If you've ever made something creative for someone you love, you already know this truth: suddenly every tiny detail matters way more than it should.
That's basically how Rubber Ducks! happened.
What started as "haha, wouldn't it be funny to make a silly duck game?" somehow evolved into me obsessing over lighting, shadows, physics, sound effects, and the exact emotional vibe of tiny multi-color ducks bouncing around a bathtub at midnight.
And honestly? I blame my nephew.
My 8-year-old nephew has been the single most invested person in this project from day one. Every week he asks me if the game is done yet, and every week I confidently tell him, "For sure this week."
I have said "for sure this week" for the past three weeks.
At this point he's been waiting with baited breath like a tiny game publisher who invested millions into my studio and expects quarterly updates.
The pressure is unreal.
But the truth is, I really did make this game for him.
I wanted to create something cozy. Something simple and satisfying. A game that feels good the second you open it.
There's already so much noise in the world. So many games screaming at you with battle passes, pop-ups, ten different currencies, explosions every two seconds, and menus that look like tax software.
I wanted Rubber Ducks! to feel like the opposite of that.
The whole idea behind the game is simple: it's a 3D drop-and-merge game where you combine ducks to create bigger and sillier ducks. That's it. No complicated tutorials. No stress. Just pure little dopamine moments.
But making something feel cozy is weirdly hard.
I think people underestimate how much lighting changes everything in games. You can have the exact same models, same mechanics, same environment, and bad lighting will make it feel cold and lifeless instantly, or worse.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time adjusting warm glows, angles, soft shadows, reflections, ambient colors, and little environmental details trying to hit this perfect "Saturday night self-care bath" energy.
At one point I changed a light slightly more orange and suddenly the entire room felt 40% cozier.
Game development is basically digital wizardry mixed with sleep deprivation.
Then there was the design side.
I learned very quickly that "cute" is not enough. Cute can still feel cluttered. Cute can still feel stressful. Cute can still feel ugly somehow.
So I kept simplifying things.
Cleaner shapes. Softer colors. More breathing room. Wallpapers. More bounce. More satisfying movement.
Even the ducks themselves became a whole thing.
You'd think a duck is just… a duck.
Wrong.
Apparently there are infinite levels of duck quality.
Some ducks looked too realistic. Some looked cursed. Some looked like they knew my secrets. Messing with the lighting could cause some to have eyes that followed me around the room like haunted Victorian paintings.
My nephew, naturally, had opinions about all of this.
He would test versions of the game and immediately say things like:
- "This duck is the wrong color."
- "This one is cooler."
- "The big one should be faster."
- "Why he look like that?"
Which honestly is devastating feedback when it comes from an 8-year-old because they are somehow always correct.
No corporate focus group on Earth is more brutally honest than a child reviewing a game.
But that's also what made this project special.
Every update felt personal. Every improvement had a face attached to it. Every late night tweaking particles, fixing physics bugs or adding sound effects had this tiny voice in the back of my head going: "He's gonna love this part."
And now we're finally getting close.
The ducks are merging. The lighting is cozy. The vibe is there. The game finally feels alive.
Most indie projects never really feel "finished." At some point you just lovingly release your weird little digital creature into the world and hope other people connect with it the same way you did while making it.
But I already know at least one person who's excited.
Even if he has heard "for sure this week" approximately seventeen times already.
And honestly? That alone made the whole thing worth it.