When I was working on refounding Ice Water Games in 2018, the point was to build collective power under democratic control.

IWG has been on the trajectory to become, basically, a publisher, but we've been fighting against ourselves. We are not profitable. To become a publisher able to offer material support to our members, we'd need to become profitable, either so we could bootstrap our way up slowly, or more realistically so we could prove ourselves to investors. As it is, we are not bootstrapping but slowly sinking as the tide rises around us.

Being competitively profitable requires making decisions primarily based on market forces. If we end up with the same decisions any capitalist firm would make, what's the point of all the time and energy put into organizing ourselves in this way? This isn't collective or democratic in any meaningful way.

Until recently we were registered as a WA nonprofit corporation. I spearheaded this, operating on the idea that 'being legal' would protect us in some way, that our democracy needed validation under a higher authority or something. I thought being legal would help us have the faith required to pool money and act as a real united collective.

Maintaining a legal registration requires a lot of ongoing work, work that needs to be done well to protect the members of the organization. I do not feel capable or motivated to do this work well, and we can't afford the professionals who are.

More importantly, if your higher authority is a state, that state's laws constrict and define your collective. Suddenly IWG had to have a board of directors, elected officials. Suddenly we had to care about things like borders and citizenship. This is not the direction we want to go. 

And on top of all this - none of us wants to run a publisher. So what in the world are we doing? 

Well, now we're de-legalizing, dissolving the corporation and the treasury, returning pooled funds to the members who contributed them. This is a change in where we're going, but not really a change in what we've been. We can, and will, continue to be a collective games label, a public community run by a private, but open and growing, collective of artists. The defacto reality of IWG has always been in our internal operations and bylaws, and delegalizing wont change any of that. 

Personally I feel liberated that the label can be exactly what it wants without concern for how that might map onto a corporate structure. I hope it lets us grow in a more carefree way. 

Tenderfoot Tactics + IWG


Back in 2013, I chose the name ’Ice Water’ to evoke two images: a glass of cold water, simple and refreshing, daily, light, and a frozen ocean, vast, terrible, sublimely beautiful.

Our first game, Eidolon, had two thematic threads: firstly, a dense fictional world - human stories, lore - and secondly, a lonely natural world, fodder for self-reflection.

After Eidolon, IWG members started to work on two very different games: Viridi, and the then-unnamed Tenderfoot Tactics. At the time both were mostly interested in the natural world. Viridi also tended to lean towards the more lighthearted nature of Ice Water, where Tenderfoot tended toward the vast and weighty. And then we released Viridi, and it got a tremendous amount of attention, and, Tenderfoot being put on hold, Viridi somewhat defined the trajectory of IWG titles thereafter.

Ice Water came to mean to me: light, refreshing, quiet, thoughtful. And so I dropped Tenderfoot from the label. Civilization-scale stories, touches of the mysterious or fantastical, these things have poked in here and there, but nothing has veered too far from the personal scale of Viridi, definitely the label’s never done anything with the dense lore of Eidolon since.

But I think big stories are in us anyway. Tenderfoot's certainly in me anyway, it's in who I am and what I want to be making. And after some rumination, the Tenderfoot team has decided to stay independent and shoestring with it, and the body of label members have agreed to represent us while we self-publish it through the label.

For now this just means you'll be hearing a lot more about Tenderfoot from IWG. But for me it's also a major decision that IWG can stand for tactics games about wizards and goblins as much as it stands for succulent sims. So, for fans of this kind of thing, look forward to more big, fantastical stories from us in the future!

I see this as going back to our roots and shooting out a new sprout, rather than as a next step forward on a path - a botanical metaphor is more appropriate to IWG than a journey metaphor anyway. The label is a seasonal creature and long lived, spreading and multiplying, blossoming and going through periods of fallow. It’s got branches.

Dziff on Stones of Solace

A short conversation about process, development, intention, and more

Has Stones of Solace changed from its original concept, and if so how and why?

It didn’t change a lot actually!
I made a twitter thread when I started working on it, illustrating some of the steps I went through :

The very first scene I made featured a shrine with a frog. 

The first prototype featured a first version of the offering part, and three different statues to look at. At this point, all the shrines were in the same space, you could freely switch from one to another and choose the one you wanted to make an offering to.

You could also pick the flowers around the statues. They would go in a minimalist inventory that would grow over time and that you would have to manage while constructing your offering basket. 

From the inventory system, we discussed the possibility of the statues reacting differently depending on the offerings made. Maybe some liked flowers, others liked rocks. Some preferred symmetry while others enjoyed a messy basket. You would have had to collect a lot of items and discover what each of them wanted. It was more “gamey” than it is now.

But the more I was thinking about those puzzles, the more I felt I strayed from the initial idea of relaxation behind the game. Introducing challenges meant introducing a failue state, or at the very least a “great and good solution” kinda situation. 

We talked a lot with Armel (who’s has been helping me out on the game) about this, trying to figure out what was the game’s essence. And we realized that in order to go back to that safe and chill space I wanted to build, we had to go back to a more minimalist setting. By removing the puzzles first, so that the basket construction would become only aesthetical, and by removing the possibility to grow the inventory of items by picking them around the shrines. 

Removing player agency was at the core of making the game more relaxing, as now every shrines feature a collection of five items to pick from, giving you something different to play with everyday without fear of missing or failing anything. Away with the anxiety inducing inventory management. The real purpose of the game is not to make the statues happy, it is to take time for yourself.

You freelance as an art director, right? How do you split that with personal work on Stones of Solace and other games? Are there certain times in particular you find yourself working on it?

I do freelance as an art director yes, and I tend to be multi project pretty often. Ideally I always have two projects at the same time so I can switch from one to another. I think that’s a way for me to bring new ideas and to keep motivated on every project I work on.

I don’t really have any rules about the way I split my time, it is rather organic. SoS was started on a vacation/gamedev trip (Game Jam Island 2), and then I kept working on it in small sessions during the year, when I had a pause between projects, sometimes on weekends too, but never too long.

Usually my personal projects have structures that allow this non-continuous way of working. Stones of Solace is like a collection of little scenes and small objects, so once I had my core mechanic, I could add content progressively, and more importantly, stop whenever I wanted. It was the same with Sacramento. Even if it’s a single world, it was built as a collection of different spaces that I could work on separately, whenever.

The only rule I had regarding the making of Stones of Solace was to only work on it if I was happy to do so. Building those little scenes was, at first, a way for me to relax too, and when it started to look like something I could release, it felt wrong to put pressure on myself. 

Both Stones of Solace and your previous game Sacramento are inspired by (and in some ways about) memories of places. Do you think that's a coincidence, or do you think there's something that draws you to this kind of work?

Both projects were started during or after a big travel.

Sacramento was made right after a train trip across the US, where I collected different views of the landscape in watercolors. I started working on SoS during a trip in Indonesia for Game Jam Island 2 organized by Free Lives. I didn’t travel much outside of Europe, so both were very striking experiences.

Another reason might be that I’m not very good when it comes to write stories or dialogs, so usually I tend to find solutions to make my games as silent as possible. Sceneries can tell stories without the need for text.

Do the rituals in Stones of Solace carry religious or spiritual significance for you?

Not really, no. The original concept for the game was inspired in a way by the Balinese traditional culture, and the offering baskets that you could find pretty much wherever on the street. 

I focused on the actual basket-making part, and the process that might go through your mind while constructing a gift rather than the spiritual part of it, that frankly I have no business talking about. 

As I said above, by removing the different needs of every statue, we kind of shifted the purpose of the offering. While in the game it looks like you’re still making a gift to a stone, what you’re really doing is making a gift to yourself, by taking some time to chill and compose a visually pleasing arrangement. 

With Stones of Solace coming out, do you know what's next for you?

Exciting times ahead! I’m working on another game with Armel. We don’t have a proper pitch yet, but as of right now, it’s an interactive graphic novel about lil witches, with procedurally generated characters and branching narratives (need to work on that line eh).

The procedural witches have different traits of personality and abilities, and you will shape the story not by repeatedly picking what’s to happen, but by delegating that choice to one of the witches. They will then act as they see fit, depending on their personality. 

We want to make cute and silly stories out of that system, with the help of our friend Pierre, who previously wrote for Bury me, my love. We’ve been waiting to work on it for a long time, so this is pretty exciting. We got a bit of funding for it, so the scale/goal is not the same as SoS. What I mean is, it won’t be free :)

And then, we are moving to Canada next year!! Exciting times ahead!

The democratic label + Rainstorm EP

Badru, Isa, Zoe, Jeff, Michael, Grizz, & Meagan
Join us!

Ice Water Games is now officially a democratically run games label: a community of artists sharing resources and an audience within an institution controlled collectively by the membership.

More importantly, we intend to grow our label by signing the beautiful and strange work that we think our audience wants.

Our work has been covered by Rock Paper Shotgun, Kotaku, National Geographic, the New York Times, Polygon, Waypoint, and in many other places. We’ve been in Humble Bundles, made and sold work on PC, Mac, Linux, iOS, and Android, and have a player base of millions of people.

Just today, Ice Water Games is releasing an unannounced new title, by new label members Jake Grizzly Pierce and Jakey Mumfie.

Rainstorm EP is a wistful poem to found lost things and rainy nights, the love child of a music box and a snowglobe.

If you make great work that’s at all like ours, we want to support you by helping our audience connect to it.

What do you get out of it?

As an artist currently working on a title signed to the label, Ice Water Games provides you with:

  • a marketing apparatus and marketing advice
  • an audience that wants things like it
  • helpful shared resources like press and festival lists
  • other artists who know when your work is coming out and who benefit from it being great and being seen

What do the artists already on the label get out of it?

After your game comes out, as a normal label member:

  • You have a vote in a democratic body with the potential to have larger influence than you could otherwise, to help shape the industry (and the label) into something better for everyone, yourself included
  • The label links your game and its audience to a brand and body of work that has an output much greater than your own, keeping the audience healthy and alive, keeping people talking about the work, and ultimately boosting the sales of your back catalog
  • If you see artists working on something you love, membership in the label gives you the ability to meaningfully support that team by providing them a platform and an audience
  • A lightweight, non-profit label structure gives you the ability to take a back seat if you like — the label has benefited plenty already from the presence of your work, and you have no obligation to volunteer extra time
  • A democracy based on consent gives you the ability, regardless of your level of involvement, to stop the label from being misused

The basics of the label

We filed in Washington State as a non-profit corporation on the winter solstice of 2018 — almost exactly 5 years after Ice Water Games’ initial founding in 2013. Shortly afterwards, we approved initial bylaws which give full membership to all credited artists on any title published under the label, and which give all members the right to veto any proposed label action.

So our democracy is not based on majority rule, but on consent. Consent democracy is exciting to us because it protects minority concerns from being overruled, and instead forces internal compromise and shared understanding.

The label is run by volunteer members and a core of directors — the board — who are elected by consent at quarterly meetings.

Right now there are 13 of us, and hopefully we’ll be growing steadily over the coming years, by scouting titles that we think make sense aesthetically for our audience, and whose labor practices we approve of.

For now our labor requirements are rather specific. The very basic outlines are:

  • No NDAs or exclusive contracts
  • Project contributors retain all rights to their work
  • All contributors are credited individually
  • Everyone receives an indefinite royalty share that matches their relative contribution to the project
  • Or they’re paid a fair market rate and receive some royalties for at least a year

These are designed out of a desire to ensure the ethical treatment of people on a project, and can be waived in parts if the label membership approves of specific contracts. The above list isn’t exact to our bylaws, which already stipulate some other conditions that are acceptable, and it’s likely they’ll expand (or change) over time, especially as we bring in other teams who do business differently.

The label signs titles for simple representation and promotion deals. IWG doesn’t handle distribution directly for now — someone on the game team will need to carry that — but neither does it charge any fees or royalties.

Why are we doing this?

Because burnout in this industry is more complex than the story of overworked employees in AAA. There’s been something of a boom in the peripheral art/alt/indie game world over the last decade, followed by a contraction — and now it’s become very clear that most independents are either going to coalesce under old-school publishers, get a job in AAA, or else fall out of games entirely.

Publishers have benefits that independents just don’t.

  • They’re old and strong and connected enough to platforms and press that they can get games in front of audiences in ways that independents can’t.
  • Individual teams can’t release games at the pace that their audience wants to play them, but publishers can, and that release cadence helps maintain their audience and create more consistent revenue across titles.
  • Publishers’ marketing apparatus, built around old titles, can be easily reappropriated to upcoming titles.
  • Publishers are able to survive the financial failure of individual games because of the breadth of their portfolios.
  • Publishers can boost sales of their backlog by cross-promoting their titles, bundling, or working with platforms to create special sales.
  • Publishers have data about what’s selling, what marketing strategies are working, etc.

None of these things are available to independents — but with shared democratic institutions, they could be. All it’ll take is coordination, trust, and determination.

Another force eating away at the health of the art game world is the lack of trust between artists. Independents often work without contracts, for exposure, with little consideration to how that will affect their relationships or their ability to pay rent. If we want to build long, healthy careers in this medium — and if we want to see others do the same — then we need to establish the kinds of practices that will make those careers possible, and we need to help new artists start on the right foot.

And finally — it’s lonely out here! One major hope with the label is that it’ll create a healthy community of mutual support, where like-minded artists can get advice and encouragement from their peers, where collaboration feels easier and safer, where someone can tell you you’ve messed up without it being a public call out, where we can share inspiration and dreams and hardships alike.

So if this seems compelling to you — and especially if your work is adjacent to ours aesthetically, and you think our audiences might appreciate seeing each other’s work — please reach out!

Since proposing a title means supporting it, we really will have limited bandwidth, and will have to choose new titles carefully, but we want to hear about your work regardless. Even if we can’t represent you immediately, there are plenty of other ways like-minded independents can work together for mutual benefit.

Badru, Isa, Zoe, Jeff, Michael, Grizz, & Meagan

Eidolon Post-mortem

The long story of Eidolon's making, and the (first) birth of Ice Water Games

[ Note from 2019 - this is an old blog from 2016 and is being re-posted for archival purposes. The main body of the blog was all written then. I've inserted some parentheticals in bracketed italics with thoughts from now - 2019 Badru ]

I’m going to be honest and say that I’m not positive what went right and what went wrong on Eidolon. I still think it should be valuable to share my (or our) experiences developing, releasing, and supporting this project. This ended up being a very long post-mortem, but I think getting it all out there has some value. (This is probably more information about the process than literally anyone but myself and maybe my partner have, so enjoy the transparency.) Apologies for the length.

I’ve cut it into a few major sections, so here’s a little table of contents:

  1. DEVELOPMENT PART ONE: Early Tries, 2010-2012
  3. DEVELOPMENT PART TWO: Making Eidolon, 2013-2014
  5. DEVELOPMENT PART THREE: Post-launch Support, August 2014-2015
  7. NOTES FROM 2016


DEVELOPMENT PART ONE: Early Tries, 2010-2012

Eidolon was originally conceived of and drafted in 2010 (then referred to internally as “Scientist” or some garbage) as a top-down 2D survival/adventure game with similar narrative focus and world but far more extensive and central survival/crafting mechanics. I’d been reading academic game design writings and was inspired by the idea of a narrative embedded in such a way that it could be central to the gameplay without disrupting or dictating the emergent narrative of the gameplay itself. I spent a month or more making prototypes and building a design document with friends who would later be a part of the real Eidolon team, Isa Hutchinson and Jacob Leach.

At this point the player character was going to be somewhat Ico-like: a mute boy from a strange tribe abandoned/sacrificed/ritually exiled. We were really into the idea of bearskin coverings for some reason. A bit embarrassed by all this, now.

Then we played Minecraft for the first time. Someone had already made the best parts of what we were envisioning, we thought, and so we walked away from the idea.


Come 2011 I was working on little Flash projects here and there, teaching myself to program for the first time (you can go play my little games on Kongregate if you want). I decided to try to create a version of the survival and crafting systems I had wanted, limited to a single island environment. At this time I saw my games as purely an artistic venture with no commercial side; if this had been released it would have been only on Flash portals and with no marketing. It reached the state pictured below and fell permanently into my backup drive. I think there are a few reasons for this. For one, I wasn’t emotionally ready for such a large project. But also, it just wasn’t that interesting to me. I’m glad I didn’t pursue it, as it looks a bit like a poorly conceived version of Don’t Starve.


In early 2012, I was compelled by my college to declare a major. By that time, I was at Fairhaven College, a sort of ultra-liberal haven within the liberal community that is Western Washington University. They had a program where you built your own major on a single subject with an interdisciplinary focus under faculty advisement. I’d recently decided to pursue games not just as a side hobby, but also academically, if not as a career. I spent a quarter writing my major. My vision for my last year or two of college was that I would make many more small games, slowly developing my skills and finding my voice.

But one of my faculty advisors, the fantastic painter Cynthia Camlin, pushed me hard in another direction. She wouldn’t officially approve my major unless I committed to doing a single, large scope thesis project. I agreed, somewhat begrudgingly but also inspired by a teacher with such a strong vision for her student. I was additionally made to write a plan for what my thesis would be into my initial major, though I could change it later on when I actually had to approach the thesis project. I didn’t have a lot of time to figure out exactly what I wanted to do, but I had this old project that had been repeatedly abandoned. I wrote in the concept pitch for what I’d been calling Scientists, Nomad, or Island throughout the years.



Legally, Eidolon was developed and released by Ice Water Games, my own single-member LLC. The other 9 team members worked on royalty share contracts. A team member who contributed X% of the finished product, is currently getting X% of net revenue paid out to them quarterly by IWG as royalties.

[ Note from 2019 - Significant changes have been made to Ice Water Games' business structure. If we haven't talked about that yet, we will soon (this blog is being re-posted ahead of any announcement). Functionally, the team structure, payment, etc, hasn't changed, but I feel the need to clarify here because it's very important to me that IWG is no longer run this way. ]

Effectively, Eidolon was my personal baby, my undergraduate thesis project. I made sure from the beginning of official development that I reserved the right to veto any contributions or design suggestions. I very, very rarely used this power but I felt it was important, as the project was envisioned by me and in large part developed by me, and I was nervous about sharing a long and personal creative process with others. (I ended up putting in ~50% of the total hours, and very few aspects of the game weren’t overseen by me in some way.)

I also made the decision early on to try to give the other team members exactly as much room for creative investment as they wanted. This was rocky and strange. Some members invested a few hours a week for a few months at the beginning, then completely moved on from the project. Some didn’t show up until the end. Some faded in and out as their personal interest and other commitments swayed. This was good, in theory at least, because it represented the reality of our situation well: nobody was making any money up front; nobody was obligated to continue on; we were all just working to the degree that we were excited to continue working. It made calculating revenue splits a complex and long conversation, but I firmly believe that every member of our project is happy with how that ended up (so we did a good job on that regardless).

In reality, I feel that the fact of the project being fundamentally my baby deterred others from investing as much in it as I would’ve liked them to. I wanted the project both to be mine (I was afraid to open up) but also for others to see it as theirs (I wanted the feeling of mutual investment). It’s hard, maybe impossible, to make both happen.


DEVELOPMENT PART TWO: Making Eidolon, 2013-2014

When Eidolon Was Almost a Minecraft Mod

Eidolon’s actual development cycle began at the very start of 2013, with an independent study in which I wrote speculative short stories, under the tutelage of poet Mary Cornish, to flesh out the Eidolon universe. At this time I also approached the first few members of what would later be the development team: Jeff Klinicke (the most prominent world writer), Meagan Malone (the most prominent character writer), and Adam Murgittroyd (the most prominent codefriend).

Adam and I talked a lot about the technical problems around making the game, then referred to as Nomad, and decided it would be a stronger experience in 3D than the 2D I’d been using. Specifically, it needed a horizon. There is something both instinctive and powerful about being able to see something small and unclear and far away, and then to be able to spend time moving closer to that thing and bringing it into focus and eventually learning what it is. And in a lot of ways, that was the core of what was important about Eidolon: a focus on player-driven exploration and discovery. Failing to mirror that focus in the visuals would have been a tremendous disappointment, especially when the provision of a horizon is so natural and unassuming. We’d never done a 3D game before, but had made a small Minecraft mod just previously, and realized that Minecraft took care of many of our problems for us. I didn’t really care about the survival/crafting as much anymore, and instead was focused on what made our game different—the crafted, non-procedural world, the history, the human aspect. We decided to make Nomad as a Minecraft mod.

That idea didn’t last long. Not even to prototype phase. We elected to switch to a commercial engine, partially because modding Minecraft was incredibly difficult and legally/financially questionable, but also under the pretense that we might want jobs once we graduated, and we knew Unreal Engine was popular in ‘the Industry.’ So we got to work in the Unreal Development Kit. At this point, I was interested in the idea of somehow blending highly textured models and an abstract aesthetic. I really didn’t have a concrete vision for what I was doing, and just found myself floundering uselessly with leaf textures and tree styles.

Finding Our Visual Style

I had so much trouble with texture that I ended up slowly moving towards softer and flatter textures. And then another thing happened—performance issues forced me to learn about and then implement Level of Detail meshes. I just had two LODs at first, one very high poly and one with as few verts as I could imagine working. The disparity between the two was so jarring nobody around me would let it slide. I had to make the change more gradual. But I realized I liked the lowpoly mesh better, and that it would be more efficient and simpler to just use that everywhere anyway. So I spruced it up and made a dramatic pivot to the style of meshes that are in the final game.

As for how we ended up using flat shading, it was stumbled into while trying to hook up toon shading on the suggestion of a peer. The flatness solved a visual problem: the clipping of leaf planes on our deciduous trees. It also lent the game a more abstract, painterly, and cohesive feel. It made many of the most blatant seams practically invisible.


I had been spending the vast majority of my evenings working on Eidolon, and talking about it with everyone I knew, and this apparently had an effect on them. The team structure for Eidolon was always open, so when more of my friends began approaching me asking whether they could help work on the project, the answer was always yes. My partner Zoe signed on to do UI, my professor Michael to do music, my roommate Aron, a historian, to help with the world building, and long-time friend Jacob (who had been around when we were first coming up with the idea in 2010) to develop prototypes for the animal AI and tools. The majority of this team (especially the writers) would meet up once per week for a couple of hours to flesh out the world history and timeline, and eventually to build a cohesive wiki for us to use later in character writing.

Finishing, and Finding Eidolon’s Design

It was around this time that I was really solidifying my thinking around why Nomad was important to make, what was special about it (you can read about it at length here if you really want). I wanted to take optional world story and make it the implicit goal of a game, while also freeing the player’s moment-to-moment decision making from any imposed narrative constraints. This meant that the player character had to not exist; otherwise, the character’s motives could conflict with the player’s motives. Instead, the player character in Nomad had to be the player, or else whomever the player imagined. From this came the final game’s insistence on not showing your hands, not implying character race or origin or age or gender or motive or education level or even corporeality (though there are journals in the game where a character might be writing to you directly, depending on how you interpret it; and there is the implication of a backpack in the UI, which suggests something technologically).


Most of the game was solidly in place, aesthetically and structurally, when I graduated in December of 2013. For the next 8 months, we worked quietly and mostly separately, writing and sculpting and fixing bugs. The final two team members to join up, good friends Isa Hutchinson (writer) and Shadie Hijazi (programmer) came on at some point during the summer, and I ended up working most directly with them for the last couple of months. Before this point, I was working at a coffee table after class while watching bad TV and drinking. This is when my work finally became regular: I would make task lists and work through them on a 9-5ish schedule.

It was also during this time that the game went through a significant pivot in design. There has always been and still is a lingering shadow of our early focus on survival mechanics. This is probably the weakest part of the game, disregarding the bugs, but it wasn’t until late in the development that we fully admitted this, I think. Or at least, we didn’t know what, if not survival, the moment-to-moment experience of Eidolon could even be about.


Eidolon has always presented the player with a broad goal (move slowly in a direction to explore/discover) and micro-goals (turn to look, walk either left or right, jump or not, etc) but there weren’t always easy-to-find, mid-sized goals. The question “What do I do next” still lingered heavily between those two spectra of player choice. We had some survival in there, but survival didn’t fit with our focus on exploration. One solution to this design problem came when we recognized the use of the compass as an interesting mechanic that contributed more-so than our other tools (rod and bow) to the theme of exploration. We realized that we wanted, and could have, more tools that provided exploratory functionality. Our first response to this (credit Shadie I think?) was to put in the binoculars, giving players the ability to make slightly broader micro-goals for themselves by being able to scope out their exploration a little bit farther. This diminished but did not remotely obliterate the goal gap.


It had been my plan that players would find a document early and use clues in that document to set mid-sized goals for themselves: “Triya writes about heading north, so maybe I should head north to follow her,” “Ada mentions leaving Oldtown to the south, so maybe I should head south to investigate that.” But the goals had to be so awkwardly written into each text (why do characters always mention where they came from and where they’re going?), and the placement of documents didn’t always make sense in any particular way. I didn’t want to force stilted goal-writing into each document, so instead the branching web of stories to be explored just kind of disappeared from the player’s experience. When confronted with the “What do I do now” playtester, I decided to make this web explicit and give players the ability to make clear choices about what stories to pursue: thus, the tag system. Now, when a player reads Ada’s document, they can pick out which thread is most interesting: Oldtown, Ada, etc, and then, by clicking on the corresponding tag and following the indicator, explicitly seek out the nearest relevant document. This was a tremendous design change for Eidolon. It gave players so much more control over their journey. They could finally actually make mid-sized choices about their exploration. This was the point when Eidolon finally felt like Eidolon.


I had no idea how to market a game when I started trying to figure out Eidolon, but I’d seen media build small cult followings through tumblr, so I figured that was a fine starting place. I’d been posting all of my design articles on a personal tumblr called Game Design Sketchbook ( and had a few hundred strangers following me, so I just forcibly transitioned that blog to a development blog. I also made a devlog on TIGSource and posted there as I went, since I knew I’d get a lot of fresh eyes that way.

Just before we posted our announcement trailer in December of 2013, we got a miraculous write-up by Chris Priestman through IndieStatik, which rippled out to Rock Paper Shotgun and introduced us to the world. Then we put our trailer out, and saw articles from Destructoid, Kotaku, and Kill Screen. This was huge to us. We were a passion project at (what is locally perceived as) a second tier state University. None of us had ever made a commercial game before.

The early successes made me continue posting online and eventually to spread to Facebook and Twitter, and to launch a Steam Greenlight campaign.


DEVELOPMENT PART THREE: Post-launch Support, Aug 2014 - Now

Releasing Eidolon was exhausting and exciting and insane. The game is somewhat buggy, but it was far, far buggier at launch. These days, we mostly just get reports about Mac compatibility issues. Post-launch support was a nightmare and a revelation for me, a student indie with basically no industry mentorship and a hell of a lot of idealism. Turns out, extensive testing is important.

For months after launch, I had my phone on to yell at me me whenever a bug report came into my inbox, and there were several times when that meant frantically jumping out of bed at 3am to attempt to fix and quickly patch a bug. My memory of this time is honestly hazy, but there were a lot of issues with floating grass (tweaking the heightmap after placing foliage was a bad idea in UDK), and that kind of stuff—little inconsistencies in how the world was represented—just dug into my head and could not be left alone.

As soon as I opened up pre-orders some time in 2013, I had advertised Eidolon as being available on Mac. I had no idea that there were serious differences between the platforms, and thought that surely some light OSX testing would find any issues. All development was done on PCs, and any pre-release OSX testing happened on a couple of old MacBooks.

Eidolon ran okay on old MacBooks, since that’s what it had been tested on. However, it ran abysmally on expensive, brand new, top of the line OSX rigs.


Months of pathetic desperation eventually uncovered what I believe (but cannot ultimately verify) to be the issue: UDK’s optimization of our specific art style in OpenGL (barely implemented before the move to UE4), specifically on Nvidia cards. UDK’s licensing model at the time was such that to get access to source, we would’ve had to pay out more than double what we’d earned by then. So basically, not possible. Basically, the saddest. My ultimate fix was to post as loudly as possible on all storefronts that OSX was only sort of supported, and to continue my incredibly open refund model. I sent so many apology emails.

We patched the game once, with some extra stories that didn’t make it into the first build. That was okay. It was nice to fill in the Kitsap Peninsula, a pretty big geographical absence on the original map.



Eidolon’s total budget before launch was ~$650. No, I am not implying any extra zeroes. This went to UDK ($100 upfront), Greenlight ($100), Flash ($250), Promoter ($50), Dropbox ($10/mo for ~5 mo), and various costs (travel, food) related to the two places we exhibited the game (~$100, Viking Con in Bellingham and Invisible Arcade in Seattle). I had some savings, so I just paid this out of pocket. People’s living situations varied but for most of us this was essentially either a student game, a hobby project, or a personal art project: not something we expected to pay our living expenses upfront, if ever.

We launched in August of 2014 and sales to this point have netted us collectively ~$125,000.

I don’t really care what you take from these numbers. Especially don’t feel entitled to tell me what I should take from this, as some have in the past. For us it is a tremendous success. The amount that I personally have made from this, as Eidolon’s most prominent contributor and beneficiary, would be enough for me to make another game of similar scope with no further income. It’s what afforded the development of Viridi (, which was made by a subset of the Eidolon team: myself, Isa Hutchinson, Zoe Vartanian, and Michael Bell.



I played some Eidolon recently, for the first time since working on it. I’ve spent a long time feeling shitty about this thing I made, but now, looking back a little bit clearer, I’m actually really proud of it. Technically, it feels incredibly juvenile. But reading the stories through in the order they come, not remembering the full architecture, that’s been a powerful experience. And exploring a vast world. Watching the clouds and the stars, feeling the rain, encountering a creature or a ruin. Lots of feelings. It’s a really personal game for me, which might seem strange since it was made with 9 other people, but then those are all people I have personal relationships with, and I think that’s part of it.


[ Note from 2019 -

Eidolon is an incredible achievement and I'm so proud of what we all made. I think it just takes me 5 years after release to fully appreciate something I worked on. I want to apologize to anyone who has worked with me for how critical and pessimistic I can be.

Eidolon was where I learned to code for 3D game engines, where I cut my teeth on style and found a way to bring my painting aesthetic to an interactive medium, and the origin of Ice Water Games' birth. Eidolon also lead to Viridi, and the two still pay my rent today.

Eidolon (well, Cynthia Camlin) taught me to take my dreams seriously, to follow through on a scale that might seem unimaginable for our generation, who have been taught to take up as little space as possible, that nothing really can be done on a large scale outside of corporations.

I'm so grateful to have had such passionate believers as friends, who were willing to, out of pure joy and trust in each other, come together to build something so tremendous. It really is a wild thing that happened.

I want to encourage other artists in this medium to think on a grander scale. There's nothing wrong with small works, but it needs to be said that it is in fact worth doing things that take a long time, and the only way you'll ever do those things is if you just start.

Love, Badru ]

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