There comes a time when the conveniences we once leaned on start to feel more like crutches than tools. Canceling Amazon Prime was one of those moments for me. For years, it felt almost essential. The free shipping, the quick delivery, the streaming options—it all blended into the rhythm of modern life, a background service that was there when I needed it. Yet recently, I decided to step away from it, and in doing so, I began reflecting on how much of my approach to shopping, gaming, and even entertainment had been shaped by this service.
Back in 2016, I wrote about my buying habits and how board gaming fit into them. Looking at those old notes now, I can see how things have changed. At the time, Prime made sense because it fit into the way I was living: frequent purchases, a hobby that benefited from easy access to games and accessories, and the appeal of streaming movies or shows without thinking too hard about cost. But life shifts. Hobbies shift. Priorities shift. In this first part, I want to break down what pushed me toward canceling, and more importantly, what I’ve discovered about myself and my habits since making the decision.
The Illusion of Convenience
One of the biggest selling points of Prime has always been the free shipping. It feels liberating, at first, to know you can order something as trivial as a single card sleeve pack or a new set of dice without worrying about tacking on extra fees. The psychological trick is simple: since shipping is covered, the barrier to placing an order disappears. But what I realized over the years is that this “free” feeling isn’t really free. The cost is baked into the annual subscription, and for me, that meant I was constantly justifying the fee by using the service more than I actually needed.
It’s not that I was making big impulse buys, but the little ones added up. Small accessories, bits of hobby material, replacements that could have waited until I had a larger order—all of these started to feel urgent because Prime made them accessible with one click. When I stepped back and thought about it, I noticed that this was shaping my relationship with board gaming in subtle ways. Instead of treating it as a deliberate, patient hobby where I looked forward to a new game after saving for it, I was getting used to quick fixes.
Canceling Prime forced me to slow down. Without the safety net of “free” shipping, I’m more mindful about grouping purchases together or simply waiting. And you know what? That’s not a bad thing. The anticipation that comes with waiting for something is part of the enjoyment. It turns the purchase into an event again rather than a casual background action.
The Reality of Delivery Times
Another thing that stood out after years of membership was the delivery speed. When the service first became popular, fast shipping was one of its defining features. In practice, though, it wasn’t always as fast as advertised. Living outside of major cities meant that same-day or overnight delivery was never realistic for me. Three to four days was the usual experience, which, while quicker than other outlets, wasn’t exactly magical.
The contrast became clearer when I started ordering from alternative sellers. Sometimes I’d wait a little longer—five to seven days instead of three—but it rarely felt like a significant difference. Once I accepted that I didn’t need items instantly, the advantage of Prime diminished. This change in mindset naturally spilled over into my gaming life.
Board games are, by their nature, experiences that reward patience. Learning the rules, gathering friends, setting aside time—all of it requires slowing down and planning. Yet my buying habits had become rushed, almost impatient. I was in danger of turning the hobby into a collection race rather than an activity I savored. Recognizing that, I began to reframe the delivery timeline not as a disadvantage but as a way to align my habits with the very spirit of the games I loved.
Financial Clarity
Then there’s the matter of cost. The subscription fee, once spread across frequent use, eventually felt like it was looming larger than it should. At around $150 per year after taxes, it wasn’t insignificant. For someone who doesn’t rely on constant deliveries, it began to look like a poor investment. Sure, shipping charges here and there might add up, but unless I was ordering constantly, I would never approach the cost of the subscription itself.
This realization hit especially hard when I thought about my board gaming budget. Like many hobbyists, I’ve had to set limits on how much I spend. New releases are tempting, expansions always seem appealing, and accessories like storage inserts or upgraded components can pile up quickly. Cutting Prime meant freeing up money that could be redirected more intentionally into the hobby—or, more importantly, into other aspects of life that needed attention.
It was empowering to reframe the subscription as something optional rather than essential. By letting go, I wasn’t losing anything. Instead, I was gaining flexibility. I could choose when and where to spend, and I was no longer tied to a yearly fee that pressured me to “make it worthwhile.”
Prime Video and the Shifting Landscape of Entertainment
Of course, Prime wasn’t just about shipping. The video streaming was another major part of it. I’ll admit, there were times I leaned heavily on it, especially when certain shows or movies were only available there. But over the past few years, the streaming landscape has exploded. New services emerged, old ones reshaped themselves, and the variety of options meant that Prime was no longer a unique source of content.
I started hopping between subscriptions, taking advantage of temporary deals, and rotating platforms based on what I actually wanted to watch. This approach meant I was never locked in, and it also prevented the passive accumulation of shows I didn’t really care about. Again, the common thread here was intentionality. Just as with board games, I didn’t want to consume out of habit. I wanted to choose.
By separating Prime Video from the shipping benefits, I could still dip back in when I felt like it. The option to subscribe month-to-month was enough. No need to carry the weight of a yearly plan. Entertainment became more about quality than quantity, which matched the broader changes I was making in other parts of my life.
The Broader Impacts on Gaming
Canceling Prime wasn’t just about shopping or streaming. It was also about re-examining my relationship with board gaming as a whole. In earlier years, there was a rush to keep up with new titles, to always have the latest releases on my shelf. Prime fed into that cycle by making it so easy to grab games quickly. But with that convenience gone, I naturally slowed down.
Slowing down meant appreciating what I already had. My shelves aren’t barren—they’re full of games I’ve collected over the years, many of which still deserve more playtime. Without the constant flow of new arrivals, I rediscovered old favorites. I revisited classics that had been gathering dust. And I noticed that my gaming sessions became more about connection and experience rather than novelty.
This also had an impact on my family. I realized that the extended family already had plenty of games to share between us. There was no shortage of options, no real need to keep chasing more. Instead of spending on new titles, we could invest our time in learning the depth of what we already owned. The hobby shifted from accumulation to appreciation, which feels far more sustainable in the long run.
When I made the decision to cancel Amazon Prime, it wasn’t only about cutting back on expenses. It was about taking a step back and questioning how much of my daily life had been shaped by the sense of constant availability. In the previous part, I explored how this change reshaped my habits around purchasing, delivery times, and the way I approached board gaming. Now, I want to dive deeper into the bigger picture: what it means to build a sustainable approach to hobbies, spending, and time when you no longer rely on instant convenience.
The word “sustainability” often makes people think about environmental issues, and while that is a part of it, my focus here is more personal. It’s about creating rhythms and choices that I can maintain over the long term without feeling burned out, financially strained, or caught in a cycle of always wanting more.
The Subtle Weight of Convenience
Convenience is seductive. On the surface, it looks harmless, even positive. Who wouldn’t want life to be easier? But over time, the expectation of convenience can start to weigh on you. It reshapes how you view your needs. Instead of planning purchases or thinking about whether something is necessary, you begin to assume that if it’s easy, it must be worthwhile.
Prime was a big part of that. The “order now, get it soon” culture trained me to think less about whether an item was urgent and more about whether it was available. Without realizing it, I was outsourcing part of my decision-making process to the service itself. If it was easy to buy, why not? If it would arrive quickly, why wait?
The danger of this mindset is that it builds habits of consumption that aren’t sustainable. For hobbies like board gaming, which already thrive on constant new releases, the result is a never-ending cycle. There’s always something new arriving, always another expansion, always a reason to spend. Canceling Prime disrupted that cycle in a way that forced me to re-examine what I really wanted out of the hobby.
Slowing Down as a Form of Sustainability
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned since stepping away is the value of slowing down. Sustainability, in this sense, isn’t about never buying anything again or cutting off all indulgences. It’s about pacing yourself.
When delivery isn’t instant, when costs require more consideration, you naturally start spacing out your purchases. At first, this felt restrictive, as if I was depriving myself. But the longer I lived with it, the more I realized it was liberating. By spacing things out, each purchase carried more weight. Each new game, each accessory, became an event to look forward to rather than just another package on the doorstep.
This slower rhythm also made me more mindful of what I already had. It’s easy to overlook your existing collection when something new is always arriving. Without the constant churn of deliveries, I found myself pulling old favorites off the shelf, rediscovering their depth, and appreciating the value they had always held. Sustainability, in this sense, became about cultivating depth instead of chasing breadth.
The Financial Sustainability Angle
There’s also the straightforward financial side. Prime’s annual subscription fee was only part of the equation. The real cost came from how it encouraged more frequent spending. By canceling, I cut out both the subscription itself and the ripple effect of unnecessary purchases.
For me, this meant redirecting funds toward things that genuinely mattered. Some of that money stayed in the hobby, but it was spent more deliberately. Instead of buying three small items on a whim, I might save for one larger purchase that I knew would bring lasting enjoyment. Other times, the money went toward non-hobby needs, like household improvements or experiences with family.
Financial sustainability isn’t just about having more in the bank. It’s about aligning spending with values. Without Prime nudging me toward constant consumption, I felt freer to spend in ways that actually supported the life I wanted to build.
Time as the Ultimate Bottleneck
The more I reflected on it, the more I realized that time was the real bottleneck—not money, not access, not delivery speed. There are only so many hours in the day, and filling them with passive or impulsive activities doesn’t create lasting satisfaction.
Prime, by bundling shipping and streaming, quietly shaped how I used my time. The ease of ordering meant I spent more time browsing for things I didn’t need. The access to endless shows meant I often defaulted to watching whatever was in front of me instead of choosing carefully. None of this was catastrophic, but it added up to a subtle erosion of how I wanted to live.
When I cut Prime, I noticed something surprising: I gained time. Not because the service itself consumed hours, but because without it, I became more intentional. Shopping required planning, which meant fewer aimless searches. Streaming rotated, which meant I spent more effort choosing shows I actually wanted to watch. And in both cases, the time I saved went into activities that felt more meaningful—like actually playing the games I owned, painting miniatures, or spending more quality moments with family.
Rebalancing the Hobby
Board gaming has always been a source of joy for me, but it can also be overwhelming. The sheer volume of new releases can make it feel like you’re missing out if you’re not constantly buying. Prime fed into this fear of missing out by making the acquisition process so frictionless.
Once that was gone, I started asking myself different questions. Did I really need that new game right now? Would it actually get played, or was I chasing the thrill of something new? By reframing the hobby around play rather than purchase, I found a more sustainable balance.
The shift also extended to family gaming. My extended family already had a healthy collection of titles. Instead of duplicating purchases or rushing to grab the newest box, we could share, rotate, and enjoy what we collectively owned. This approach didn’t just save money; it created more opportunities for connection. The games became shared experiences rather than individual possessions.
Psychological Freedom
Perhaps the most unexpected outcome of canceling Prime was the psychological freedom. The subtle pressure to “get your money’s worth” from the subscription disappeared. I no longer felt the need to justify a fee by ordering more often than necessary.
This shift in mindset spilled over into other areas of life. It reminded me that I don’t need to chase every deal, subscribe to every service, or stay caught up with every trend. It’s okay to miss out. It’s okay to wait. It’s okay to choose deliberately rather than reactively.
This realization is deeply tied to sustainability. True sustainability isn’t just about money or resources—it’s about mental energy. Constantly feeling like you need to keep up is exhausting. Letting go of that expectation is one of the healthiest choices I’ve made.
When I first canceled Amazon Prime, I thought the biggest impacts would be personal: financial clarity, slower purchases, and more mindful use of time. And while those areas certainly changed, what surprised me most was how much this decision rippled outward into my relationships and social connections. Convenience is never just an individual matter. It shapes how we interact with others, how we share our hobbies, and how we approach experiences together.
This part of my reflection is about those ripple effects. How leaving Prime influenced my family dynamics, my board gaming groups, and even my broader approach to connection. It’s one thing to talk about slowing down for yourself, but when you start seeing how it impacts those around you, the shift becomes even more meaningful.
Family and the Abundance We Already Had
One of the first realizations that hit me after stepping away from Prime was just how many board games were already in circulation within my extended family. Over the years, we’ve accumulated a collective library of titles—classics, niche releases, strategy-heavy games, and quick fillers. There was never really a shortage of what to play.
But when Prime was part of my life, it was easy to overlook that abundance. New games could be ordered at the click of a button, and with delivery just days away, the temptation was always there to add to the collection instead of fully appreciating what we already had. Canceling Prime put a natural pause on that cycle. Suddenly, the shelves looked fuller. The games that hadn’t seen much play in years called out for attention.
This change shifted family gaming nights in subtle but important ways. Instead of someone bringing the newest arrival to the table, we started revisiting old favorites. That, in turn, sparked new conversations. Stories about past sessions resurfaced. We remembered why certain titles had been beloved in the first place. And in rediscovering these games, we realized we didn’t need constant novelty to enjoy our time together.
Shared Ownership and Collective Value
Another unexpected outcome was a stronger sense of shared ownership. Without the influx of new titles flowing in from my orders, we leaned more heavily on the games that different family members had acquired. It wasn’t about whose collection was “better” or who had the newest thing—it was about pooling resources and making the most of what was available.
This approach brought a sense of collective value to the hobby. Games became less tied to individual purchases and more tied to group experiences. When a family member introduced a game they had bought years ago, it wasn’t just a product on the table—it was part of their story, part of our shared history. Playing it together reinforced the idea that hobbies don’t have to be individualistic; they can be a web of connections that draw people closer.
The Shift in Social Gaming Culture
In broader gaming groups beyond family, I noticed something similar. Prime had made it easy to chase the newest release, and gaming culture often encourages that pursuit. There’s always a new mechanic to explore, a new expansion to try, a new Kickstarter on the horizon. Without Prime smoothing the path to acquisition, I found myself resisting that cultural pull.
Instead of showing up with the latest box, I brought older titles to the table. At first, I worried this would make me feel left behind. But what actually happened was more nuanced. Other players appreciated revisiting games they hadn’t touched in years. They remembered mechanics they had once loved. They discovered depth in titles they had previously dismissed.
This shift in perspective changed the culture of our sessions. Instead of comparing who had the most up-to-date collection, we started celebrating the experiences themselves. The games became less about novelty and more about the bonds they created. And in many ways, this made the sessions richer.
Slower Consumption, Deeper Conversation
One of the side effects of constantly chasing new games is that conversations often revolve around them: what’s hot, what’s just been released, what’s next on the list. Without Prime, and with fewer new arrivals in my own home, those conversations began to change.
We started talking less about purchases and more about experiences. Instead of comparing price deals or shipping speed, we compared strategies from past games. Instead of talking about the next preorder, we talked about which game from our shared collection deserved another night on the table.
This shift might sound small, but it transformed the atmosphere. Conversations became more personal, less transactional. They focused on memory, creativity, and the joy of shared play rather than on consumer habits. And in a world where so much social interaction is tied to consumption, that felt refreshing.
Family Time Beyond the Games
Canceling Prime didn’t just affect the games themselves—it also reshaped how we used our time together. Prime Video had once been a default for family entertainment. If we wanted to watch something, it was always there. Without it, we had to be more deliberate. We rotated between other services, but we also leaned into alternatives: DVDs we already owned, shows borrowed from friends, or even simply spending evenings talking instead of watching.
This shift created more space for actual interaction. It wasn’t about rejecting streaming entirely, but about diversifying the ways we connected. Board games naturally filled some of that gap, but so did conversations, shared meals, and other forms of togetherness. Canceling Prime reminded us that entertainment doesn’t have to be passive. It can be participatory, collaborative, and rooted in real human connection.
Teaching Patience to the Younger Generation
One of the most surprising outcomes of this change showed up with younger family members. Kids today are growing up in an environment of instant gratification. They’re used to clicking a button and having things arrive quickly, or streaming a show on demand without delay. Prime was part of that culture in our household too.
When we canceled, there was an adjustment period. At first, there were complaints: why couldn’t we just order something right away? Why did we have to wait? But over time, those complaints turned into lessons. The kids started to understand that waiting wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, waiting sometimes made things more exciting.
When a new game or toy did arrive, it carried more weight. They looked forward to it, talked about it, and cherished it more than when things simply appeared within a couple of days. In this way, canceling Prime became not just a personal or financial choice, but a teaching moment about patience, value, and appreciation.
Redefining Value in Relationships
Relationships thrive on shared meaning, not on constant novelty. Prime, by making novelty so accessible, sometimes distracted from that truth. Without it, I began to see more clearly what made relationships strong: time, attention, and shared stories.
This showed up in gaming sessions, but also beyond them. A slower, more deliberate lifestyle encouraged longer conversations, deeper reflection, and less rushing from one thing to the next. Instead of planning our time around deliveries or binge-watching marathons, we planned around each other. That kind of value doesn’t come in a package—it comes from presence.
Beyond the Household
The social ripples extended beyond my own circles too. Friends who learned I had canceled Prime were curious. Some thought it was impractical. Others admired it. A few even began questioning their own reliance on convenience.
The conversations that followed were interesting. Instead of talking about the latest deal or how fast something arrived, we started talking about balance. How do we manage hobbies without letting them consume us? How do we enjoy entertainment without letting it shape our schedules? These conversations felt richer and more meaningful than the usual surface-level chatter about shopping or streaming.
A New Kind of Togetherness
Ultimately, what canceling Prime revealed to me was a new kind of togetherness. It reminded me that hobbies like board gaming are about connection, not consumption. That family entertainment is about interaction, not just streaming. That relationships grow deeper when they’re built on shared time, not just shared services.
The convenience of Prime had quietly pulled me toward a more individualistic approach: my orders, my shows, my collection. Without it, I found myself leaning more on collective experiences. The shelves of games weren’t just mine—they were ours. The stories we told weren’t about what had just arrived—they were about what we had lived through together.
When I first canceled Amazon Prime, I thought it would be an experiment in saving money. Maybe I’d miss the fast deliveries, maybe I’d miss the streaming options, but it seemed like something I could manage without. What I didn’t realize was how deeply it would influence my outlook—not only on hobbies like board gaming, but on life as a whole.
In earlier parts of this reflection, I’ve explored the personal adjustments, the sustainable habits that grew out of the change, and the social shifts that rippled into family and community life. Now, in this final part, I want to step back and look at the bigger picture. What does life without Prime teach us about consumption, about patience, and about how we might navigate the future?
Convenience and Its Costs
The central theme running through all of this is convenience. Modern life is built on it. We order with a click, stream endlessly, and expect speed in every corner of our routines. At first glance, convenience looks like progress. It saves time, it reduces friction, and it feels empowering. But convenience has costs that are less visible.
One of those costs is financial. The subscription fee itself is easy to justify in the short term, but over time, it pushes you to consume more than you would otherwise. Another cost is psychological—the subtle pressure to get your “money’s worth,” the erosion of patience, the creeping expectation that life should always move at the pace of instant delivery.
And then there’s the social cost. When convenience becomes the default, experiences shift from being collective to being individualized. You order your own items, stream your own shows, and shape your routines around personal ease. What you gain in efficiency, you sometimes lose in connection.
Canceling Prime made those costs visible to me. It showed me that convenience is not neutral—it shapes habits, expectations, and relationships. Recognizing that gave me the clarity to ask whether the trade-offs were really worth it.
Redefining Value
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned through this process is that value is not the same as speed. Value is not about how quickly you can get something or how much you can accumulate. True value lies in meaning.
In board gaming, this became obvious once I stepped away from constant acquisitions. A game that gets played twenty times with family is far more valuable than three new games that sit unopened. The depth of the experience, the stories told around the table, and the memories created—that’s where the real value lies.
The same is true in entertainment. A single show that sparks thoughtful conversation or shared laughter with loved ones holds more weight than hours of background streaming that nobody really remembers. When you shift focus from quantity to quality, you discover a richer kind of enjoyment.
This redefinition of value is something I want to carry into the future. It applies not only to hobbies but to all aspects of life: relationships, work, even the way we spend free time. It’s a reminder that slowing down and being intentional often brings more satisfaction than chasing speed or volume.
The Future of Hobbies Without Instant Gratification
For hobbies like board gaming, stepping away from Prime has broader implications. The industry thrives on a constant stream of new releases, expansions, and deluxe editions. There’s always another title to chase, and services like Prime amplify that cycle by making acquisition effortless.
But what happens when you step outside that system? For me, it meant rediscovering the joy of replay. Old games became new again once I gave them attention. Familiar mechanics revealed new layers of strategy. I realized that I didn’t need to keep up with every release to enjoy the hobby fully.
Looking ahead, I think this perspective is essential for long-term engagement. No one can keep up with the pace of modern publishing forever, financially or emotionally. At some point, sustainability means embracing replay, resisting the pull of novelty, and building a collection that grows in meaning rather than just in size.
This doesn’t mean new games have no place. They do—but they don’t need to define the hobby. By letting go of instant gratification, we can balance the thrill of the new with the satisfaction of the familiar.
Time as the Real Resource
Throughout this journey, one truth has stood out more than any other: time is the most valuable resource we have. Money matters, of course, but it can be regained. Time cannot. Every choice we make about convenience, consumption, or hobbies is ultimately a choice about how we spend our hours.
Prime, by making everything fast and easy, subtly encouraged me to fill time with passive consumption—browsing, ordering, streaming. Without it, I’ve had to be more intentional. Shopping requires planning, which means less browsing. Streaming rotates, which means choosing carefully. And those changes have given me back time that I didn’t realize I was losing.
That time has gone into things that feel more meaningful: deeper gaming sessions, creative projects like painting miniatures, or simply being present with family. If the goal of convenience is to save time, then the irony is that it often does the opposite—it fragments time, turning it into small pieces spent chasing the next thing. Without it, I’ve been able to stitch time back together into larger, richer blocks.
The Ripple Into Broader Life
The choice to cancel Prime was personal, but the mindset it encouraged has rippled into broader life. I’ve started questioning other subscriptions, other habits of convenience, and other assumptions about what is “essential.”
Do I need multiple streaming services running at once? Probably not. Do I need to buy things right away, or can I wait and see if the desire lasts? Often, waiting reveals I didn’t need the item at all. Do I need to fill every moment with something new, or can I appreciate what I already have? The latter often brings more peace.
These questions are not about deprivation. They’re about alignment—making sure that the way I spend money, time, and energy matches the life I want to build.
When I first canceled Amazon Prime, I thought it would be an experiment in saving money. Maybe I’d miss the fast deliveries, maybe I’d miss the streaming options, but it seemed like something I could manage without. What I didn’t realize was how deeply it would influence my outlook—not only on hobbies like board gaming, but on life as a whole.
In earlier parts of this reflection, I’ve explored the personal adjustments, the sustainable habits that grew out of the change, and the social shifts that rippled into family and community life. Now, in this final part, I want to step back and look at the bigger picture. What does life without Prime teach us about consumption, about patience, and about how we might navigate the future?
Convenience and Its Costs
The central theme running through all of this is convenience. Modern life is built on it. We order with a click, stream endlessly, and expect speed in every corner of our routines. At first glance, convenience looks like progress. It saves time, it reduces friction, and it feels empowering. But convenience has costs that are less visible.
One of those costs is financial. The subscription fee itself is easy to justify in the short term, but over time, it pushes you to consume more than you would otherwise. Another cost is psychological—the subtle pressure to get your “money’s worth,” the erosion of patience, the creeping expectation that life should always move at the pace of instant delivery.
And then there’s the social cost. When convenience becomes the default, experiences shift from being collective to being individualized. You order your own items, stream your own shows, and shape your routines around personal ease. What you gain in efficiency, you sometimes lose in connection.
Canceling Prime made those costs visible to me. It showed me that convenience is not neutral—it shapes habits, expectations, and relationships. Recognizing that gave me the clarity to ask whether the trade-offs were really worth it.
Redefining Value
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned through this process is that value is not the same as speed. Value is not about how quickly you can get something or how much you can accumulate. True value lies in meaning.
In board gaming, this became obvious once I stepped away from constant acquisitions. A game that gets played twenty times with family is far more valuable than three new games that sit unopened. The depth of the experience, the stories told around the table, and the memories created—that’s where the real value lies.
The same is true in entertainment. A single show that sparks thoughtful conversation or shared laughter with loved ones holds more weight than hours of background streaming that nobody really remembers. When you shift focus from quantity to quality, you discover a richer kind of enjoyment.
This redefinition of value is something I want to carry into the future. It applies not only to hobbies but to all aspects of life: relationships, work, even the way we spend free time. It’s a reminder that slowing down and being intentional often brings more satisfaction than chasing speed or volume.
The Future of Hobbies Without Instant Gratification
For hobbies like board gaming, stepping away from Prime has broader implications. The industry thrives on a constant stream of new releases, expansions, and deluxe editions. There’s always another title to chase, and services like Prime amplify that cycle by making acquisition effortless.
But what happens when you step outside that system? For me, it meant rediscovering the joy of replay. Old games became new again once I gave them attention. Familiar mechanics revealed new layers of strategy. I realized that I didn’t need to keep up with every release to enjoy the hobby fully.
Looking ahead, I think this perspective is essential for long-term engagement. No one can keep up with the pace of modern publishing forever, financially or emotionally. At some point, sustainability means embracing replay, resisting the pull of novelty, and building a collection that grows in meaning rather than just in size.
This doesn’t mean new games have no place. They do—but they don’t need to define the hobby. By letting go of instant gratification, we can balance the thrill of the new with the satisfaction of the familiar.
Time as the Real Resource
Throughout this journey, one truth has stood out more than any other: time is the most valuable resource we have. Money matters, of course, but it can be regained. Time cannot. Every choice we make about convenience, consumption, or hobbies is ultimately a choice about how we spend our hours.
Prime, by making everything fast and easy, subtly encouraged me to fill time with passive consumption—browsing, ordering, streaming. Without it, I’ve had to be more intentional. Shopping requires planning, which means less browsing. Streaming rotates, which means choosing carefully. And those changes have given me back time that I didn’t realize I was losing.
That time has gone into things that feel more meaningful: deeper gaming sessions, creative projects like painting miniatures, or simply being present with family. If the goal of convenience is to save time, then the irony is that it often does the opposite—it fragments time, turning it into small pieces spent chasing the next thing. Without it, I’ve been able to stitch time back together into larger, richer blocks.
The Ripple Into Broader Life
The choice to cancel Prime was personal, but the mindset it encouraged has rippled into broader life. I’ve started questioning other subscriptions, other habits of convenience, and other assumptions about what is “essential.”
Do I need multiple streaming services running at once? Probably not. Do I need to buy things right away, or can I wait and see if the desire lasts? Often, waiting reveals I didn’t need the item at all. Do I need to fill every moment with something new, or can I appreciate what I already have? The latter often brings more peace.
These questions are not about deprivation. They’re about alignment—making sure that the way I spend money, time, and energy matches the life I want to build.
Final Thoughts
When I first said, “No more Amazon Prime for us,” I imagined it as little more than a financial adjustment. A way to cut down on another subscription, maybe force myself to plan purchases better. What I didn’t anticipate was how much it would ripple through my life—changing the way I thought about board gaming, reshaping how my family and I spent time, and altering my relationship with convenience itself.
Looking back over this journey, a few themes stand out clearly.
From Convenience to Intention
Prime thrived on making everything quick: orders arriving almost instantly, entertainment ready to stream at a moment’s notice, and an endless carousel of new temptations. It was convenient, but that convenience came with hidden costs—impulse buying, background noise that ate away at time, and an expectation that life should always move at lightning speed.
Without it, I had to slow down. Planning became part of the process again. Shopping shifted from impulse to intention. Streaming became selective rather than endless. What felt like restriction at first slowly revealed itself as freedom—the freedom to make more deliberate choices.
Rediscovering Value
Board gaming gave me one of the clearest lenses to see the change. When Prime made it effortless to grab new titles, I fell into the rhythm of chasing novelty. Yet once the flow of packages stopped, I found myself turning back to the games I already owned. And that’s when the real magic happened.
Replay opened doors I had forgotten. Old favorites felt fresh again. Strategies revealed new depths. Games that had gathered dust started to shine in ways I hadn’t appreciated before. I realized that true value wasn’t in the sheer number of games on the shelf but in the memories created around the table—the laughter, the friendly rivalries, the inside jokes that carried into daily life.
The same held true in entertainment, in family routines, even in how I used my free time. Value, I learned, comes less from speed or abundance and more from meaning.
Connection Over Consumption
Perhaps the most profound shift was in relationships. Prime had subtly encouraged individual consumption—everyone watching their own shows, ordering their own items, doing their own thing. Without it, the center of gravity shifted back toward togetherness.
Board game nights became more frequent. Evenings turned into shared experiences rather than parallel streams. Waiting for something to arrive often became a conversation point instead of a frustration. Slowing down meant we noticed each other more, and in that noticing, we built stronger connections.