Bar Codes Design Sprint – Day 2: Acceptance

When you start a creative project like this two-week design sprint, the first step is to take a deep breath and accept the situation. No, I don’t mean that in some Zen-like state of calm resignation. It’s more like a Stoic’s hard, practical, and deeply personal acknowledgment of the terrain you’re crossing, land mines and all.

I learned this approach to design when I first picked up a copy of The Universal Traveler for an architecture class. That book has stuck with me ever since. It laid out a version of the creative process that didn’t treat it like a straight line or some divine download from the muses. It was cyclical. It was messy. It was very human. And it fit my way of dealing with problems. Over the years, I’ve internalized it and adapted it for everything from graphic to game design, product development, storytelling — basically, everything I create.

Today, I’m focused on the first step of the Universal Traveler’s design journey: acceptance.

Defining the Rules Makes Acceptance Easier

I’ve set myself a two-week sprint to go from zero to a fully fleshed-out concept for a new game called Bar Codes. One of the smartest things I did, even if it didn’t feel smart at the time, was to define the rules of the project before diving in.

I set my own constraints:

• The game has to be small and rugged.

• It needs to be playable with minimal components.

• It should be physical, but can include digital components if needed.

I’m working on a tight timeline, using only the tools I already have, and limiting the theme to something that plays on the double meaning of the phrase “Bar Codes.”

By defining those limits up front, I gave myself something concrete to accept. I know where I’m going and what I’m carrying. The landscape ahead might be unclear, but at least I’m not walking into it blind. And having those boundaries actually gives me room to be more flexible with how I interpret the challenge. Flexibility doesn’t mean anything goes. It means I get to choose when and why to bend my own rules.

Reality Check #1: It Has to Be Fun

First and foremost, I accept this truth: if the game isn’t fun, none of this matters.

That doesn’t mean it has to be laugh-out-loud, party-game fun (although it could be). It might be quiet and satisfying. It might be clever and elegant. It might be sneaky and strategic. But whatever form it takes, it has to offer something that makes people want to come back and play again. If I can’t get there, then I’ve made a thing, not a game. And that’s fine, but it’s not what I’m trying to do.

Fun is slippery. It changes depending on the audience. Sometimes it shows up late, like a hidden prize in a cereal box. Other times it’s there from the start and just needs shaping. But if I chase complexity or cleverness or story and forget fun? Game over.

So I’m anchoring everything in that one requirement: whatever Bar Codes becomes, it better be fun.

To hit that mark, I need to define who I’m designing for:

• They’re in a social setting, probably in a group.

• There may or may not be drinks involved. Think bar, pub, backyard barbecue, something casual and social.

• They’re looking for something interactive and easy to jump into.

• Mostly people in their mid-twenties to early thirties.

• Still holding onto a party vibe, even if it’s mellow.

Knowing this helps me figure out what kind of fun I’m aiming for, and what to cut.

Reality Check #2: It Has to Be Makeable

This isn’t just a creative exercise. I’m designing a product I actually plan to produce. That means accepting the physical, financial, and logistical realities of making something real. Card size, print tolerances, packaging, shipping weight, cost per unit, assembly time, component sourcing, all of it matters.

This is the part a lot of newer designers skip, and that’s fine if you’re just playing around or doing a school project. But if you’re serious about bringing a game into the world, and I am, then you have to hold two ideas in your head at the same time: the magic of the game and the math of getting it made.

I’ve done enough product design to know that some of the best ideas fall apart here. They’re too fragile. Too expensive. Too weird to manufacture. But that doesn’t mean you stop exploring. You explore everything. You go wild. You make the thing you wish existed. And then, when it’s time to evaluate, you accept that some things just won’t survive contact with reality.

Does that suck? Yeah, sometimes. But that’s design.

Design is about compromise. It’s about letting go of the perfect version and finding the version that works. It’s about finding the smart workaround that turns a problem into a feature. And sometimes, that’s where the best part of the game comes from.

Reality Check #3: There’s More Than One Right Answer

Another part of acceptance is understanding that there isn’t just one solution to this design problem. There are dozens. Maybe hundreds. Some are safe. Some are bold. Some are buried under the stuff I’ve already thrown out.

My goal isn’t to find the “perfect” version of Bar Codes. It’s to find one that works, one I believe in, one players enjoy, one that fits the constraints I’ve set and the story I’m trying to tell. But I also have to accept that out there, floating in the creative ether, there’s probably a better one. A more elegant mechanic. A sharper theme. A more memorable finish.

And that’s okay.

My job isn’t to beat some fantasy version of myself who had more time or energy or money. My job is to do the best I can with what I’ve got right now, and make something excellent in its own right.

As an artist, I’ve learned the hard way that comparing your work to other people’s is a waste of energy. There will always be someone with more skill, more time, more whatever. That doesn’t matter. The goal isn’t to make a masterpiece. The goal is to do your best now and make the next thing even better.

That’s the artist’s way.

Get Outside of My Head

If there’s one principle from The Universal Traveler that more people should take seriously, it’s this: look at the problem from as many angles as possible. Get feedback. Talk to strangers. Prototype early. Listen when someone says, “I don’t get it.”

Outside perspective is oxygen. Without it, your brain starts recycling the same stale thoughts until eventually, it stops moving. Over the next two weeks, I’ll be asking for constant feedback, from designers, from players, from people who don’t know me at all. Not because I need compliments (okay, maybe a few), but because I need friction. Ideas get sharper when they’re challenged.

Acceptance means letting go of the idea that you already have all the answers. It means understanding that sometimes, someone else sees your game better than you do.

Accept the Possibility — and the Value — of Failure

Finally, the most radical form of acceptance: I might fail. This game might suck. I might get to the end of these two weeks and realize I made a dud.

And honestly? That would be awesome.

Failure isn’t shameful. It’s useful. It’s feedback. It’s data. It’s a big blinking sign that says, “Here’s what didn’t work.” And that’s infinitely more valuable than a half-baked idea that never got tested.

If this game doesn’t land, I’ll know why. And the next one will be better because of it. Scars tell better stories than smooth skin.

I’ve failed plenty of times. I’ve made bad games. I’ve followed cool-sounding concepts right off a cliff. But I kept going. And I learned.

This game might fail. But I won’t.

That’s the power of acceptance. That’s the fuel for this whole sprint.

Let’s see where it takes me.

Want to follow along in real time? I’ll be posting behind-the-scenes sketches, prototypes, and probably a few rants over on Instagram. This is only Day 2. There’s a lot more chaos ahead.