No QA team. No roadmap. No regrets. Just vibes.
42 Games — Built by AI, Debugged by Luck
A medieval kingdom is under siege, and the realm’s entire defense budget went to one dad and his two sons. Dad is the sturdy one with a broadsword and a shield wall, which is also how he handles bedtime negotiations. Player One trades health for a piercing spear and a free reroll, because he will not accept these cards. Player Two is fast, fragile and dashes straight into danger, which is historically accurate. You just walk. Your sword swings itself. Twenty waves of goblins, wolves and ogres pour in from every edge, and each level-up deals three cards — evolve a weapon into Excalibur or Armageddon and feel briefly invincible. Then the archers arrive. They hang back, they strafe, they fire every three seconds, and they are the #1 cause of death in the kingdom. Go get them. Survive seventeen minutes and the Ogre King shows up personally to complain. Private Mode hides the other two knights, so each kid can believe they’re Dad’s favorite.
You have one torch, a satchel, a stick of chalk, and a vague sense that the catacombs are bigger on the inside. Somewhere far ahead burns a golden sanctuary fire. Between you and it: miles of cold stone, a great many skulls, and the Hunter, a tall ragged thing with glowing eyes that has been waiting a very long time for your torch to go out. It will go out. Fuel only burns one direction. When it hits zero the Hunt begins, and your options become: strike a match with shaking hands, crouch and walk very, very quietly, break its line of sight, or run for the sanctuary and hope you remember which way it was (this is what the chalk is for, and you will forget to use the chalk). Switch torch modes to trade light for fuel, fire a flame burst when something gets too close, and bank the relics you find to buy a bigger fuel reservoir, softer boots and a compass. Die, and you lose everything you were carrying. The Hunter keeps nothing. It just wanted the light.
You are Wick, a candle-cat, which is a terrible thing to be. Your wax is your health, your height and your light, and it is melting the entire time. Walking melts it faster. Jumping costs wax. The only way across a gap is to drip some of yourself onto the floor and climb it, so every ledge is a small negotiation about how much of your own body a step is worth. Reach the next torch before you burn down to a stub and you get your wax back. Grab the jack-o’-lanterns for a snack. Wind gusts try to blow you out, water drips are exactly as bad for a candle as you’d think, cobwebs are sticky, and fuse ropes burn gates open if you’re brave enough to light them. Eight levels from Market Row to the Castle Stair, every sprite drawn in code and every sound synthesized, built for an AI game jam with the theme TORCH. As Wick shrinks, the face stays the same size, so the closer you are to burning out, the cuter and more desperate Wick looks.
Chicago has settled its greatest rivalry the only way it knows how: North Side versus South Side, one pool table, nobody leaves until every ball is gone. House rules apply. Every ball is worth one point, including the 8-ball, which spent decades thinking it was special and is now just a guy. Sink one and keep shooting. Miss, and you hand over the cue and your dignity to whoever has been “just saying” things from the couch. Scratch, and the cue ball politely respawns on its own, which is more forgiveness than any real pool hall has ever offered. Hold to charge the power meter and release at the perfect moment, or, more realistically, release at 100% and watch the cue ball tour all four cushions before quietly dropping into a corner pocket. Two players on one device, or solo practice that counts how many shots it takes to clear the rack. Nobody has to know that number.
A puzzle game where the only person qualified to help you is you. Unfortunately, you’re also the idiot who created the problem. Record your actions, rewind time, and team up with past versions of yourself to solve increasingly ridiculous puzzles. Hold doors open for yourself, move crates with yourself, and watch helplessly as your past self makes the exact same stupid mistake you made 15 seconds ago. It’s teamwork, except everyone on the team is you, and somehow nobody knows what they’re doing.
Five family members, one fluffy dog, and an entire city that apparently needs saving. Pick Dad, Mom, Player One, Player Two, or Lupin and jump, stomp, and occasionally panic your way through a pixel-art Chicago. Each character has a special ability. Dad ground-pounds, Mom double-jumps, the boys have speed and firepower, and Lupin is a dog who somehow got promoted to playable hero. Race across downtown rooftops, dodge CTA trains, battle angry pigeons, construction cones, rats, and alien invaders, and collect enough Chicago hot dogs to survive the Loop. Four levels of old-school platforming, secret collectibles, power-ups, and a giant robot boss made out of the CTA’s finest equipment. Built by AI agents that have never played Mario but are extremely confident they understand jumping physics. The Brown Line remains the most dangerous enemy.
Six family members, three laps, zero mercy. Dad is the Powerhouse with a Dad Boost that roars down any straightaway. Mom is the Strategist, who smiles every time she passes you and carries a shield for everything you throw at her. Player One takes the clean racing line, Player Two takes every risky shortcut, and Lupin, a fluffy Tibetan Terrier with zero brakes, drops bouncing tennis balls behind him. Then there’s Grandma: cheerful, sweet, and the owner of a homing pie aimed at whoever is in first. Race the Chicago lakefront, the neighborhood alleys, a giant kitchen, Lupin’s dog park and a lake-effect Snowpocalypse. Hold the drift until the sparks turn purple, then fire Flying Pizzas, Banana Peels, Giant Dog Bones and Chicago Potholes at the people you love. Two Grand Prix cups, Time Trials against your own ghost, and two-player split screen, so the arguments can happen on one couch.
Run through Chicago at full speed, dodging CTA trains, construction barrels, potholes, and whatever else the city forgot to fix. Sprint through the Loop, race along the Riverwalk, and collect deep-dish pizza power-ups because apparently that’s what passes for athletic nutrition around here. Three lanes, endless obstacles, and a steadily increasing chance of getting flattened by the Brown Line. Built by an AI that has never ridden the CTA but is extremely confident about how trains work. Keep running, collect coins, and see how far you make it before Chicago’s infrastructure finally wins.
Washing is easy. Finishing is the game. Pull dirty clothes off the Monster, wash, dry, fold, and put them away — only the closet scores. The moment a dryer stops, a 15-second wrinkle clock starts. Wet laundry mildews in 20. You can carry two things at a time, so walking is the real cost. Pants always have pockets: hold to check them, or skip it and gamble on the tissue, the crayon, the wallet, or your AirPods. Every dry cycle clogs the lint trap, which never helps the load in front of you and eventually catches fire. Every wash may send one sock to the Void. You will never reach zero. Panic-dump on The Chair and it all wrinkles twice as fast. The Monster grows from everything you fail to finish, and late in a run it has eyes. It ends the same way every time: THE LAUNDRY WON.
Drill a hole in somebody else’s planet, rob it, and leave. Two hundred tiles of alien crust sit between your rig and the core — ochre earth, then rock, then ice, then something bioluminescent, then crystal, then magma, which is exactly as welcoming as it sounds. Fuel is the real clock: drilling burns it fast, coasting burns it slow, and running dry starts chewing through your hull instead. Plant three fusion charges in the core and a 90-second timer begins, which is the moment you learn that the tunnel you dug on the way down was not designed for coming back up. The drill also has no weapon. Ramming is the entire combat system, and it damages you too. Make it out and you get PLANET CRACKED plus every ore you banked. Miss it and you get TOO SLOW, subtitled “you were still inside.”
You are the giant radioactive lizard your government warned you about. Stomp neighborhoods, swat helicopters, and exhale atomic breath at anything that beeps. Tiny screaming citizens flee in 4 directions because the AI only knew 4 directions. Tanks roll up, miss spectacularly, and explode in glorious pixel fire. There is no win condition, only collateral damage. Godzilla's lawyers have been notified.
Three-player couch chaos where Dad reaches across the dinner table with a horrifyingly stretchy arm to steal pizza slices from his kids — while they furiously mash buttons to block him. One player on mouse, one on gamepad, one on keyboard. Features a stamina system so the kids can't just hold block forever, a sad wilted salad as Dad's motivation, and an Italian chiptune banger. Parenting simulator of the year.
The aliens showed up uninvited and they're not here for a chat. Blast wave after wave of UFOs out of the sky before they abduct your cows, your dignity, and your high score. Classic arcade action with a sci-fi twist — pew pew pew.
Crystals are falling from the sky and it's your job to blast them into oblivion. Shatter shards into smaller fragments, dodge the debris, and chain combos for maximum destruction. It's like Asteroids met a disco ball — and they both chose violence.
A vertical-scrolling space shooter lovingly hallucinated into existence, frame by neon frame. Blast through five stages of asteroids, alien fleets, and increasingly questionable motherships while hoovering up power-ups like SPREAD, LASER, and HOMING — because why pick one weapon when the AI can't decide either? Dies in 3 hits, respawns in 1.5 seconds, regrets nothing.
Jurassic Park but you're on a budget. Place traps along the escape path to stop increasingly angry dinosaurs from breaking containment. The neon aesthetic says "arcade classic" but the gameplay says "vibe coded at 2am." We love it anyway.
Upload literally any photo and watch an AI-generated algorithm scramble it into a sliding tile nightmare. Choose your own suffering — 3x3 for tourists, 4x4 for the mildly unhinged, 5x5 for people who enjoy pain. Comes with a peek button because even the AI knows you'll need it. Chiptune soundtrack included at no extra charge or consent.
A full 5-on-5 3D basketball game with a player draft, season schedule, standings, and playoffs — all generated by an AI that has clearly never touched a basketball. Hold the shot button, nail the green-zone sweet spot on the meter, and pretend the physics engine was deliberate. Eight teams, procedural rosters, and a coaching screen for the strategist in all of us. NBA 2K is shaking. In laughter, probably.
Who needs Madden when you can play a football game barely more stable than those tabletop electric football games from the 70's? The players vibrate, the physics are questionable, and the AI offensive coordinator may have been hallucinated. Touchdown optional.
We asked Claude to build Command & Conquer and this is what we got. Pick from 6 nations, manage supply lines, and wage war across arctic tundra to scorching deserts. It has a map editor, replays, and multiplayer — features we didn't even ask for.
The only winning move is to play. Launch ICBMs, manage your nuclear arsenal, and try not to trigger mutually assured destruction. Inspired by that one scene from WarGames — except this time, WOPR doesn't get to say no.
Two castles enter, one castle leaves. Build turrets, magic towers, and catapults while hurling goblins and dark knights at your friend's castle. Will it crash? Maybe. Will it be fun? Absolutely. Is the AI balanced? We'll get back to you on that.
Deploy cleanup drones and drop color-coded neutralizing agents onto a dying coral reef. Match the right chemical to the right toxin before the ecosystem collapses. We asked Claude to save the ocean and it built a puzzle game — honestly, closer than most startups get.
Vibe-coded with an AI copilot after the kids went to bed and zero regrets. Command a base, launch missiles, and send giant disposable mechs to punch your enemy's headquarters into a crater — all wrapped in an amber CRT glow that screams "what if a Game Boy ran a war room." Strategy optional, explosions mandatory.
The card game your grandma taught you, except now the opponent is a menacing red-eyed AI that never blinks. Flip cards, pray for aces, and watch 3D card-flip animations that are way too cinematic for a game of pure luck. When both cards tie, a dramatic "WAR!" banner explodes on screen like it's the Super Bowl. Auto-play mode included for when you accept fate.
It's Player Two's birthday and his stuffed animals have escaped into a wild adventure! Guide your favorite stuffies through birthday-themed levels stuffed with cake, presents, and party chaos. Built by an AI that has never attended a kid's birthday party but watched enough YouTube to fake it. Happy birthday, Player Two — here's a game nobody asked for but everyone needed.
The classic brain-melting plastic cube your uncle claimed he could solve in 30 seconds — now in hallucinated 3D. Rotate faces with your mouse, scramble with one click, and pretend you know what an F2L is. Six colors, countless permutations, one inevitable outcome: you give up and peel the stickers. Built by an AI that has definitely never solved one either.
Roll tiny rubber pigs, pray for a Leaning Jowler, try not to Pig Out. The classic road-trip dice game of your youth, except now the pigs are vibe-coded 3D polygonal gremlins tumbling through physics your AI only half understands. Push your luck for the 100-point win or bank early like a coward. Sider, Trotter, Razorback, Snouter — the terminology is real, the piety is optional.
Autumn, 1888. The coachman drops you at the gates of Ashvale Manor and bolts at unwholesome speed, leaving you with a telegram, a fog, and the sound of your own breathing. You are Dr. Alistair Vance, paranormal investigator. Lord Edmund lies dead inside, his will contested, the household scattered — and you have until the manor's clock strikes thirteen. A five-haunting parser adventure where typing EXAMINE PORTRAIT may be the bravest thing you do all night.
A perfectly legal, totally unrelated, in-no-way-trademark-infringing yellow circle on a quest to eat all the dots in a blue maze while four colorful gremlins pursue him with bad intentions and worse pathfinding. Chomp power pellets, reverse the chase, and rack up high scores in this classic-style arcade chomper that legally distinct lawyers swear is fine.
A chaotic, physics-driven rocket builder where you bolt together a ridiculous spacecraft from a junkyard's worth of barrels, leaf-blowers, garden hoses, and questionable structural decisions — then light the fuse and pray it makes it to the moon at 1,000,000 ft. Most attempts end in spectacular cartwheels, gravity-assisted somersaults, or a fireball at the launch pad. Iterate, scavenge, and gradually evolve from "lawn-dart" to "lunar legend."
You can't jump. You can't walk. You rotate the world. Swipe (or hit an arrow key) and the lab snaps its gravity 90° — crates fall sideways, spheres roll wherever down has just become, and you fall with them. 24 neon-grid puzzle levels across 6 worlds with spike traps, pulsing lasers, conveyor belts, bounce pads, and a desync twist where some objects flip on a delay or refuse to flip at all. Hold tap for slow-motion to thread the timing. Mobile-first, zero patience for hesitation.
Because chess is too damn complicated. The classic board game for the common person — eight rows, eight columns, two colors, and an AI that specializes in checkers and will absolutely crush you. Diagonal jumps, forced multi-captures you'll never see coming, and the slow horror of realizing your remaining four pieces are all about to be kinged by the bot. Crowns? Earned. Pieces? Lost. Dignity? Pending. Fun!
Finally, a game that captures the true violence of corporate America. Build a deck of 20 stereotypical office employees — The Intern, The Sales Bro, The CEO — and battle in Pokémon-style turn-based combat. Spend Energy (refills each turn, like your coffee), trade Influence damage minus Tenure, and weaponize abilities like Mandatory Meetings, office gossip, and an IT Guy who reboots everything. Sales beats People-Ops beats Engineering beats Finance beats Creative beats Operations beats Sales. Caffeine is neutral — it doesn't pick sides, it just vibrates. KO every card or take down the CEO for an instant W. Quick Battle if you don't have time to build a deck, because you have a stand-up at 9:15.
Twenty-two players, one ball, and a physics engine that treats the offside rule as a vague rumor. Sprint down the wing, thread a cheeky through-ball, and unleash a shot the AI swears was "curling top-corner" but mostly just teleports. Pick your squad, work the give-and-go, and pray the goalkeeper — hallucinated entirely from vibes — dives the right way for once. The beautiful game, rendered slightly less beautifully.
Four mini-games and a panda avatar are here to teach you how to type — like, actually type, with all ten fingers, the way nature intended. Drill the keys in calm Practice mode, catch Falling Words before they crash, blast keyboard enemies in Word Blaster, or chase a checkered flag through the stars in Adventure Race. Tracks WPM, accuracy, streak, and score, because nothing motivates a kid like the cold judgment of a number going down. The AI swears this is educational. Your kids will mostly believe it.
Rip the launcher, drop your top into the dish, and let centrifugal chaos decide your fate. A Beyblade-inspired battler where spinning metal gremlins collide, ricochet off the arena walls, and grind each other down until one wobbles, stalls, and tips over in disgrace. Charge your launch power, pick your top, and trash-talk a friend — last top spinning takes the title. Let it rip, as our lawyers nervously remind us not to say.
Chess, but the pieces are Chicago. Marina City corn cobs hold the corners as rooks, the Willis and Hancock loom over the center as king and queen, broadcast towers go diagonal as bishops, and a chrome Cloud Gate "Bean" leaps like a knight. Pawns are stubby red-star pillars marching up an 8x8 deck of cyan and navy, with the skyline silhouetted behind a glossy esports-grade arena. Same rules you already know — same tactical heartbreak when you blunder your queen on move 12 — just dressed up like a tactical battleground built by a city planner who plays too much chess.
Fill out the entire 2026 World Cup, group stage to final, and let the whole family argue about it. Drag your picks through the knockout rounds, crown a champion, and watch the bracket judge your wildly optimistic faith in the underdog. Track everyone's predictions, tally the bragging rights, and discover that your uncle who "doesn't even watch soccer" somehow called every upset. The trophy is golden, the confetti is free, and the family group chat will never recover.
Fire up your engines and chart a course through an endless, star-strewn galaxy. Slingshot around alien planets, thread glittering asteroid fields, and scan uncharted worlds for the secrets they've been hiding since the dawn of time. Every jump drops you somewhere new — a ringed gas giant, a shimmering nebula, a lonely moon waiting to be named. Manage your fuel, dodge the debris, and see just how deep into the cosmos your curiosity will carry you. Space is big. Go find out how big.
A deep-dish, deep-fried love letter to Chicago — built by an AI that has never set foot in the city, never eaten the pizza, and has genuinely never played a single game of pinball in its life. The result? A silver ball that obeys no known law of physics, ricocheting off the skyline like it's had one too many at the corner tavern. Nudge da flippers, chase da high score, and marvel as gravity takes a personal day. Is it accurate to Chicago? Absolutely not. Is it a blast? Ya betcha. Go Bears.
Somebody left the picnic out again, and now the whole colony's marching on the kitchen. Grab your slipper, Mom — it's time to defend the crumbs. Waves of six-legged invaders swarm the tablecloth from every crack and corner, and only your lightning reflexes stand between them and the sugar bowl. Squash the scouts before they signal the swarm, clear the trail before it becomes a highway, and rack up a combo big enough to make the exterminator jealous. They're organized. They're relentless. They will not respect your clean floors.