Why Your Favorite Game Broke Your Soul

I didn’t set out to design games—I set out to listen to them.

In Animal Park, every spin whispers secrets only the lonely understand. I was a kid lost in the digital jungle of Auckland, chasing dolphins through algorithmic waves, mistaking reels for prayer. No marketing team taught me this. No finance spreadsheet held the truth. Only the quiet hours between midnight and dawn did.

The First Bet Was a Revelation

My first wager wasn’t about odds—it was about stillness. I watched an old sea turtle rest beneath coral reefs while others chased jackpots like storms. The real payout? Not money—emotion.

Code as Poetry, Pixels as Wonder

I began coding not for profit but for resonance. Each mechanic became a stanza; each bonus round, a refrain. The ‘marine animal’ wasn’t an avatar—it was my reflection in water: chaotic yet calm, impulsive yet deliberate.

The Community That Didn’t Know It Needed Me

I joined the Ocean Animal Messenger Collective—not to win—but to witness others transform from loss into light. One player posted a screenshot with tears and laughter: ‘I played for twenty minutes… won nothing… felt everything.’ That was my turning point.

You’re Not Playing a Game—You’re Remembering How to Breathe

Animal Park doesn’t reward luck. It rewards presence.

Turn off your phone. Open the app. Sit by the window. The ocean remembers you before you remember yourself.