An Introduction.

When I think about why I make anything at all, it always goes back to being a kid who just built stuff because it felt good to build it. I made up pen-hockey leagues with my friends. I filmed stupid DIY movies in middle school. I started bands, recorded on cheap gear, burned CDs at home, printed covers at Staples at night, and handed them out for free. I put on shows. I booked bands and comedians in the same room just to see what would happen. I’ve always chased the feeling of creating something out of nothing and pulling people into it with me.

The music that shaped me—emo, Midwest emo, that whole DIY millennial wave of emotional honesty—gave me a language for things I didn’t know how to say. It made me feel understood when I didn’t feel understood anywhere else. That culture didn’t just influence me. It wired me. It taught me that vulnerability is strength, that you can build your own stage, that you don’t have to wait for permission. So now, when I make games or art, I’m not chasing trends. I’m building from that same place.

Right now, I’m shifting my focus back into game development. The main idea living in my head is a game called Latchkey. It’s about a kid who wakes up in a world without adults. The houses feel wrong. The basements turn into dungeons depending on your mood. The world shifts based on how you explore it. You start a band with strange creatures. You tour. You bring sound and meaning to a place that feels empty. It’s about being alone, but not staying alone. It’s about imagination filling in the gaps. It’s about the fact that something doesn’t have to be perfect to matter. It just has to exist.

My art comes from the same place. I grew up with cartoons and games as companions. So I ask myself: what are these characters like when the camera turns off? What would they wear? Would they be my friends? That curiosity turns into drawings. It turns into reinterpretations. It turns into something that feels like nostalgia, but slightly off-center—in a way that feels human.

I don’t want people to feel pressured when they engage with what I make. If someone spends their time or money on my work, I respect that. That’s not small. That means something. So I give everything back. I want someone to play a game or see a piece and just think, “That was nice.” Not life-changing. Not overwhelming. Just honest. Enjoyable. Relatable. A small reminder that they’re seen.

Long term, I don’t just want to release products. I want to build a community that builds itself. I want to showcase artists who feel nervous about sharing their work. I want to highlight bands I love. I want to create events where people show up, connect, and feel safe being themselves. I want to hype people up without expecting anything back. If, a few years from now, I can stand in a room and feel that energy—people connecting because of something we built together—I’ll know I did it right.

I’m not chasing scale for the sake of scale. I’m chasing resonance. I want to keep that emo, DIY, emotionally honest spirit alive in a way that feels current but grounded. I want to create things that feel like home for people who grew up like I did—and welcoming for anyone who didn’t but wants to understand it.

That’s what I’m building. Not just games. Not just art. A world where people feel seen, supported, and invited in.

Welcome.
I’m Mike and This is Small Sad Yard Sale.