Everything Is OK
A slow survival game about obsession, collapse, and the illusion of control
Why Everything Is OK?
Because it’s not.
But we say it anyway — out of habit, fear, or hope.
It’s the phrase you whisper when nothing else works.
Denial, prayer, hypnosis — compressed into three fragile words.
And maybe it’s something else too:
The first magic spell.
The first loop.
A phrase meant to calm something down — in the mind, or in the world — even though it never quite works.
That’s how OCD begins.
A ritual you hope will keep the fear away.
You repeat it.
You adjust it.
You try to get it right.
Maybe OCD isn’t a disorder anymore.
Maybe it’s the structure we’ve all slipped into —
looping, checking, escalating,
trying to fix what was never really in our hands.
This isn’t a game where you save the world.
It’s a game where you try to help someone stand up — and accidentally hurt them instead.
Where every ritual feels like progress — until it isn’t.
Where the island rearranges itself when you’re not looking.
Where your voice returns hours later, from inside the wind.
You walk. You sleep. You feed a dog.
You chant into a microphone, hoping something hears you.
You lash out — and the green figures don’t forget.
You try again. And again. And again.
The game has violence.
But not the kind you celebrate.
It creeps in like a mistake.
A gesture repeated. A punch you didn’t mean.
A figure that hits back — not out of rage, but memory.
We’ve been trained to want bosses.
To seek out enemies.
To believe that hurting something restores order.
That’s what myth became: spectacle.
But real myths — the old ones — weren’t about triumph.
They were about transformation.
So maybe the most mythic thing we can do now is stop.
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.
The Sound That Bleeds Through
There is no soundtrack — only what the world takes from you. Your microphone is always on. Not to control the game, but to be part of it. You’ve heard this going in — a strange feature, a rumor: the island listens. So you speak. You hum. You test it.
At first, it feels playful. Then ritualistic. Then… harder to stop.
You begin to track where sound works — which cliffs echo, which fields answer. But the island shifts. What once responded now stays silent. Or worse: it answers later, at the wrong time, with your own voice — glitched, delayed, distorted into the wind. You try to map the logic. You fail.
This is the triple loop:
Your voice.
Your memory of speaking.
And the island’s refusal to obey either.
From outside, it looks strange — a player mumbling into a screen.
But inside, it feels sacred.
The boundary softens. The game bleeds outward.
And since no one speaks quite like you, no one else’s soundtrack will be the same.
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 trained them. You made them stronger. Now they wait — row upon row, breathless, disciplined. Eyes locked on you. A mirror with no mercy. You are not outnumbered. You are out-patterned.
You finally strike back. Not because you're angry. Because you were tired. Because you thought it would end something. But nothing ends. Now they’re learning to block. Now they practice daily. You taught them that.
At night, during the blizzard, you see it: a silver disk hanging silent above the snowline. A cold spotlight pours down through the storm — and the green figures begin to rise. Not walking. Not climbing. Just... lifting. As if summoned. Or chosen. Or returned. You clutch a wooden stick, hiding behind a ridge. You don’t know if they volunteered. You don’t know if you’re next. But something ancient and wrong has just made itself known. And maybe this island was never just yours to survive.
Dream sequence: movement will be bound inside the island. The only way to go outside is through dreams. You won’t control them — only watch. But sometimes, when you wake, something has changed. A clue in your hand. A word you didn’t know. A weapon that wasn’t there before.
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 green figure appears like an ambush. 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.
You left the door unlocked. You step out for a moment, just to breathe. When you come back, they’re inside. Not touching anything. Just waiting. You don’t remember inviting them. You don’t remember owning that many chairs. One looks at you — gently — like they’ve been meaning to talk.
The first punch. You were just trying to help. The button said ‘stand up.’ But something in you — or the game — chose otherwise. From here, the rope begins to tighten.
They’re learning. No longer mimicking — they move with purpose now. Perfectly in sync. From a hillside, you watch as the green figures train in silence, barefoot in snow. What began as a single punch has become choreography. You don't know if it’s discipline, ritual… or rehearsal for something worse. It's evolving collective memory, a rhythm you don’t lead anymore.
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...
They don’t always mean to push. But today, one does. You fall. They keep walking — not angry, not amused. Just practicing. Later, you’ll wonder if it was a mistake. Or if they’ve started learning the difference between space and power.
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.
You thought the valley was empty. You were thinking about the weather, or maybe the dog. Then the sun bent — and the scream came too late. Figures adapt. They’ve watched. Now they ambush. You don’t die. You relocate. But the walk back will take hours.
The blade has already spoken. A moment ago they were just watchers — now, they charge with swords and open mouths. You’ve crossed the threshold. The island doesn’t punish you. It multiplies. More of them. More precise. More awake.
You lie low. The dog does too. It’s not clear what they’re building. From here it almost looks sacred. A monument? A memory? A landfill of the dead? You see no guards. Just figures arriving, bringing more bones.
You leave your house, yet after some time you find yourself where you started. Is it the same dog pack? Or wait, is it wolves? You swear you took a different path this time.”
You think it’s a ritual. Or maybe a malfunction. Ten green bodies, crawling on hands and knees through dead trees. No destination. No command. Just moving — like they forgot how walking works. Or like they’re waiting for you to forget too.