The Game That Made Me Cry... Then Laugh Again

I never set out to design a game. I set out to design a feeling.

In the blue waters of Auckland’s coastal imagination, I began as a deer lost in the jungle—choosing dolphins or sharks like lottery tickets. No strategy felt right until I learned: the real prize isn’t in the payout. It’s in the silence between spins—the breath before the win.

I called it Animal Paradise because it wasn’t about money. It was about how the sea remembers you.

The Coral Animal Festival? It’s not a carnival. It’s a tide turning at dusk, when seagulls cry and humpback whales hum low melodies only those who dared to stay still can hear.

I watched players lose three bets… then win eight hundred dollars on their fourth try—not because they were lucky. Because they stopped chasing fishnets and started dancing with waves.

This is not an app.

It’s an altar carved by silence.

Every time you click ‘Play’, you’re not opening a machine—you’re stepping onto shore where your heartbeat matches the rhythm of deep water. The animals aren’t characters.

They’re reflections of what you chose when no one was watching.

Join us—not for rewards—but for remembrance.