SPACE4, Finsbury Park · with Outlandish · 6 August 2026
You'll leave with a published, playable link to a game that's yours.
A game's real story isn't the words on screen — it's the rules. Change the rule, change the meaning.
A narrow strip. You always drift right. Take a spouse and you move at half speed but score double. Five minutes, then you die.
You can't see far ahead, you can't go back, and love costs you mobility.
A small black square. Approach the others and they scatter. No goal, no ending.
Reaching out is what makes them leave.
Cheerful cartoon deaths, a song you can't shake, then: stand behind the yellow line.
A safety message people chose to share.
Conversations are jigsaw pieces. Early on, many and fiddly. As the relationship settles, two pieces. Later, hard again.
Talking to someone gets easier, then it doesn't.
Short interactive artworks that borrow the language of videogames — not five one-offs, a whole scene.
Four meters, all at 50. Every decision pleases one group and angers another. Leadership is an impossible balancing act.
Pump the keys to go faster. Stop, and you're fired. Every promotion makes your rivals more aggressive. Climbing the ladder doesn't make you safe.
Made small, made fast, made the way you'll make yours tonight.
A health bar goes down when you're hurt. A locked door needs a key. Your score goes up. The timer counts down. You have three lives.
Pick one from your list. What if it didn't work that way?
What would that make a player feel?
Pill Match breaks matching earns points.
Memory of Home breaks a matched memory is whole.
Don't ask what game should I make?
Ask what should my audience feel? — then find the rule that creates it.
My game is about , and I want the player to feel .
You wrote most of this at six o'clock.