The Ventureweaver

There are days when I feel like I’m walking through life just as blindly as the players who step into my game stumbling through shadows, searching for purpose, trying to make sense of a world that often feels indifferent. I think that’s why I built The Labyrinth of Time’s Edge in the first place. Not because I thought it would change the world, not because I expected applause, and certainly not because I thought thousands of people would ever play it.

I built it because I was trying to find myself.

The very first rooms I ever wrote were on an old IBM PC, back when the glow of the monitor felt like a portal to another universe. I didn’t know what I was doing; I was just a kid playing with QBasic, creating strange passages and writing descriptions that made sense only to me. But even then, there was something comforting about it the feeling that, even if nothing else in my life made sense, I could at least shape this one small world.

Years later, that feeling still hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s grown stronger.

Sometimes I look at the game and think: What am I doing? Why am I spending years of my life on something most people don’t even know exists? It’s a fear that hits me harder than I ever admit. I love this game deeply maybe too deeply and that love makes me worry. Worry that it will be ignored. Worry that it won’t be understood. Worry that all the nights, all the writing, all the soul I’ve poured into these rooms will vanish without a sound.

It’s strange how something you create becomes part of you. And it’s even stranger how your greatest passion can sometimes feel like a burden you drag alone.

There are nights where I sit at my desk and wonder if I’m lost not just creatively, but as a person. Lost between the future and the past. Lost between who I am and who I want to be. Lost between the world outside and the world I’ve spent decades building out of text and imagination.

It feels like the game is my anchor and my escape all at once. A place where I can breathe when the rest of life feels too tight.

People might see The Labyrinth of Time’s Edge as just a retro text adventure, but to me it’s every version of myself stitched into a single world: the kid tapping keys on an IBM; the frustrated adult trying to hold onto something meaningful; the dreamer who refuses to let the labyrinth die, even when life piles on and everything feels impossibly heavy.

This game has saved me more times than I can count.

And yet, the fear always lingers. Will anyone care? Will anyone understand how much this means to me? Will it matter? Will it ever be enough?

These are the thoughts I battle with not because the game isn’t good, but because I poured so much of my heart into it that sometimes it feels like I’m handing pieces of myself to strangers and hoping they won’t drop them.

But here’s what keeps me moving:

Every room I write reminds me that I’m not as lost as I think.
Every NPC description reminds me that my imagination is still alive.
Every new player who downloads the game, even silently, reminds me that maybe just maybe this world I’ve built has a place in someone else’s heart too.

This project was never about fame or fortune.
It was about survival.
It was about expression.
It was about building something when I felt like I might disappear if I didn’t.

And now, seeing the game reach hundreds of players, inching toward a thousand it hits me in a way I never expected. Not pride. Not relief. But something gentler. Something like… maybe I’m not lost after all. Maybe I’m just walking through a labyrinth of my own making and maybe that’s exactly where I’m meant to be.