We're building the store page, and it's going about as well as you'd expect from four people who have never written an advert in their lives.
The trailer at least had raw material — footage exists, you cut it, you argue about it. This is worse. This is a blank box that wants a few hundred words explaining why a stranger should care, and a small rectangle of art that has to do most of the work before anyone reads a syllable. That rectangle is the size of a postage stamp in a list of nine hundred other postage stamps. It is, apparently, the single most important image we will ever make. No pressure.
The writing has been the humbling part. I can talk about this project for six hours to someone who already cares. Compressing it into a paragraph that means something to a person scrolling at speed, on a phone, mildly bored — that is a completely different muscle, and mine has never been used. Every draft I write is either so vague it could be any game ever made, or so specific it gives away things we've spent a year keeping quiet. There's a narrow corridor between those two and I keep bouncing off both walls.
We've also had to confront a slightly awkward truth: we've been describing this thing to each other in shorthand for so long that we'd forgotten it needs to be legible cold. Inside the studio, one word does an enormous amount of lifting. Outside, that word is just a word.
And underneath all of it is the strangest bit — the page is a door. Right now it's a draft only we can see. At some point we press a button and the thing that has lived in a locked box goes and stands in a shop window with a number under it that anyone can watch go up, or not go up.
I don't know what I expected that to feel like. Mostly it feels like the first day of school with a haircut you're not sure about.
Draft eleven tomorrow. It'll be worse before it's better.
— Thiago, staring at a very small rectangle
Posted by Thiago Moreira · September 10, 2026
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