How I Turned My Burnout Into a Global Game Revolution

I didn’t set out to design a game. I set out to survive.

At 24, I was drowning in deadlines—code that never paused, feedback loops that ignored pain. The industry called it ‘productivity.’ I called it isolation.

Then came the rainforest.

Not literal trees—but the rhythm of Samba drums in a late-night prototype session. A player’s win isn’t about odds. It’s about belonging. I began watching playtest logs like poetry: fragmented moments of joy hidden in RNG trails. Each spin became a breath.

I built systems not for ROI—but for resonance.

The AI wasn’t trained to predict wins. It was trained to recognize silence—and fill it with color: #1E3A8A for calm, #7C3AED for wonder. Minimalist monochrome with electric violet accents became my visual language.

I stopped chasing RTP. I started listening to players who said, ‘I just needed to feel something real.’

So we made challenges where losing wasn’t failure—it was feedback.

One night, a stranger on Patreon wrote: ‘Your game felt like home.’ That’s when I knew: this wasn’t gambling. It was communion.

Now every feature roadmap begins with a question: What would you sacrifice for immersion?

I don’t sell games anymore.

I help people remember they’re not alone.