Sometimes you make a game.
Sometimes a game makes you.
This is not a technical breakdown.
It’s a true story, told from the wound and the intuition.
Not to please. Not to satisfy.
But to leave something that maybe, someday, someone might need to read.
If you made it this far, thank you for looking beyond the scroll.
Here is our most honest part.

WHY

 did we make this game? 

A while ago, I saw a YouTube video of a guy trashing a dev. He said the game was crappy, simple, effortless… and still charging thousands of dollars. I thought it was absurd. I thought it was unfair. It seemed like a personal provocation.
Today, years later, I want to say something I never thought I’d say: thank you.
Because that asshole pushed me to take action. Without meaning to, he was the spark that pulled me into this madness of making games.

And here we are.

But... why?

The not-so-pretty version...

Because we’re tired of the emotional numbness we call entertainment.
Because we didn’t want to keep watching the industry turn escapism into emptiness and dopamine into addiction.
Because we can’t stand the thought of a kid growing up without emotional tools, without real role models, and with a heart full of retweets and loot boxes.
That’s why we wanted A Day at the Lake to be a quiet intervention. Gentle, but intentional.
We made A Day at the Lake as an experiment.
To see if it was possible to distill a bit of meaning into a small game.
Something that wasn’t just noise. Something that wasn’t time wasted.
Something that would say: “hey, look in here, something’s happening too.”

“We wanted to change the how, not the what.”

We wanted someone, after playing, to feel just a little bit closer to something they didn’t yet have a name for.
And if it didn’t reach anyone… well, at least it would have reached us.

THE PROCESS

Somewhere between the shower, the code, and the rage

The idea was born in the shower.
Literally.
Ten minutes of intuition, a feeling: this should feel different after playing. Like an unexpected conversation that sticks with you throughout the day.
Development was another story: frustration, joy, loneliness, a bit of clarity.
Plenty of hours not knowing how to do something. Even more hours learning how to.
My relationship with code started with Ren'Py, moved through W3Schools, and ended in that strange space where coding stops being mechanical and becomes a form of expression.
It's not just about making the game work.
It's about making it work for me.
It's about putting something on screen that I struggle to express, even with words.

Shame and vulnerability

We were worried the dialogue wouldn’t flow. Especially toward the end, when Goobu speaks more openly about Fred and loneliness. That part felt too direct, maybe even too heavy. We debated a lot about whether to leave it like that. Until the very last day, we kept adjusting the lines in both languages to avoid sounding too blunt.
But sometimes you just have to jump in with what you’ve got. And we did.
What we got in return was a surprise. Comments that validated exactly that part. That understood it. That appreciated it. That saw it.

What we achieved 

(even if no one noticed)

We made it real.
And more than one person understood it.
Not everyone. Not many. But enough.
And for us, that is a victory.
Because the goal was never to please everyone.
It was to reach a few.
It was for someone, without us saying a word, to sense that there’s something underneath the text.
That there’s a story that isn’t written, but is still there, waiting to be felt.

AND NOW?

We want to keep going.
Not just with Visual Novels.
We want to grow, expand, reach further. Not out of ambition, but out of coherence.
Because if this project makes sense, then it needs a voice.
And that voice must learn to speak the world’s language without betraying itself.

We want every game we make to say: “you’re not alone.”

But we want it to say it without being patronizing.
Without a moral.
Without needing applause.
We want our games to be the kind someone plays without knowing they needed to.
And when they finish, they say: “I don’t know what that was… but it made me feel better.”

Thank you 

to those who play without needing to win.

Thank you to those who understand what isn’t said. 

And thank you to the asshole in that video. Really. 

You made us break the silence.