Everything Is OK
A slow survival game about obsession, collapse, and stillness
Why Everything Is OK?
Because it’s not.
But also… maybe it is.
The name is a paradox — just like living with OCD, or facing planetary collapse.
It’s what you say to yourself when there’s nothing left to say.
It’s denial, hope, hypnosis, prayer — all in three fragile words.
It also echoes something else:
Everything is obsessive compulsive.
A quiet joke. A quiet truth.
Because maybe OCD isn’t a glitch.
Maybe it’s the system we’re all stuck in now — looping, checking, trying to fix what was never ours to control.
This isn’t a game where you save the world.
It’s a game where you finally stop pretending you can.
Where you walk, sleep, feed a dog, sit under a tree — and sometimes, if you’re quiet long enough, something speaks back.
It’s hard to design a game without violence.
Because we’ve been trained to want a boss. A hero. A fight worth filming.
That’s what myth has become: spectacle.
But real myths — old ones — weren’t about triumph.
They were about transformation.
So maybe the most mythic thing we can do now
is sit still.
Not because we’re lost.
But because we finally remembered how to kneel.
What it is
A real-time, open-world game built around slow rituals and emotional consequences.
The player doesn’t win. They endure.
They walk, sleep, feed stray dogs, and become trapped in symbolic loops.
They speak into the microphone — not to control, but to participate in rituals.
Voice input becomes sacred: whispering, chanting, or even silence may alter the world.
The game responds not with upgrades — but with subtle, mythic shifts in the environment.
It’s designed to simulate OCD logic without turning it into horror —
and to mirror climate dread without preaching.
A poetic survival manual for invisible collapse.
The Shifting Island
Why an island? Why shifting?
The Shifting Island isn’t just a backdrop — it’s the core game mechanic and metaphor.
Open world games often promise freedom but come with massive production costs, filler zones, and repetition. We flipped the logic:
this world doesn’t get bigger — it gets stranger.
The island is finite in scale (about 50km across), but not in experience. Its terrain shifts unpredictably over time: a mountain might sink, a path might vanish, a tree may no longer exist — or be doubled.
It’s not procedural. It’s deliberate fragmentation.
At first, it seems like a memory glitch.
Later, it feels like your own mind.
Instead of unlocking new zones, you revisit old places that aren’t what they were.
The map doesn’t grow — it rearranges, echoing the feeling of walking familiar ground during grief, obsession, or dream states.
Some players will make their own maps.
Some will try to track patterns.
Some will surrender to it.
This is an island trying to remember itself.
Just like we are.
Why it exists
We’re surrounded by noise, speed, and trash — literal and visual.
Doomscrolling has become a ritual.
Our heroes always shout or fight.
Everything Is OK offers another rhythm.
Not passivity — but reverence.
Not control — but release.
It’s not about mental illness. It’s about the system we’re all caught in.
The revolution here is not new. It’s very, very old.
To stop.
To notice.
To let Earth rotate as it wishes.
What I’m looking for
I’m not hiring.
I’m not funded (yet).
But I’m looking for people, studios, or spaces who feel the pull of something different.
Maybe you want to build a small poetic prototype.
Maybe you want to consult, co-develop, or help bring this into a playable world.
Or maybe you want to take it further than I can.
I’m open. The idea is alive. Let’s see where it wants to go.
Below you will find couple of sketches and vision of gameplay.
You go to forest couple of days straight. You leave some food. And maybe on the way to the beach dog follows you.
The Shifting Island: gameplay terrain
If you shout into your computers microphone on a cloudy day… A distant flash. A long pause. Then the thunder arrives. The birds lift like a memory leaving the tree. Nothing happens if it’s sunny. The world is listening, but only when the air is right.
You meet friendly pack of dogs. It's first time you've seen them. What did you do different? You obsess about it. Dogs dissapear.
You climb, even though the steps don’t lead anywhere. Near the top: an object. Forgotten? Offered? Left behind? You take it. Nothing happens. But three days later, the dogs won’t stop circling you. Or the fire burns green. You remember the object. But it doesn’t remember you.
It's open world. Lots of space to wonder. But you cannot rush things. If sea is 30km away - you have to walk/run/bicycle that distance as in real life. No codes, no cheats, no potions to become faster.
Dream sequence: movement will be bound inside island. Only way to go outside is through dreams. You will be able to watch it but won't control it.
Sometimes the island reveals something older than you. A layer that wasn’t there yesterday. Terrain shifts not just in memory or mind, but in deep time. The island doesn’t just rearrange space — it exhumes forgotten epochs. This is in game encounters not with enemies but with unfathomable scale.
Sometimes, a figure appears. At first, it mirrors you. Step left — it steps left. Move forward — it retreats. But then the rhythm breaks. A delay. A hesitation. It moves before you do. Or turns when you don’t. Then — a glitch. You see through its eyes. You are there, on the shore. Watching yourself.
Sleep in real time is a vital part. 6-8 hours. You try to play game earlier - and you could stumble into the dreams. Beautiful visions, or it could be casual hells.
Snapshot of a 40km ride in real time
After sleep deprivation, you get stuck in a loop. You leave your house, yet you find yourself where you started. Is it the same dog pack? Or wait, is it wolves?
You sit under the tree. You sit long enough and something begins to change. Barely audible ambient drone sounds appear. Leaves rustle. Was it a bird? Ambient sounds getting louder...
You light the fire. It took time — slowly collecting twigs, figuring out how to light it. You see eyes on the dune. Still. One moves silently behind you, settles near you. Another circles twice, then drops. Breathes slowly. They don’t ask for anything. They just want to be near the warmth, like you. Crackling— uneven, soft. Not loud enough to fill the desert, just enough to anchor you. Then: a new sound. Not music. Not nature.Something faint, but irritating. Something... wrong in a comforting way. You desperately need a sleep.