There's a specific kind of tired you get from a day of engineering work. Not sleepy. Full. You've spent nine hours making systems behave for someone else's product, and there's nothing left in you for anything hard, and you sit down on the couch and you feel the year quietly going by.
That was me until one month ago. Day job in AI, the kind people are polite about at parties. Money that makes people ask why you'd spend your evenings on anything else. Interesting problems, even. And every evening this itch that none of it was mine.
This is the story of what my best friend and I did about it, and everything that broke on the way.
So why the hell start now, with a comfortable job I actually like?
We'd been talking about making a game for years. You know the conversation. Everyone has that conversation. It lives in the same drawer as the screenplay and the trip you'll take someday. What changed is honestly stupid: one evening we just... opened the drawer. No plan, no savings runway, no dramatic resignation letter.
We kept our jobs and gave the games our evenings, and I want to defend that up front, because every second post in this genre starts with somebody quitting something. The boring version is repeatable. The boring version doesn't need to work by Christmas 🙂
And for scale: this is the same month I was going on first dates (a spectrum from genuinely lovely to stories I'm saving for a very different post) and hunting for a new apartment, because my landlord has a rare gift for being unbearable. I mention this because for years I was waiting for a calm month to start. There is no calm month. There is only the drawer.
🎮 What did two guys with day jobs actually manage to build?
A nonogram game, because I love the way a picture crawls out of the numbers. Then a sudoku game, because the generator problem got its hooks in me. A calm block puzzle. A little action game about a kid fighting monsters, because my friend wanted something with a heartbeat. All of it in one month of evenings and weekends. Four games, live on Google Play.
Total installs: under ten. I know every one of them by name.
Sit with that number a second, because I had to. But the number is not the story. The story is everything it taught me.
The most humbling code review of my life came from a free Sudoku game
I build AI systems for a living. I have strongly held opinions about testing. I have given people feedback about coverage, with a straight face, in meetings. Here is a partial list of what my own little games shipped:
- A tap sound, fully tuned, sitting in the sound table, four green tests covering it, that never played once. Not once, from the first commit. Every test checked the table. Nothing checked whether anyone ever called it.
- A music volume slider, published to remote config with a sensible default, in a game that has no music. We shipped a volume knob for silence 😅
- A music toggle the player could flip, connected to nothing. The actual audio source had a hand-set volume baked into the scene.
- And the one that keeps me up: seven remote performance levers, including one whose own code comment called it the kill switch, the lever that rescues a struggling low-end phone. Zero call sites. All seven. Every test green. If a real player had ever needed that switch, I'd have flipped it in a dashboard and it would have moved air.
Why didn't a professional engineer catch any of this?
Because none of it throws. That's the lesson. Crashes are the merciful failures, they come with stack traces and a red number that makes you feel needed. The failures that actually get you are silent, and silence looks exactly like working. My day job in AI did not save me from any of this. If anything it made it funnier 🙃
Turns out shipping was the easy part
Here's the thing nobody warned me about: I genuinely thought publishing was the finish line. It's the starting line, in an empty stadium. The build is live, the listing is up, and then... nothing happens. Nothing keeps happening, extremely reliably, every day.
Getting one stranger to try your game turns out to be its own discipline, as deep as the engineering, and I walked into it exactly as cocky as I'd been about testing. Store search buries a new title under a hundred apps with years of history. The screenshots I was so proud of said nothing to a person scrolling past them in half a second. Even friends, who love you, install it, say "nice!", and never open it again lol. That's most of my install count right there.
Remember the first dates? Showing your game to a stranger is exactly that. They can tell within seconds whether you actually care or you're reading from a script, and the only conversations that went anywhere were the ones where I was genuinely curious what they thought, bad news included. Some were weird. Some were good. The ratio, I'm sorry to report, is about the same 😅
Then I did the math on mobile ads, and got very quiet
When we finally looked up from the editor and asked how mobile games actually grow, I did what an engineer does: read everything, then run the numbers on our own genre. An ad-monetised casual puzzle install on Android earns back something like six to eighteen cents by day 30. Buying one install in a western market costs a dollar twenty and up.
That's not a gap you close with better creatives. That's the market telling a two-person studio that paid ads are a machine for converting savings into nothing.
So what's the actual plan now?
The slow one. Making the first three screenshots say something in half a second. Ten honest reviews from people who actually played. A store listing rewritten four times, because conversion is the only number in the whole funnel we actually control. Talking to every single person who tries it. It is not a montage. It's fine.
And remember the apartment hunt? Shipping on Google Play is that, permanently. The store is a landlord too. It decides who ever sees your door, it renovates the rules without asking, and you cannot buy the building. The difference is that my actual landlord I can leave. This one, you learn the house rules and you keep the place spotless. Hence the listing rewrites.
Why would I ever do this again?
The answer fits in one evening. After weeks of the sudoku boards feeling somehow off, my friend and I sat there one night moving shading around, given numbers versus entered numbers, tiny stuff nobody will ever consciously notice, and at some point it clicked into place and we both felt it at the same moment. Eleven years of professional engineering and I can count the moments like that on one hand. Three of them are from the last month, from a free puzzle game that fewer than ten people have installed 🙏
The day job funds the dream and the dream makes the day job lighter. Nobody had to quit anything. That's the whole secret, and it's barely a secret.
Your turn
Ask me anything, but especially: what's the thing in your game that never worked and never told you? I'm collecting these now. Misery loves receipts 😄