We are two people. We make small, weird video games. Each one took us roughly a year and at least one minor crisis. We would be genuinely, disproportionately thrilled if you played one. Please.
Okay, show me the gamesThree finished games. Actually finished! Credits roll and everything.
You are a snail. Your shell has a 30-year mortgage. A puzzle game about carrying your house on your back, refinancing with a heron of dubious ethics, and slowly realizing the garden's economy runs entirely on dew futures. Contains one (1) genuinely upsetting letter from the bank.
"I cried at the escrow level and I don't know why." — a real player, allegedly
A two-player game where one of you defuses a haunted appliance and the other reads the manual — except the manual is also haunted, and apologizes constantly. Communication chaos in the tradition of games that end friendships, but ours makes you say something nice about your partner before every round. House rule. Non-negotiable.
"We failed the toaster 11 times and got engaged." — an email we framed
Half dating sim, half municipal lighting simulator. Date a very sincere moth while managing the streetlamp grid she is legally required to be obsessed with. Every romantic choice affects the power bill. Seven endings, one of which is just a utility invoice, and it is the saddest one.
Winner, "Most Game" award, a jam we organized ourselves
Ren does code, music, and worrying. Ada does art, writing, and telling Ren the game is good, actually. We met at a game jam in 2021 arguing over the last power outlet and have shipped everything together since, from a spare room with a radiator that sounds like applause if you're desperate enough.
We make games about small anxieties with big feelings in them. Nothing we've made will take you more than an evening. That's on purpose — we like games you can actually finish, because we like making games we can actually finish. (We learned this the hard way. Ask us about the open-world fishing MMO sometime. Actually, don't.)