I Built a Game That Cries at 3 AM — And It Taught Me How to Be Still

I didn’t set out to make a fishing game.

I set out to quiet my own anxiety.

Growing up in San Francisco’s foggy docks, where my mother spoke Cantonese lullabies and my father debugged RNG algorithms at midnight, I learned that luck isn’t random — it’s rhythmic. The fish don’t bite because they’re hungry. They bite because the water remembers your breath.

So I coded a game where every cast feels like a breath held too long.

Not in pixels or polygons — but in pauses. In the space between spin and stillness. Where RTP isn’t a statistic but a prayer. Where “free spins” aren’t rewards — they’re moments you sit with.

I designed UI that doesn’t push you to win. It invites you to wait. To watch the ripples fade into dusk. To feel the weight of silence before the hook drops again.

One player wrote: “Did you ever have that moment when the world stopped?”

Yes. At 3 AM. The ocean didn’t move. The fish didn’t flee. And for once… I didn’t need to catch anything.

We call it “Fishing Glory” now — but it began as grief turned into grace.