Artist Statement

This project didn’t begin with a theory or a grand plan. It started with a blank sheet of paper and the thought that it might be interesting—maybe even funny—to let a player survive on it. I liked the idea that the page wasn’t just a surface, but the entire environment, and whatever the player did to the paper would also shape the story. Later, as I kept working, I realized a lot of what I was doing echoed things I had been seeing in class: instructions that read like tiny poems, physical actions treated as art, destruction as a creative tool, and games that gain meaning through the way players interact with systems. But those connections came afterward. The design grew first. As the prompts developed, I found myself gravitating toward short, open instructions. Draw something. Fold a corner. Smudge a mark. Ask a question afterward. This wasn’t a conscious imitation of any particular artist—it just felt right for a game on a single piece of paper. Still, looking back, it’s hard not to see the overlap with the instruction-based works we read: that sense that a simple action can open more than one direction at once. Some prompts lean literal. Others slip into metaphor without trying. I didn’t force that balance; it showed up as I wrote. The destructive actions—tearing, poking holes, crumpling—came from experimenting with how far the paper could go before it stopped functioning as a “world.” I liked that the page could get damaged and still move the story forward. It made the experience less fragile and more playful. I wasn’t thinking, “This is very Dada,” but the spirit of not treating the medium as precious definitely aligned with what I had seen. The paper becomes a living object, a little messy, a little unpredictable, and the mess is part of the game. The system itself formed slowly. I wanted randomness, not just for variety but for the way it can surprise players into making bigger interpretations. Dice rolls felt natural. The card suits already came with their own quiet personalities—spades feel different than hearts without needing explanation. Meaning comes out of the combination. That part lines up with what we discussed about procedural meaning in games: how rules and actions create a space for interpretation without handing the player a story. Again, it wasn’t intentional theory-first thinking, but the fit was clear in hindsight.

• Playtest: Early in development, the game focused heavily on rules: alignment categories, card prompts, and survival framing. But once I began playtesting, I realized the heart of the game wasn’t the survival premise—it was interpretation. (Attendees listed in chronological order)
  • Playtest Attendee 1: understood the rules immediately and enjoyed how prompts and alignment rolls shaped her drawings. Her reaction showed me that the core loop—roll, draw, question—was strong and intuitive. It also affirmed that giving players space to interpret freely made the experience more personal.
  • Playtest Attendee 2: followed the prompts mechanically without forming a story. He suggested adding transitions or progression to reinforce the “survival” theme. He also found the alignment sheet a bit heavy. His feedback pushed me to simplify the chart and to clarify that the game evolves through interpretation, not narrative exposition.
  • Playtest Attendee 3: rolled Lawful Good, 4 of Spades (“leave a smudge”), and instead of imagining an aligned “good” action, she drew a giant thumb pressing down on the page, splitting her character accidentally. This was something I hadn’t expected, but it was exactly what I wanted—player agency creating surprising meaning. When she later rolled Lawful Evil and folded the paper, she turned it into a protective duvet. The alignment didn’t restrict her—it simply shaped how she thought about the action.
• Closing Thoughts
  • After working through these influences and watching how players interacted with the game, I realized the system works best when it gives the player just enough structure to react to, and then gets out of the way. The instructions, the questions, the accidental marks—those are just openings. The actual story sits in the player’s interpretations, their mistakes, their hesitations, the way the page slowly mutates. By the end, the paper becomes a physical record of everything that happened. It’s not about winning or surviving neatly. It’s about watching a world appear because of what you did to the page.

Player’s Screenshots