When you Google “Steal a Brainrot,” it’s hard to discern which sources are credible — largely because I’ve never played and have no barometer for what is accurate, but also because there are no peer-reviewed secondary sources on the game.
There is no concrete documentation informing the mechanics of “Steal a Brainrot” besides “Brainrot Wiki” and a recent TikTok trend where people tell their siblings that they “stole a brainrot” to gauge their reaction.
Most of my knowledge on this game has come from watching my eight-year-old stepbrother play. He enters a trance when he opens the game — minutes become hours. As someone watching from the outside, I don’t understand the appeal. It’s clear this game is stupid. But is that just my age talking?
After some brief scroll-based research, I understand the objective is to essentially gather virtual Brainrot characters and steal other players’ Brainrot characters. The longer you have your characters, the more money they accumulate for you. So the objective is to make money and collect the rarest characters. There aren’t really any levels, it’s just that — over and over and over again.
Users are allowed to create their own games. Steal a Brainrot itself was created by avid player and Do Big Studios executive Sam Bratka under the internet username @SpyderSammy. Visually, the game looks like a 2-year-old made it. That’s kind of Roblox’s style, though — the draw isn’t how amazing the graphics are. Steal a Brainrot is the perfect combo of meme-ability and repetition that breeds addiction in the 67-addled brains of the youth.
I asked my brother if I could watch him play and ask him a few questions afterward. He enthusiastically obliged.
Upon opening the game, players spawn at their base. Then, from a tunnel, an endless stream of Brainrot characters walk onscreen, each player racing to snag the most valuable ones. I learned they are ranked as such: uncommon, rare, epic, legendary, mythical, brainrot God, secret and Og’s.
The strawberry elephant is the most elusive and desired character. Brainrot Wiki reports that it costs 550 billion dollars to buy and 550 million dollars to make (not sure what the Brainrot dollar-to-USD conversion is). When I asked why — why the “strawberry elephant” out of all the possible animal and fruit combinations, my brother couldn’t really give me an answer — “It’s just the strawberry elephant,” he shrugged.
My brother told me that in order to procure a strawberry elephant, you need to buy “Robux” (with real money), which you can then use to buy “luck multipliers” that increase your chances of getting rarer Brainrot characters in the game. You don’t have to spend money to play the game, but it’s just a matter of how badly you want valuable characters.
“But,” he noted, “even with multipliers, you probably will never get a strawberry elephant. There are only three in the world.”
When you collect characters, you can lock them in your base, each character accruing value as time passes. I watched his money total go from $75 to $500,000 in two minutes. And you know what? I get it. The game takes virtually no work and no strategy. There is no end and no ceiling to what you can accomplish. It’s so passive, yet so rewarding.
The money you get in the game doesn’t have any use. You can’t buy anything with it. It’s just a number. It acts purely as a representative of how much time you’ve spent on the game.
The “minutes turn to hours” sentiment has a factual basis — a 2025 study done by the National Library of Medicine concluded “instant response” games lead to hours of mindless gameplay. The study states that games that reward little participation “impair children’s ability to engage in thoughtful, goal-directed behavior.” Steal a Brainrot is the teenage equivalent of scrolling on TikTok for two hours — you are basically just passing time, void of intention.
A 2025 study done in Germany described the vulnerability of children to the commercial intent of these games — their lack of impulse control and critical evaluation abilities leaves them highly susceptible to addiction. The reason that a diamond Tim Cheese makes you $50,000 a minute is that Roblox wants to keep you on the game for as long as they can. No, it doesn’t make sense. But the owners of Roblox don’t care.
When I finally tore him away from the screen, we walked outside and sat in the driveway. I began the interview with a fairly open-ended question.
How do you feel when you play the game?
“Energetic. It makes you stiff. Everybody says, ‘Oh yeah, it’s so fun, but you really feel like… full on. Like, you focus,’” he said with an excited intensity, rocking back and forth with glee as he described the repetitive nature of the game.
“You’re focused and when you get a good run, oh yeah, cool. And then you just, you just walk around, just waiting for another Brainrot to spawn. It’s sad. It’s terrible. It feels so bad — when no good Brainrots can spawn.”
Even when discussing how “terrible” the game is, he kept a goofy smile plastered on his face.
Why do you play? Will you ever be done?
“You don’t know when to finish.”
A few seconds later, upon a moment of realization, he proclaimed, “Until you get your base full of strawberry elephants.”
Would you give up all your Christmas gifts for a strawberry elephant?
“Yes. I would spend all my money on it. But my dad wouldn’t let me do that.”
Do you think the game is addicting?
“[My classmates] know that it’s, like, not good for your brain. Like, it’s kind of addictive, [certain classmates] don’t even want to play it anyway. And they just — they just think it’s boring. They get bored with it. That’s what’s gonna happen to me really soon.”
He paused and then added, “Actually, not really soon. But pretty soon.”
What specifically do you find addicting about the game?
“Like if I get it [strawberry elephant], I’ll just go insane,” he said. The idea made him jump out of his chair. He sauntered across the driveway, his head held high, “and I’ll go into a public server, and I’ll be like, ‘Hmm, I’ve got a strawberry elephant,’ and everybody will be jumping over me saying, ‘Hey, I need it, I will trade my whole base.’”
Do you think most kids that play know it’s addicting?
“We’re not, like, worried for them. They’re gonna stop. I mean, it’s not even that bad. It’s bad, but it’s not like — it’s not like it’s rotting your brain and you’re gonna be a dumb adult when you grow up.”
So you don’t think it’s that bad?
“Yeah, I mean, it’s just a video game.”
We talked a little more about the strawberry elephant (the ultimate indicator of elementary school clout) and a few other characters he was on the hunt for. Something slowly became abundantly clear about Steal a Brainrot — a massive part of the psychological appeal is rooted in the collection. The relentless desire to procure the ever-elusive strawberry elephant, or the next best thing, fuels its users to play indefinitely. You never know what could come out of that tunnel. Every minute you spend absent from the game is a minute you could miss the opportunity to collect a rare character. The risk of wasting your time is so insignificant when compared to such an exclusive and valuable reward.
Corporations peddle to our insatiable desire to collect and gamble — our brains’ addiction to dopamine and penchant for overconsumption. But instead of Las Vegas and lottery tickets, it’s Pop Mart, fuzzy toys, Pokémon Cards — today’s material objects of desire have a decidedly more youthful energy.
Addiction is repackaged and sold to children in the form of Robux.
“I want the pink Labubu, mommy. I didn’t get it last time, so buy me another one.”
Before you know it, $80 is gone, and a million screaming children create a billion-dollar industry.
In summary, the lack of strategy, the prospect of infinite reward and the stimulation of collection and risk create the perfect game. Add the viral phenomenon of internet “brainrot,” and you get 25.2 million users at once.
So, we’ve established the appeal. But what does this mean? Does Roblox really pose a danger to forthcoming generations, or is it just the inevitable next stage of the evolution of entertainment?
Since the beginning of time, old people have perpetually wagged a finger at the developing tech habits of the youth. Turn the music down! You spend too much time on the telephone! Don’t sit so close to the TV! Get off your computer! You spend hours on TikTok!
That’s going to rot your brain, they all say in unison.
In my opinion, yes, I would trust a baby boomer to change my tire before I would a Gen Z-er. But I don’t think that signals the decline of civilization — the world is always changing, and technology will change with it. Sure, this might lead to a generational decline in certain skills, but have you ever used Triple A? It’s so convenient!
I’m not saying Steal a Brainrot is leading us farther into the future, but I don’t think it’s sending us back to the Stone Age. I think the kids will probably be fine. They might have a steadily decreasing attention span and be at a potentially higher risk for a gambling addiction later in life, but hey, it’s not like they’re going to be dumb adults.
We can all have a good laugh at the absurdity of “Steal a Brainrot.” But when it comes to deducing the long-term effects, I don’t think there is much to say.
To me, Roblox seems no different than any company that puts its users at risk for profit. Roblox actively seeks to get underage users addicted, encouraging kids to rifle through their parents’ wallets and spend $5.99 for something they are convinced they need. TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, Facebook, everything you see on the internet, any video game ever, anything ever created — they are all designed to do the same: suck you in and keep you sitting on your couch for as long as they can.
Doing so digitally has become increasingly popular in recent years. Taking advantage of the increased presence of tech in homes and in childcare to target minors is a newer concept, but I predict kids will adapt, just like we did. My brain’s not rotted yet.
Claire Thatcher is a freshman at UT this year studying journalism and media. She can be reached at [email protected].
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