It’s not about what I once thought. I used to believe generosity was desperation in disguise. That giving too much, too freely, was a weakness. That it put you at the mercy of the ungrateful. And maybe, for those who don’t understand the game, it does.

But I was wrong.

Generosity isn’t about pleading for goodwill. It isn’t about throwing yourself at people’s feet, hoping for their kindness in return. It’s about knowing the value of a favor. It’s about patience. It’s about control. Because when played correctly, generosity isn’t a sacrifice—it’s an investment. A bet placed carefully, strategically, in the knowledge that sooner or later, the house always wins.

Give a little, and they take a little. Give a little more, and they start to expect it. But give just enough—just enough that it makes a difference, just enough that they remember it in their bones—and suddenly, they’re not just grateful. They’re indebted.

And the best part? They’ll never say it. Not out loud. Not even to themselves. But when the time comes, when the moment of decision sneaks up on them like a wolf in the dark, they’ll feel it. That invisible weight. That quiet imbalance.

They say you should never loan out money you can’t afford to lose. But generosity? That’s a different currency entirely. A well-placed favor is a debt that can never be fully repaid. Because no matter how many times they tell themselves they’re square, deep down, they know the truth. The scale still tilts in my favor.

Time is the real currency, of course. Money replenishes. Power shifts. But time? Time is a finite resource. When you give someone your time, you make them important. You make them feel seen. And that, my dear friend, is the kind of power that doesn’t fade.

Now, not everyone understands the game. Some think kindness is a bottomless well, that they can drink from it without ever paying the price. These people are the ones you let go thirsty. You don’t warn them, you don’t lecture them. You just stop.

The absence is punishment enough. No need for grand gestures. No need for retribution. They’ll feel the difference soon enough. That’s the beauty of generosity—it doesn’t need to be repaid, but the loss of it? That is unforgettable.

And when the time comes—when the moment is right, when the game is at its final stretch, and the house is ready to collect—you don’t have to remind them. You don’t have to push. They’ll pay up. They always do.

But here’s the thing: when you finally come to them, it’s not about reclaiming your power—it’s about passing it on. They get their turn to hold the cards, to balance the scales, to be the house for your generosity. And in doing so, the cycle continues. Because if you’ve played the game right, they won’t just see it as an obligation. They’ll see it as an opportunity.

Maybe the house isn’t always you. Maybe, in the end, the real trick isn’t winning—it’s making sure the game never stops.