Mirages, from the desert to the sea.

Some projects disappear like mirages.

Others become ghost ships.

And some, like icebergs, hide almost everything that mattered beneath the surface.

Do you know what Saint-Ex and Captain Edward Smith have in common? They fought mirages.

Goals and Memories

I have been fortunate enough to lead teams and build small games. Over the years, I also founded several game studios, some of which went on to publish games and applications. I feel a sweet pain when remembering the dreams we had, and a tentative pride when I think of what we achieved, with toil, and desire.

When I think of projects, I feel like I’m chasing a Tara that is already gone in the flames of the past, Scarlett O’Hara of game making that I am.

But it passes, and I look at the future as a problem to be solved. If man can look at doves and see a mathematical problem to solve, why shouldn’t we look at games and build the tools needed to create worlds?

“A bird is an instrument working according to mathematical law, and it is in the capacity of man to reproduce such an instrument.” – Leonardo Da Vinci

Ghost Ships

Back in the early days, I had the good fortune to intern at White Birds Productions in the Studios of Joinville, where Benoit Sokal created wonderful video games. I discovered, there, the magic of a ship steered with a vision.

As soon as I could, I tried my hands at Digital Manor. I still own the domain as a reminder that hope doesn’t replace preparation. I was stronger when I launched Astute Monkey in Paris, yet it wasn’t enough. I still knew too little. I still wasn’t what I wanted to be. In Amsterdam, as Astute Monkey morphed into Astute Monkey Studio, I learned so much I can’t even begin to tell that story. It might be for another day. One thing was emerging, I wasn’t who I wanted to be, and I merely perceived the vastness of the ocean we all swim in.

Working on those projects, I realized that I understood technology far better than I understood people. That is when I became discouraged. People were too complicated. I wasn’t the man for it.

I didn’t want to lead anymore. I felt I needed to follow others, for a while or forever.

But the itch remained. Creativity is a beast that cannot be tamed. Counseling and corporations, however, provide far less tranquility than I expected.

Steam, mists, fog

A few months before the pandemic, I was considering starting a new project. I wanted something cute, colorful, with chibi creatures. I hired artists to make the logos of Flying Fortress Games: bright yellow, bright red. It was exactly what I wanted. Yet, when the men in suits came with money in their suitcases, I looked at my bank account and took the job. The project died. The studio morphed again.

Icebergs

Captain Edward Smith warned his men of mirages. They can make icebergs appear where they’re not. They can hide icebergs until it is too late. Yet he sailed, because that’s what seamen do.

Capitaine Saint-Exupéry writes of the mirages. There is only sand, there. Yet he flew, because that’s what pilots do.

My little ship fears no icebergs, and I hope mirages merely edge me onwards, towards the dream of a game that many will love. And I code, because that’s what game creators do.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

The lighthouse

Ghost ships never truly disappear.

They keep drifting alongside us.

Sometimes we board them again.

Sometimes we simply salute them as they pass.

Icebergs are different.

They don’t haunt us.

They teach us humility: most of the journey is underwater.

And the waves?

The waves were always there.

They carried every dream, every failure, every company, every lesson.

They will carry the next one too.

I no longer fear ghost ships.

I have learned to respect icebergs.

I still chase mirages. It makes me happy.

These days, I’m just looking for the lighthouse.