The familiar, comforting scent of stale smoke and floor cleaner hits me the moment I push through the heavy doors. It’s a Thursday night, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by the rhythmic calls of numbers. I’m here, like dozens of others, on a simple mission: to find the best bingo halls near me for fun and big wins tonight. But as I settle into my well-worn seat, dabber in hand, my mind drifts to a very different kind of game—one where the stakes are fictional but the commentary cuts far deeper. I recently spent an evening not in a bingo hall, but in a digital recreation of a 1980s American mall, playing the cult classic video game Dead Rising. Its absurd, over-the-top satire of American culture provides a bizarrely poignant counterpoint to the communal, hopeful atmosphere of the real-world hall I’m sitting in now.
Dead Rising isn’t subtle. This is never more evident than it is with the game's many bosses, who are called psychopaths. Each of them is found in different parts of the mall at different times throughout the story, and they tend to personify some element of United States culture that the developers pick on through these over-acted caricatures of people. A family of hunters who turn their attention to human targets hits on America's uniquely problematic gun culture. A power-tripping cop takes hostages in a women's clothing store, abusing the victims in a strange funhouse mirror reflection of real-life issues. A war vet suffering from PTSD can't separate real life from his haunting memories. It’s brutal, darkly comic, and deliberately grotesque. The game holds up a distorted mirror to societal fractures, amplifying them into cartoonish violence. Playing it, I was fascinated by its unflinching, if clumsy, attempt to critique the very fabric of the society that built these shopping malls—spaces that were once temples of consumerism and community, much like this bingo hall once was.
And that’s the connection that struck me. Both spaces—the chaotic, zombie-infested mall of Dead Rising and the orderly, hopeful bingo hall—are deeply American social ecosystems. One exposes our darkest anxieties through hyperbole; the other offers a refuge from them through simple, structured ritual. Here, the only “psychopaths” are the occasional overly competitive players guarding their three cards with territorial intensity. The violence is purely verbal, a good-natured groan when someone else shouts “Bingo!” a number before you. The ritual is everything: the rustle of paper, the scent of the ink, the caller’s steady cadence. It’s a shared experience that requires no satire, because its function is pure, unadulterated escapism and community. In a world that often feels as fragmented and tense as Dead Rising suggests, the act of collectively focusing on B-9 or O-62 is a powerful, quiet act of defiance.
“You see it all the time,” says Margaret O’Connell, a sociologist who has studied recreational social spaces for over fifteen years. “Spaces like bingo halls operate as social equalizers and tension relievers. They provide a predictable structure and a low-stakes goal in an increasingly unpredictable world. While media like Dead Rising magnify cultural pathologies for critique, communal gaming environments actively work to soothe them. The dopamine hit from a small win, the casual conversation during intermission—it’s a form of social glue that’s often underestimated.” She estimates that on any given night, across roughly 4,700 dedicated bingo halls and charity venues in the U.S., nearly half a million people are participating in this exact same ritual. That’s a massive, quiet network of community interaction happening right under our noses, a counter-narrative to isolation.
So, as the caller announces the final game of the night—a $500 jackpot coverall—the contrast feels complete. My quest to find the best bingo halls near me for fun and big wins tonight wasn’t just about the potential $85 I’m hoping to score. It was a conscious choice to engage with a living, breathing piece of social infrastructure. Dead Rising’s mall is a monument to critique, a place where culture’s illnesses are weaponized. This bingo hall, with its mix of college students, seniors, and blue-collar workers all sharing the same hope, is a monument to resilience. It’s not perfect; the carpets are worn, the prizes are modest, and the coffee is terrible. But it’s real. The wins here, big or small, are shared. The losses are met with a sigh and a “next time.” In the end, I didn’t hit the coverall. A woman two rows over did, and her delighted shriek was met with genuine applause. As I drove home, the chaotic, satirical mall of that video game felt far away. The memory of that shared applause, however, felt immediately, reassuringly real. Sometimes, the best win isn’t on the card at all.