I need help assessing a game created entirely by ChatGPT. Now, I'm completely capable of play testing this game and making notes about what it lacks and what it needs, but I'd actually prefer having this be a community experience. Afterall, LLMs have absorbed everything we've written, it's only fair we group together to criticize its work, right? Not that it'll do much good. ChatGPT is completely immune to any ridicule or attempts to make it feel stupid or inept. Dammit. The

Lately I’ve been feeling a kind of steady, nagging dissatisfaction—with my work, my drawings, my games, even with this blog. Then I learned that one of my old teachers, Joe Hannibal, passed away. Joe taught me brutal honesty in art, and thinking about him made me realize I’ve been running from unfinished work. It’s time to be honest, finish what I started, and push myself toward something bigger.

I’m starting a two-week experiment: letting ChatGPT design a “legendary” card game. I’ll prototype it, playtest it with whoever joins in, and feed the results back to the AI to see if it can actually iterate like a real designer. I don’t expect success, but the process should be fun—and I’ll share updates as it unfolds.

Most LitRPGs mistake points for progress. They think readers want endless leveling, but what we really crave is experience—the kind you remember, not the kind you tabulate. It’s surviving a moment together, even if it’s imaginary. That’s why I design the games I do now: to create worlds that invite players in, let them leave fingerprints, and remind them that true immersion isn’t about escape—it’s about belonging.

After 63 days in the sterile monotony of a hospital, I’ve come home to real food, real rest, and real creativity. The pandemic taught us how work shifts between office, home, and survival—but nothing compares to the drain of fluorescent lights and endless repetition. Now, back among my toys, music, and darkness, I feel alive again. It’s time to tell stories, make games, and actually have some fun.

I’ve been going through one of my favorite parts of the design process: ideation. It’s the creative free-for-all where anything goes, and...

The Turning is out, but I’m torn. What if my so-called cousin Joe is right about these Arcana symbols? He warned me I don’t understand what I’ve unleashed, that some stories should stay buried. I want to believe it’s just a game, a creative project built from letters and folklore. Still, there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ve made a doorway instead of a deck of cards. If you’re reading this, be careful. And if someone asks about the Arcana, it might be safer not to answer.

As I prepare to launch The Turning, the first game in The Saga of El Castigo, I’m met with warnings from a so-called cousin obsessed with a town lost to history. Joe claims the letters and documents I’ve based the games on are the last clues to El Castigo’s location—a place that was never meant to be found. I don’t know why I’m helping him search for it, but the story is too compelling to ignore. Stay tuned for what comes next.

After announcing a game series inspired by 150-year-old letters, I was contacted by a stranger claiming to be a distant relative. He shared a chilling family story about a sealed package hidden in a burned table—once owned by our shared ancestor, Tryphena Depue. That package, he says, holds dark secrets linked to mysterious symbols and a feud that split the family. Now, he warns, some truths might be better left buried.

My wife was there being treated for sepsis, and we were surrounded by everything antiseptic. The walls, the sheets, the air. A place built to kill off infection—so effective it also smothered inspiration. Day after day, I sat beside her. Doctors and nurses came and went. The beeping monitors, the neutral walls, the beige uniforms—everything ran on repeat. To them, monotony meant stability. To me, it meant madness. So I saved myself. I started to create.

I first heard about the mystery box  when I was about 12 years old.   My mom mentioned it in passing at dinner. Just a brief, offhand...

Glue binds things together. Games do the same thing, only with people. For a long time I've been an alchemist of social glue through games.

Who was Average Joe Hero, and what made such a normal guy just a little bit special? If you're lucky, you'll find out.