It’s been over one year since One Last Story was released.

I made One Last Story at a time when I couldn’t bring myself to make games anymore. Earlier last year, I had released Hydrangea, a game that I still find to be one of my best ones, and was having trouble thinking up something that could possibly compare to it.

Any idea I could come with paled in comparison to how I saw Hydrangea. The ratings and reviews were raving; I got dozens of commenters expressing how much the game meant to them. It was with Hydrangea that I realized I wanted to make semi-autobiographical games. Games where I could express my trauma, experiences, fears, hopes, and dreams in a safe fictional setting. This was already present in my earlier games, but starting with Hydrangea, there was a shift.

However, before that shift could happen, I had to go through what a lot of creatives go through after coming out of a successful release: How could I possibly make something as good, impactful, and popular as my last one? How could these silly ideas I’m noting down possibly compare? Will anyone care if I make something different?

And then I tried. I made a game where I opened up about a suicide attempt from when I was younger. The very first and only comment that game got was one that said, among other things:

‘I don’t understand. What is the point of this? It’s too sad. What’s the point of making such a sad story that makes the player feel bad? Wouldn’t it be better if it had a message of hope?’

The comment made me feel so unheard and alone that I deleted the game. I had a pretty bad breakdown. I had never opened up about the things I mentioned in that game to anyone in real life before, so having the first reaction to it be that was… yeah.

The answers to those questions, and why they felt so hurtful to hear, are already explained in One Last Story, so I won’t delve into them further here. I don’t hold any ill will to the commenter, who likely didn’t read the note on the download page stating that the game was inspired by real-life events, written by a survivor, and just a really tough thing for me to open up about.

I didn’t make any more games after that for… I think 4 or 5 months? Because I believed that was a sign that 1) I really will never top Hydrangea and 2) I should stop making semi-autobiographical games. If I open up, I’ll get hurt. People will leave comments like that. What became a safe space for me when I opened up surviving toxic love in Hydreangea turned into a dangerous one that hurt me.

The game is titled One Last Story not just because of the plot, but because when I wrote it I was seriously considering having it be my last personal story and only make short, meaningless silly games to sate the urge, or just have it be my One Last Story for real, vanish from the public eye, and stop writing altogether.

This year, I’ve realized that both options would be impossible, because there is no project of mine where I don’t put pieces of myself and dig into my chest to carve out the pain and the hurt and the dreams (not even Slime & Sandwiches, not even freaking MyGF), and that I cannot live without making games. It has become such an integral part of my life that I cannot stop, because I love it, with all my heart. I love writing and I love developing video games, even though the industry Is like this, even though I have no budget, even though being queer and making queer media is under attack as we speak. I will not stop making games.

I’ve only been able to realize that because of how you (yes, you) have received One Last Story. I’ve only been able to fully embrace being a developer who is comfortable and proud of writing semi-autobiographical projects because, when I posted One Last Story, I was not met with I don’t understand, you should change it but rather me too, thank you.

I invite you to read the comments on the game’s page. There are commenters who had quit creating art but were inspired to keep going because of OLS. Reviewers who were considering taking their own lives but decided to live a bit longer after seeing the Comfort scene. I’ve received emails and DMs from players who had never seen their own experiences and feelings be portrayed in any media before, who cried for the first time in years or reached out to a loved one for help. Who opened up to me, a complete stranger, about things they had never confessed before, because they felt seen and embraced by One Last Story.

To me, this is what art is, and this is why I create art. It is a connection. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but you saw my art and understood, without ever interacting with me directly, that you are not alone.

Although One Last Story will never receive content updates, its legacy is followed by its sequel, Doce Fim. I am now dedicating what I can of my life and my money to making it a reality, as I want it to be even more impactful and reach more people than OLS did. Your support of One Last Story made me understand that there are people who need stories like these, and they need to be made, no matter how indie, unpopular, unprofitable, or not a good match for our catalogue it will be.

This past year, Doce Fim has been rejected by publishers, grants, events, festivals, and a number of other opportunities that could’ve helped fund it. As the end of the year approaches, I’m close to out of options. I find it a shame that stories like these are so often deemed too risky or quickly labeled not profitable and tossed to the side, that the very things that made One Last Story resonate so deeply with so many people are the same things that make Doce Fim easy to dismiss.

Rejection after rejection chips away at you, especially when you are already pouring everything you have, emotionally, creatively, and financially, into a project that exists because you believe, with your whole chest, that it matters. It chips away at you because you know that, if you had the funds, if you had the opportunities, if you had the connections, you could make something even more meaningful, even more polished, even more far-reaching.

But… if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that impact and meaningfulness cannot be measured by whether or not American Publisher #32 ghosts me. So even if the doors remain closed, even if the resources never materialize, even if Doce Fim has to be built slowly, painfully, piece by piece, I will keep going. I owe that to myself, to the version of me who almost stopped creating altogether, and to everyone who found *Comfort * in One Last Story when they needed it most.

This is not my last story. And as long as there are people who feel unseen, unheard, or alone, I will continue to write; with tenderness, with honesty, and with the belief that someone out there is still seeking a connection and the reassurance that they are not alone.

And if this ends up being a quieter path, without industry validation, without the kinds of opportunities we’re told are the measure of success… then so be it. I’m no longer interested in contorting myself or my work to fit into systems that cannot hold the stories that I wish to tell. I am interested in making work that is true, even when it is inconvenient and hard to look at.

So, I will keep going. I will keep writing stories that are personal and messy and sincere. I will keep making games that reach out a hand instead of offering an escape hatch. I will keep believing that there is value in making art for the sake of connection, even when the world says otherwise.

Thank you for walking this far with me. Thank you for trusting me with your stories.

It’s very cliché to say this, but as I finish writing this post, I feel that the conclusion we’ll reach here is that One Last Story, which was supposed to be the end, ended up becoming the beginning of who I want to be as a game developer and where I want Meiri Games to go.

Thank you for reading.

• Meiri