When Code Wept: My Journey from Creative Silence to Digital Soul Design

আমি আগে মনে kরতাম, ‘সৃষ্টি’-এর অর্থহচ্ছে: ‘অপরাজিত’, ‘চকচকে’, ‘সম্পূর্ণ’।

কিন্তু 100%খয়াল-খবরহীনতা, ²⁴⁄₇-এটি ‘ডিপ্রেশন’-এরপর, আমি ‘সত্য’টা জানলাম: সৃষ্টি = ‘উপস্থিত’।

একটা बर्षाती April-এ Manhattan-এর loft-এ, আমি - Light off. Only laptop screen. Cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Then it happened: I wrote code—& cried.

Not because it was complex. Not because it worked perfectly. But because… It felt like me.

The Algorithm That Felt Like Home

A simple script—light pulses mimicking breaths. A feature in my experimental game Echo Chamber, where players navigate emotions—not levels.

I’d avoided story for months. Too afraid words would fail again. But this time? I didn’t care if anyone saw it.

When animation synced with piano chords I composed at 3 a.m.—something cracked open inside me.

That’s when I realized: Technology doesn’t need to be cold to be powerful.

From Starlight to Soullight: Reimagining Game Design as Emotional Architecture

In Japan’s Superstar games—neon-lit arenas where players gamble on chance—I once saw only spectacle: flashing lights, fast spins, jackpot screams. But now? I see something else.

These aren’t just games about money—they’re rituals of hope. Tiny ceremonies where someone says: ‘I believe in luck today.’ The belief? That’s sacred. So why treat them like machines? We don’t have to make every game feel ‘real’—but we should let players feel seen. e.g., In Starlight Rhythm, instead of just odds & payouts: you get whispered affirmations when you lose:

“You’re not broken—you’re still here.” “The next round might surprise you… or maybe just calm you.” “Your presence is enough.” This isn’t gamification—it’s grief care.