Every piece below is a small attempt to answer that — a puzzle, a made-up universe, a feeling boiled down to a few lines of code. Click anything. Nothing here needs instructions.
Different exhibitions of the same collection — not redesigns, not replacements. This page always stays home base; each one below is the same lab, seen through a different lens.
Fresh work, still being lived with. Nothing here has found its permanent home yet — some of it might move into the gallery below, some into the Museum of Dead Ends, some might just sit here a while longer.
Not necessarily the "best" work here — just the pieces we keep quietly reopening ourselves, weeks later, for no reason we can fully explain.
I wanted to know whether recursion alone could become mesmerizing.
Could ten specific, unlabeled human feelings each be triggered by nothing but shapes and a cursor?
We wondered if made-up physics could be bred, like a strange kind of gardening — the single best reaction of this whole project happened in here.
Where all of this started: what does it feel like to watch your one action ripple through a whole board?
Five ideas that didn't work — kept on display anyway, because each failure taught us something we couldn't have learned by getting it right the first time.
Not documentation — a corkboard. Reactions, open questions, hunches, contradictions, quiet failures, and ideas still waiting for children. Nothing here is required to resolve.
One rule for all of these: under ten minutes to build, under thirty seconds to know if they're interesting. No goals, no explanations, no cleanup.
I wanted to know whether recursion alone could become mesmerizing.
I wondered what it feels like to chase your own past.
Tiny changes create completely different futures.
I wanted to see two separate actions of mine meet each other and leave a mark neither could make alone.
Tiny worlds, each with three made-up laws of physics. Most freeze or turn to static within seconds — we went looking for the rare ones that don't.
Could rating tiny worlds with a single emoji — 😴🤔😲🤯 — actually breed better ones over time?
Before we trusted our own eyes, we tried trusting a formula instead — could statistics alone spot a world worth watching?
One small sliding puzzle, taken apart and put back together with a single rule changed each time.
What does it feel like to watch your one action ripple through a whole board?
How much of a puzzle's personality lives in just one rule? We changed one at a time to find out.
Can "winning" itself become the interesting part — even a win that means doing nothing at all?
What if the board remembered things the pieces themselves forgot?
Ten tiny interactions, each rebuilt across three rounds until it reliably produced one exact, named feeling — no labels shown, no instructions given.
Small, playable bets: combine two known ingredients and see whether the result is a genuinely new feeling, or just the sum of its parts.
Does being chased while holding something valuable feel sharper than either danger or value alone?
Is not being able to see the full extent of a spreading threat unsettling — or just confusing?
Does the silence right after you let go of tension feel heavier the longer you were holding on?
Could we test our own predictions without unconsciously nudging the answer toward what we wanted to find?
The thinking behind everything above, written down for whenever you want to go deeper. Nothing to click, just words — worth finding after you've already explored, not before.
If feelings can be engineered on purpose, do the building blocks behind them have a shape — like elements in chemistry?
How do we test a hunch about human feeling without quietly fooling ourselves into confirming it?