is predatory.

India has witnessed this playbook before. A Bangalore-based edtech company, in its relentless chase for exponential growth, systematically trapped poor middle-class families into debt through aggressive EMI schemes. Parents, desperate to secure their children’s education, found themselves ensnared in financial obligations they couldn’t sustain. When they attempted to withdraw or defaulted, recovery agents harassed them mercilessly. The company eventually collapsed under the weight of its exploitative practices.

The parallels with RMGs are striking: both targeted vulnerable populations with promises of transformation, both employed sophisticated marketing and psychological manipulation, and both created debt traps disguised as opportunities. The edtech giant’s downfall demonstrates that businesses built on exploitation are ultimately unsustainable—the only question is how much damage they inflict before collapsing.

The jobs argument: A morally bankrupt defence

Those crying about job losses conveniently ignore that every rupee extracted by RMG platforms destroys employment elsewhere in the economy. When a family loses Rs 50,000 to gambling addiction, that’s Rs 50,000 not spent on education, healthcare, consumer goods, or small businesses. The employment RMGs “create” comes at the direct expense of productive economic activity.

The numbers tell a sobering story. Indians lose approximately Rs 15,000 crore annually to RMGs, according to government data. With nearly 500 million alleged users, the scale of wealth extraction is breathtaking—and the human cost even more sobering. Karnataka alone has reported 32 suicides attributed to online gaming addiction in just 31 months. The World Health Organisation links RMGs to compulsive behaviour, psychological distress, financial hardship, and family disruption.

This Rs 15,000 crore annual loss represents more than individual misfortune—it constitutes a massive misallocation of national resources. In a developing economy where capital formation remains crucial, this wealth destruction is particularly damaging. The opportunity cost extends beyond money to human potential: young Indians spending hours daily on gambling platforms are not acquiring productive skills or contributing to economic growth.

Legislative consensus

When the Lok Sabha passed the Promotion and Regulation of Online Gaming Bill, 2025 in August—after mere minutes of discussion—it reflected overwhelming consensus, not legislative haste. The bill specifically targets real money gaming while preserving skill-based games and legitimate entertainment, proving this isn’t about destroying gaming but eliminating exploitation.

The swift passage signals that legislators understand what industry apologists refuse to acknowledge: some forms of employment are too destructive to preserve. The same Parliament that extensively debates routine legislation dispatched RMG regulation quickly because the moral calculation was clear.

The real economic impact

The first colleague’s concerns about ripple effects on sports leagues, media, and advertising miss the fundamental point. These dependencies on RMG money represent parasitic relationships, not healthy economic ecosystems. When ISL and PKL depend on gambling sponsorships, they’re building on foundations designed to exploit vulnerable Indians—much like how educational content creators who partnered with predatory edtech companies found themselves complicit in debt trap schemes.

The Rs 15,000 crore lost annually represents potential investment in education, healthcare, infrastructure, and productive enterprises that would generate more and better jobs. Other countries have faced similar decisions with instructive results. When China restricted gaming, predicted mass unemployment failed to materialise. Instead, talented developers migrated to productive technology sectors, contributing to advances in artificial intelligence, e-commerce, and digital infrastructure. The skills remained valuable; the application changed.

The broader Indian gaming sector—encompassing skill-based games, educational applications, and legitimate entertainment—continues to grow rapidly and create employment. The government’s regulation specifically preserves these categories whilst targeting predatory RMGs. This isn’t about destroying gaming; it’s about eliminating exploitation.

The path forward

The industry’s warnings about job losses reveal desperation to preserve lucrative exploitation. These are the same arguments that surfaced when predatory lending was regulated and when aggressive edtech sales practices faced scrutiny. In each case, eliminating exploitative businesses redirected talent toward productive uses.

The colleague’s observation about literacy levels reveals the deeper issue: expecting citizens to navigate sophisticated gambling psychology designed by expert teams is unrealistic. The employment argument implicitly blames victims for their exploitation.

The Promotion and Regulation of Online Gaming Bill ensures RMGs won’t replicate the trajectory of growth-at-any-cost followed by spectacular failure. By acting decisively, India’s legislators chose to protect vulnerable citizens rather than wait for market forces to eventually punish predatory practices.

The two ex-colleagues’ exchange captures this moral divide perfectly: one sees jobs and tax revenue, the other sees addiction and ruined lives. The claimed one lakh jobs may disappear, but millions of Indians will finally be protected from algorithms designed to empty their pockets. That’s a trade any civilised society should make without hesitation.