I Designed a Game That Cried at 3 AM—And Found Peace in the Ocean’s Silence

I used to sit alone in my San Francisco apartment, watching the glow of distant harbor lights ripple across the water. My mother spoke in Cantonese, humming old lullabies that didn’t translate—but their rhythm did. My father, an engineer from Seoul, once told me: ‘Code doesn’t fix loneliness. But it can hold space for it.’

The game began when I couldn’t sleep.

At 3 AM, on another Tuesday, I opened Unity and started dragging pixels—not to build mechanics, but to feel something real. What if a player’s heart could be heard? Not through points or rewards—but through silence? I made an ocean where stars don’t blaze with competition. They shimmer.

There are no bosses here.

I removed RNG from the core loop. No more ‘high RTP’ promises. No ‘star crown glory’ chasing. Instead: one quiet moment when the tide pulls you gently under moonlight. The player doesn’t win—they remember what it felt like to be still.

What we make isn’t about winning.

This is not a game for algorithms to control users.
It’s for those who’ve stared too long at screens.
For those who whisper: ‘Have you ever felt the world stop?’
I built this so they wouldn’t feel alone.

If you’ve ever sat awake past midnight,
wondering if your heartbeat matches the tide—
then this game was made for you.
You don’t need to earn it.
You just need to feel seen.