The games shelf
Everything we make is free to play: no ads, no accounts, nothing to buy. Right now there's one game you can actually play. The rest of this page is our notice board of what we'd like to make next.
Status board · no dates
Playable now, in your browser and as a download. We're fixing things as we go, and a 3D version is in the works. When it's ready, you'll pick 2D or 3D.
The daily seating puzzle. Still being made, and not playable here yet. A 3D version is planned too. Coming soon, no date.
A 2–4 player co-op dark comedy. You're the night shift at Black Lane Funeral & Collection: carry the client down the stairs, strap them in, and drive the hearse across a rainy neon city before sunrise.
The first slate we'd like to make after CLOSED CASKET: a daily puzzle, a card game, a party sport, somewhere quiet to hang out, and a hide-and-seek game. Same deal as always: free, no chat boxes, no accounts, 13+, and every round ends with a bit of deadpan paperwork. The reasoning is in the devlog: What's next.
Working titles. Plans can change or get cancelled. These are ideas on our notice board, not promises. No dates, no countdowns, no wishlists, no sign-ups. When one is actually playable, it moves to the shelf and gets a devlog post.
One table, too many relatives. Seat every guest so that every demand on the family's list is met. There's exactly one way to do it: no guessing, just logic.
What makes it ours: three new tables a day, and every past day stays in the archive, so there's no streak to lose. Get a table wrong and it goes on the paperwork. As a scandal.
Not playable yet. The trailer is a little ahead of itself. When the game's ready, it moves to the shelf and gets a devlog post. More in devlog #003.
Grandma left everything to "whoever can be trusted." Play heirlooms face down, say what they are, and contest your relatives' claims.
What makes it ours: three strikes and you're written out of the will, but you stay in as a ghost who can haunt one card a round, so nobody sits around waiting. The solicitor reads out each strike in very dry legalese.
Mini-golf through a messy flat-share: under the sofa, across the kitchen, into the bath. Everyone putts at the same time.
What makes it ours: every ball is on the course at once, and they knock each other about. Whoever finishes a hole first gets to drop one piece of household clutter into the next one.
A moonlit pier where anyone can drop in and fish. There's no chat: the regulars talk with lanterns. Every so often, the whole pier has to land one enormous fish together.
What makes it ours: lantern signals instead of chat, a shared logbook full of dry field notes, and "The Big One," a pier-wide reel where everyone taps in time. No timers and nothing to buy.
Guests at a very stuffy wake hide from the Executor by painting themselves to match the wallpaper, the curtains and the armchairs.
What makes it ours: you can only paint with colours and patterns sampled from the room itself, with no freehand drawing. The Executor reads out an itemised inventory of everyone they've found.
Further back in the queue. These are just ideas: we may never make them, or they may turn into something else.
Drop funeral flowers into a display stand. Matching ones merge into bigger, more tasteless arrangements.
Ours: the stand wobbles, so a lopsided bouquet tips the lot over.
Chess-like tactics where both players move at the same moment. Plan, lock in, and watch both moves land.
Ours: two pieces that pick the same square both bounce back. A scheduling conflict.
The annual fire drill in a 40-floor office tower. Race down through every department to the car park.
Ours: the slowest player gets a deadpan incident report listing everyone's falls.
Musical chairs as a battle royale at a hotel pool party. When the music stops, grab a deckchair or you're out.
Ours: knocked out? You become a lifeguard and nudge chairs for the next round.
Toy-tank duels across office floor plans.
Ours: a shell only does damage after it has bounced off a wall at least once.
