We could get all teary-eyed about the road we’ve traveled and everything we’ve accomplished, but instead, we’d like to talk about the people who are truly accomplices in this particular “war crime.”
Responsibility, accountability, blah blah blah. Let’s be honest: if there had been no demand for Quasimorph, there would be no game.
We, the developers, are merely humble mediums, channeling reality into the form of interactive entertainment. People demand bread and circuses, so we look at the world around us and offer something that feels appropriate — simply commenting on reality in our own way. But ultimately, it is the player who either feels something or doesn’t. That is the line between a living game and a dead one.
Ancient Greek theatre was not merely entertainment, but a form of collective therapy. The inhabitants of the poleis, whose lives were constantly overshadowed by war, would gather to weep over tragedies and laugh at comedies — sharing their fear, grief, and the absurdity of the world around them.
It seems to me that games often serve a similar purpose today. Some give our minds a chance to rest — I myself have spent an indecent amount of time among brightly coloured candy gems in mobile games. Others, by contrast, condense reality: they become more difficult, harsher, and less forgiving of mistakes, allowing us to test ourselves and, after another defeat or victory, look at our own lives a little differently.
And yes, Quasimorph is something shaped by the collective consciousness of its players at least as much as it was created by its developers — perhaps even more so.
It has become a shared environment, a public space where hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world discuss whether the “Rocket” lollipop is a good omen for a successful run, or which quasimorph is the ultimate boss of the gym.
I know for certain that the players who wrote reviews, created mods, drew fan art, or designed weapon sprites are just as much the authors of this game as we are — perhaps more so. We were simply the people gathering all those desires together and turning them into something tangible.
We wanted to say that this was finally the moment to open Pandora’s box: to release 1.0 as a modern form of collective catharsis — an intentionally brutal game reality in which an individual story of perseverance is transformed by the community into shared folklore.
But you won’t believe it: we’re already too late.
It has already happened.
Together, we have already managed to create this space that exists between all of us.
And that is unbelievably cool.
Good hunting, mercenaries.
Magnum Scriptum