The ghosts in the American Ghostshave been dead for centuries. One of them for over a thousand years. They rattle around a house in the Hudson Valley: Revolutionary War soldiers, bootleggers, a Viking, a 1920s lounge singer. Most of their time goes to trying not to go mad from the sameness of it.
Survival is over for them. That game is finished. The only game left is what you do with consciousness when there’s nothing pressing requiring it.
Which is, if you sit with it for a minute, mostly the game we’re all playing too.
Every living creature is doing two things: surviving, and then dealing with the fact of its own existence once survival is handled. A well-fed cat does not simply stop. It hunts anyway. Sits in windows. Tracks birds it has no intention of catching with something that looks remarkably like philosophical attention. Not need. Engagement with existence itself.
We do the same, except we invented a third level that runs parallel to the second and keeps mistaking itself for it. Thriving. The endless pursuit of more status, more achievement, more everything. A game with its own rules and its own specific forms of suffering, marketed to us as the point of the whole enterprise.
Epicurus grew vegetables and had long conversations with friends. He wasn’t after intensity. What he wanted he called ataraxia, a settled freedom from the anxiety of wanting too much. Not an absence of pleasure, but a quality of peace that doesn’t depend on accumulation. He understood that the main enemy of happiness is the scoreboard you’re keeping. The one that tells you you’re behind.
The frame I keep coming back to: life is a game, and the ghosts have the clearest view of it. No survival pressure. No thriving to perform. Just the bare question of what you do with the fact that you exist.
At that level of reduction, certain things clarify. Fear becomes information. Risk becomes interesting. Failure stops being evidence of personal inadequacy and starts being data about what the territory actually contains. The scoreboard dissolves once you’re not competing for anything in particular.
The game ends. That’s different from having a winner. And actually holding that knowledge, rather than keeping it at a safe distance, seems to change how you play. More willingness to make the interesting move. Less attachment to games you didn’t design.
Some of the ghosts in that house, the ones who’ve been there longest, have figured out how to make it interesting. Centuries in and still finding things to argue about, still surprising themselves occasionally.
I’m not sure what to make of that exactly. But I keep turning it over.
A 7-day solo journaling game of masks, secrets, and self-revelation
You’ve been invited to a masquerade that exists between dreams and memory. For seven days, you’ll draw tarot cards and write immersive journal entries as a masked guest navigating a ballroom filled with mystery, whispers, and hidden truths.
Each day brings a new prompt—the invitation, the ballroom, your mask, a mysterious figure, a whispered secret, the unmasking, and finally, the purpose of your summons. By the seventh night, you’ll have crafted a complete short story that is both creative fiction and personal mirror.
The Infamous Masquerade combines tarot reading with narrative play, transforming card interpretations into atmospheric scenes and symbolic encounters. Write to discover what you came to hide, and what you came to reveal.
Play solo as a meditative practice, or share your chronicle with a community of fellow guests. The masquerade is never the same twice.
All you need: a tarot deck, a journal, and seven days to answer the invitation.
For fans of: creative journaling, tarot storytelling, solo RPGs, introspective ritual, and anyone who’s ever wondered what they’d discover if they dared to unmask.
I stumbled upon this delicious gothic prompt in my Tarot group: “The card most likely to wander in the graveyard at midnight.”
It was meant in good fun, but the question caught my imagination.
I couldn’t narrow it down to just one. Death seemed obvious; after all, the graveyard is his playground. The Hanged Man struck me as another likely visitor, searching for a new vantage point among the shadows. Judgement could easily find a quiet stone to sit upon, asking whether a life has been well lived. And the Four of Swords, always drawn to rest and retreat, might curl up beside a marker, not for eternal sleep, but for a temporary pause in the stillness.
It was a light-hearted prompt, yet it opened into something deeper. When I pictured these cards together in that midnight graveyard, I no longer saw a place of fear. I saw what I’ve come to call the Illuminal Library. This is a place where the dead whisper reminders to the living, where silence transforms into a text, and where each gravestone serves as a page in a book filled with life lessons
The Graveyard as Illuminal Library
When I sit with the image of tarot archetypes wandering a graveyard, I don’t see a horror scene. I see a library; quiet, timeless, filled with texts written in stone and silence. A graveyard is, in its own way, a place of study. It holds not only the record of lives lived but also the lessons of impermanence and presence.
In this imagined Illuminal Library, each card I chose takes on a role. Death is the librarian, not grim but patient, reminding us that endings are doorways, not just closures. The Hanged Man drapes himself from the branches of an old yew, content to dangle in suspension, because among the graves he sees life from an angle most of us avoid. Judgement is quieter here than on her card—no trumpet blaring—just a thoughtful presence, sifting through the questions: Did I live fully? Am I awake yet, or still half-asleep in my own story? And the Four of Swords rests in the cloistered peace of the place, not to surrender life, but to restore it, taking comfort in silence that the living world rarely offers.
If I had to add one more companion to this midnight gathering, it would be the Moon. That card already belongs to thresholds, illusions, and shadows. The Moon drifts through the library like a trickster archivist, ensuring nothing is read too literally and that mystery itself remains part of the teaching.
Taken together, these figures transform the graveyard. No longer a site of dread, it becomes a school of perspective, a library of endings that points us back toward how to live…
Lessons from the Dead
If the graveyard is an Illuminal Library, then the question naturally follows: what book might we find there, written by the dead for the living?
I imagine it would not be long or elaborate. The dead don’t waste words. The message would be simple and direct: Live the life you came to live. Live it without fear.
Perhaps that is the only lesson worth passing on. Not rules or doctrines, but a reminder that every heartbeat is already slipping into memory. Life isn’t a rehearsal. You don’t know how many pages are left in your story, which makes the current page sacred.
And sometimes the book doesn’t even need a paragraph. I imagine turning the page and finding only two words scribbled there: Tick-tock.
It’s both a warning and an invitation. The clock is always moving, but that doesn’t diminish life; it heightens it. When we understand time as finite, the ordinary moment gains weight. A walk, a meal, a conversation, even silence itself: all become rare treasures, because one day they will end.
The 5:50 Story
This lesson is not abstract for me. Years ago, while hiking with friends in the Cotswolds, one of my buddies got a sudden text: his dad had just died. The news came as an unexpected shock. The rest of the group carried on, while I walked back to the car with my friend. Along the way, we tried to make sense of what had just happened, though of course there was no sense to be made.
Somewhere in that conversation, a thought came out of my mouth that I hadn’t rehearsed: we never know if we have five minutes or fifty years left to live. So it’s best to live life to the fullest. Maximise every moment.
That phrase—five minutes or fifty years—stuck with me. It condensed into a shorthand for me: 5:50. Since then, it has returned to me in strange ways. I often glance at a clock and see it glowing back at me, a small but insistent reminder. Call it coincidence if you like, or synchronicity if you prefer. To me, it feels like a living message: Be here. Be present. Don’t postpone.
5:50 has become my personal memento mori, my private tarot card. It echoes the wisdom of the samurai, who taught that one should live each day as if already dead1. When you do that, fear loosens its grip, and even the most ordinary act takes on an intensity. Drinking tea. Writing a sentence. Saying goodbye. Each one matters, because it may be the last.
The 550 Card
If 5:50 were a tarot card, it wouldn’t belong to the Major or Minor Arcana. It would sit outside the deck entirely, ever-present, like the quiet hum beneath every reading. It doesn’t take a turn in the shuffle because it’s always already there.
I picture it as a black card with a digital clock glowing in green: 5:50. Around it, faint ripples spread outward like circles in water, suggesting that each moment touches every other. A single white feather drifts across the image, light and ungraspable, reminding us of both mortality and grace.
The meanings are simple. Upright, it calls for presence, courage, and urgency: you don’t know how much time you have, so live now. Reversed, it warns against procrastination and distraction—the ways we lull ourselves into believing time is endless.
More than a card, though, 550 is a companion. It doesn’t interpret the spread; it interrupts it, whispering: Yes, but how much time do you think you have? It is the tick-tock in the background of every choice, the reminder that possibility is finite.
In that sense, 550 is the clock on the wall of the tarot hall, keeping time while the Fool leaps, the Lovers embrace, and the Tower collapses. It belongs to no suit, no sequence, but without it, the whole deck would lose its edge.
Final thoughts
What began as a playful question about tarot cards in a midnight graveyard turned into something much larger. Death, the Hanged Man, Judgement, the Four of Swords, and the Moon all had their place among the gravestones, but the graveyard itself became something richer. It became the Illuminal Library, a place where silence speaks and the dead offer reminders to the living.
And among those reminders, one stands out: Tick-tock. The clock is always moving. Whether we have five minutes or fifty years left, the call is the same: to live fully, to show up, to treat each moment as rare and unrepeatable.
For me, that reminder has taken form as the number 5:50, a personal tarot card that sits outside the deck. It is not a card of prediction but of presence. It doesn’t tell the future; it insists on the present.
The Illuminal Library, the graveyard, and the 550 card are all reflections of the same truth: life is fleeting, and that is precisely what makes it precious.
The invitation, then, is simple. Notice the tick of the clock. Don’t wait. Step fully into the life you came here to live.
Musashi emphasises the samurai principle of approaching each action as if it were one’s last, a cornerstone of bushido philosophy. By accepting death beforehand and living as though already deceased, the warrior eliminates fear and hesitation, enabling total focus and decisive action. This mindset encourages treating each moment and task with ultimate seriousness and presence, as there may be no second chance. This philosophy influenced not just combat but all aspects of a samurai’s life—calligraphy, tea ceremony, and daily conduct were all to be performed with the same mindful intensity, as if each act were the final one. ↩︎
Imagine waking up one morning to an email that shouldn’t exist. A cryptic message from a character you’ve never met, hinting at a secret society, a hidden mystery, or an unfolding conspiracy. Or maybe a symbol appears in a public park—a riddle carved into a tree, a flash drive under a bench. You follow the trail, uncertain whether you’re playing a game or stepping into something real. This is the world of Alternate Reality Games (ARGs)—a world I’ve recently become fascinated by and am eager to explore firsthand.
I stumbled upon an episode of the Big Brains podcast from the University of Chicago which got me fired up. Hosted by Paul Rand, the episode features Patrick Jagoda and Kristen Schilt, two scholars who don’t just study games—they design them. Their work at Fourcast Lab focuses on building ARGs that go beyond entertainment, using the medium to reshape how players interact with major societal issues like climate change, social inequality, and education.
Their discussion opened my eyes to the true potential of ARGs—not just as immersive narratives but as tools for social change. Unlike traditional video games, ARGs don’t confine players to a screen. Instead, they unfold across multiple platforms: websites, emails, live events, real-world locations, and even cryptic messages hidden in everyday life. There’s no “start screen.” There’s just discovery—a moment when you stumble upon a “rabbit hole” and fall into the game’s unfolding mystery.
what makes ARGs so powerful?
What captivated me most about the episode was how ARGs challenge the fundamental nature of storytelling. Instead of being passive consumers, players become active participants. They solve puzzles, decode messages, collaborate with other players, and—perhaps most importantly—question reality itself.
Patrick Jagoda describes ARGs as “the most exemplary art form of the early 21st century.” Why? Because they don’t just simulate a world; they embed players in a narrative that feels real. And when a story feels real, it can change the way we see the world around us.
Jagoda and Schilt also draw connections between ARGs and larger cultural phenomena. They point out that conspiracy theories like QAnon function similarly to ARGs, feeding on people’s desire to uncover hidden truths. But where misinformation-driven movements exploit this curiosity, well-designed ARGs can direct it toward critical thinking, education, and social awareness.
ARGs as a tool for learning and social change
The episode highlights some groundbreaking ARGs designed at the University of Chicago:
The Parasite (2017) – A game integrated into the university’s first-year orientation, helping new students form social connections and navigate their new environment.
Terrarium (2019) – An ARG focused on climate change, immersing players in a fictional future where their actions determined the fate of the planet.
ECHO (2020) – An ARG designed during the pandemic, keeping students connected and engaged through a series of 88 collaborative quests.
These games aren’t just entertainment—they function as interactive thought experiments, allowing players to explore alternative futures, challenge existing systems, and develop problem-solving skills.
i want to build an ARG
After listening to this episode, I’m not just interested in studying ARGs—I want to create one. The idea of designing a game that spills into reality, where players must uncover secrets, solve riddles, and interact with a living narrative, sounds pretty cool.
I want to experiment with the mechanics discussed in the podcast: the rabbit hole (the player’s first step into the game), the illusion of reality (where the game world blends with everyday life), and the collaborative storytelling that makes ARGs a shared experience rather than a pre-scripted story.
I plan to start small—perhaps a game for friends and family, something that begins with an email, a hidden website, or an unexpected clue in a familiar place. Over time, I’d love to scale it up, exploring how ARGs can be used for learning, community-building, and creative experimentation.
final thoughts
As Jagoda and Schilt point out, ARGs are more than games—they are a way of thinking. They force us to question our assumptions, collaborate with others, and see the world through a different lens. In a time when reality itself feels increasingly fragmented, ARGs offer a unique way to engage with complexity—whether through fiction, education, or activism.
So here’s my question: What if life itself is an ARG waiting to be played? Maybe we’re already living in a world filled with puzzles, hidden truths, and mysterious systems—just waiting to be decoded.
If you’re intrigued by the idea of designing or playing an ARG, let’s talk. I’d love to connect with others who are interested in exploring the boundaries of reality and storytelling. Who knows? Maybe the game has already begun.
Have you ever played an ARG? Would you want to? Drop a comment or reach out—I’d love to swap ideas and theories about this fascinating world.
Betwixt is an immersive mental health game designed to help players explore their inner worlds, reduce stress, and build resilience through a narrative-driven experience. Set in a visually rich, dream-like landscape, players embark on a journey of self-discovery, encountering various characters, challenges, and metaphors that symbolise aspects of the psyche. The gameplay uses storytelling and self-reflective exercises to foster mental well-being, offering both guidance and creative autonomy as players navigate the “betwixt” space—a realm between the conscious and subconscious mind.
