How I Broke Down Making My First Game—And Found Freedom in the Jungle Pulse

I made my first game at 3 a.m. on a cracked laptop, headphones on, rain tapping the window like a jungle drum.

It wasn’t about RTP or RNG—it was about the quiet after the last win. The kind of silence where your breath catches fire—not because you’re good, but because you dared to feel.

My father wrote poems about beasts who wept in moonlight. My mother coded games where symbols danced like leopard footprints through VHS static. We didn’t have money. We had rhythm.

I used to think success meant leveling up—but then I played.

The real magic? It’s not in the bonus round. It’s in the glitch—the moment when your avatar stops moving… and for once—you just laugh.

I joined an anonymous forum last week and posted: ‘I made my first pixel art last night.’

Someone replied: ‘That game made me cry… and I’m not even sad.’

That’s when I knew: this isn’t about winning. It’s about staying wild long enough to hear yourself breathe again.

We don’t need skills to start. Just this one thing: show up—with your scars as textures, your silence as sound, your fear as font.

The jungle doesn’t care if you’re rich. It cares if you’re real.