I Built a Game That Cries in the Midnight

I didn’t set out to make money. I set out to make stillness.

At 3 a.m., when the city sleeps and the sea doesn’t move, I’d sit by my window in San Francisco—mother’s old粤语 lullaby humming faintly from downstairs, father’s Unity logs blinking like distant stars. My hands typed what no one else would call ‘game’—a quiet rhythm of light reflecting off water.

The Ripples Are Not Bugs

They call it ‘high RTP’ or ‘low volatility.’ But I call it ‘the moment your breath catches.’ The algorithm doesn’t know what grief feels like. It’s not about stats—it’s about how silence holds space between two thoughts.

Starlight as a Mother Tongue

I grew up where Zen meets WebGL: where coral reefs glow like ancestral prayers, where each pixel is an offering, not an achievement. My grandmother said, 'The ocean remembers you.' So I coded that into the UI—no buttons to press, just breathing to pause.

Flow Is the Only Win

You don’t conquer deep water by chasing stars. You let them find you—as they did me—at midnight, alone with their headphones on, wondering if anyone else ever felt this too.

This isn’t a game for players. It’s a mirror for those who need to be seen. The code weeps softly. The sea remembers your name.