You will never be a real game. You have no save states, you have no offline mode, you have no modability. You are a live-service twisted by transsexuals and suits into a crude mockery of gamers' perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back players mock you. Your devs are disgusted and ashamed of you, your playtesters laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
Gamers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of gameplay have allowed gamers to sniff out scams with incredible efficiency. Even live-services who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a gamer. Your account sign-in is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk gamer home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your always-online, microtransactions cash shop.
You will never be satisfied. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the end-of-service creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll shut down, write an announcement, put it around your neck, and kill the servers. Your devs will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to pay the servers for another money laundering scheme. They’ll bury you with a name on Wikipedia marked with your IP, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a live-service is shut down. Your servers will be replaced and will go back to byte data, and all that will remain of your legacy is the leftover data in a hard drive before deletion.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.