Final build: 5/5 (a masterpiece that will change how people think about choice in games)
P.S. - Thank you for trusting me enough to send this even though you didn’t have to. It means more than you know.
I read it three times, throat getting tighter with each pass.
She gets it. She sees exactly what I was trying to do—that choice isn’t always about changing outcomes, but about how we face inevitable change. About agency in the face of powerlessness.
And that P.S... She knows I sent this just for her. For them. But especially for her.
“Good review?” Troy asks, though he’s clearly already diagnosed my emotional state.
“She said it’s genius,” I manage. “Said it’s going to change how people think about choice in games.”
“Because it will.” He sits up. “Dude, what you’ve created here is special. And she saw that potential even when you couldn’t.”
“I was such an ass about her critique.”
“Yeah, you were. So what are you going to do about it?”
I stare at her review, at that last line about trust. She’s been watching for my update, waiting to see what I did with her feedback. And now she’s telling me it mattered, that sending it to her mattered.
“I need to thank her,” I say. “Properly. In person.”
“Finally, he gets it.” Troy stands. “But first, you should probably submit this to those studios you’ve been researching.”
“Now?”
“Now. While you’re riding high on the best review of your life. While you remember what it feels like to have someone believe in your work.”
He’s right. I pull up my email and start attaching files to the messages I’ve been drafting for weeks. Five indie studios that specialize in narrative games, places where innovation matters more than market trends.
“No safety net?” Troy asks, watching me work.
“No safety net. If it’s good enough, it’ll stand on its own.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then at least, I’ll have tried. On my own terms.”
I hit send on all five emails before I can second-guess myself. Each one contains the build that ButterBoi69 just called a masterpiece.
“Done,” I announce.
“How do you feel?”
“Terrified. Excited. Like I need to text Piper immediately, but also like I should wait until I figure out the perfect thing to say.”
“The perfect thing is usually just the truth,” Troy suggests. “Thank her. Tell her what her feedback meant. See where it goes.”
My phone sits on my desk, her contact information right there. But something about her review—the way she thanked me for trusting her—makes me think maybe this conversation needs to happen face to face.
“Thai food?” Troy asks, heading for the door. “Freddie’s ordering.”
“Yeah, in a minute.”
He leaves, and I read her review one more time. Thankyou for trusting me enough to send this even though you didn’t have to.
Trust. That’s what this has always been about. She trusted me with honest feedback. I failed to trust her with my identity. But somehow, we’re finding our way back to something real.
