The Ventureweaver

Before Christmas became something we scrolled past, it was something we waited for.

In the early days of personal computing, long before feeds and notifications and endless noise, people sent Christmas cards not by clicking a button, but by writing them. Line by line. Character by character. Color by color. These were not images in the modern sense. They were programs. Small, thoughtful pieces of code that, when ran, would turn a cold screen into something warm.

A Christmas tree made from slashes and carets. A star blinking softly at the top. Snow falling one dot at a time. A fireplace glowing in amber text. A simple message centered on the screen, often signed with nothing more than a name and a season’s greeting. These were computer Christmas cards. They came on floppy disks. They were shared through bulletin boards, mailed in envelopes, or handed directly to someone you cared about. You didn’t open them. You ran them. And when you did, the room often went quiet. You sat back and watched. They were meant to be lingered over.

Where They Came From

In the 1980s and early 90s, home computers were not passive devices. They invited participation. If you wanted something festive, you often had to make it yourself, or at least understand how it worked. BASIC, and later QBASIC, became the language of this era. It was approachable, forgiving, and perfect for small creative experiments.

A Christmas card program didn’t need to be efficient. It didn’t need to scale. It didn’t need to impress anyone. It only needed to run, display a scene, and say something kind. Many of these programs lived entirely in text mode. They used box-drawing characters, ASCII symbols, and limited color palettes. And yet, somehow, they felt alive. They flickered. They glowed. They hummed quietly alongside an awkward MIDI tune that always seemed just a little off. And that imperfection mattered. Because the person who made it was present in every decision.

Why They Meant So Much

What made computer Christmas cards special wasn’t the technology. It was the intention. Someone sat down and thought about the person on the other end. They imagined the moment when the program would be run. The room it would be viewed in. The smile it might produce. These cards were slow by nature. They resisted instant gratification. They asked you to pause. They were gifts. And like all good gifts, they carried the presence of the person who made them.

Why I Keep Returning to Them

Something about it feels honest in a way modern digital expression often isn’t. When I think about Christmas and computers, I don’t think about ultra-realistic graphics or cinematic sound tracks. I think about a quiet house. A monitor glow. Text slowly appearing on the screen. A message meant for one person, even if it eventually reached many.

This year, while working on The Labyrinth of Time’s Edge, I found myself returning to that feeling again and again. Not out of nostalgia alone, but out of necessity. The world moves fast. Too fast. And sometimes the only way to remember why you create is to slow down enough to feel it again.

So I wrote three Christmas screen programs in QBASIC. Each one explored a slightly different idea. A tree and a fireplace. A quiet room. A night sky with Santa passing overhead. A still scene meant to be looked at, not interacted with. None of them were complicated. None of them were perfect. But each of them carried intention.

Why This Art Form Still Matters

We often talk about progress as if it only moves forward. But sometimes progress means remembering what we lost along the way. Computer Christmas cards were small, but they mattered. They proved that technology could be gentle. That creativity didn’t require spectacle. That meaning could exist in a handful of characters on a black screen.

I don’t believe this art form should stay in the past. I believe it deserves to live again, not as a novelty, but as a reminder. A reminder that computers are still tools for imagination. That digital spaces can still feel personal. That not everything needs to be loud to be meaningful.

If even one person sees these screens and feels that quiet warmth again, then they’ve done their job. Because somewhere, someone might be sitting in a dim room, watching text glow softly on a screen, and remembering that creativity, at its best, is an act of care. And that, to me, is what a Christmas card should always be.