What scares me most about releasing a game isn’t just whether it will sell—it’s whether it will survive its own concept. I’ve made projects that were ambitious, weird, and sometimes wildly misunderstood. When you hit “publish,” all the late nights, private jokes, and experimental mechanics suddenly face the public. That leap from controlled chaos to open judgment is terrifying.

Take Diddy's Dungeon. It started as a passion project with layered level design and punishing difficulty. During development, the challenge felt intentional—tight controls, unforgiving traps, and secrets tucked into every corner. But at launch, some players read it as unfair rather than demanding. The struggle wasn’t just balance patches; it was reconciling my love for old-school difficulty with modern expectations.

Then there was Toe Sucker Brothers. That one scared me in a completely different way. Its absurd humor was the entire identity of the game. Comedy in games is risky—what makes one group laugh makes another group uncomfortable. Watching early reactions roll in felt like standing on stage during an open mic night. The fear wasn’t technical failure; it was cultural misfire.

With Diabetes: The Blood Pressure Adventure, the pressure felt heavier. It blended satire with educational mechanics about health management. The subject matter was sensitive, and I worried constantly about tone. Would players see it as thoughtful? Or trivializing? That tightrope between meaningful messaging and engaging gameplay was one of the hardest balancing acts I’ve faced.

Another recurring fear is technical instability. Smaller projects don’t always have massive QA teams, and edge cases slip through. A bug that only appears on certain hardware can define a player’s entire perception of the game. No matter how creative the concept, a broken first impression can overshadow it.

There’s also the fear of being boxed in by your own past work. When a previous title struggles, people carry those expectations forward. Every new release feels like a referendum on your growth. You’re not just launching a game—you’re trying to prove you’ve learned, adapted, improved.

Indifference, again, might be the quietest fear. A controversial game at least sparks conversation. But when something you poured yourself into barely makes a ripple, it forces hard questions about visibility, marketing, and whether your voice is reaching anyone at all.

Still, every struggle has been instructive. Each release—flawed, bold, messy—has taught me something about clarity, audience, and resilience. The fear hasn’t gone away. If anything, it sharpens with experience. But I’ve learned that fear is part of building something that risks being seen.