Why Your Favorite Game Broke Your Soul: A Philosopher’s Code of Joy in Animal Carnival

I write games like a bard with a debugger.

I grew up in Seattle where code smelled like pine needles and rain on circuit boards—where engineers whispered to rabbits at 3 AM, not for profit, but for peace. My first game wasn’t about RTP or volatility—it was about the silence between spins. The ones who won didn’t cheer—they wept.

I call it “Animal Carnival”—not because it’s loud, but because it remembers what joy feels like when you’re alone. The little pig doesn’t roll reels; he dreams of winter festivals in digital meadows. The rabbit doesn’t seek bonuses; she writes letters to her future self.

Every mechanic is a ritual. Every free spin, a prayer. Every jackpot? A shared secret passed through pixels—not currency, but communion.

You think you’re chasing wins.

You’re really chasing the echo of your own wonder.

I don’t design games for markets.

I design them for souls who forgot how to feel alive.

Come sit with me tonight—in the quiet glow—and tell me what your favorite game broke open inside you.