AI as My Brush — A Dream of Becoming a Game Designer
I've wanted to make games for as long as I can remember. Not just play them — make them. That impulse has been there since I was a kid, quietly humming in the background while life went in other directions. But there was always something standing in the way: I wasn't a programmer. I wasn't a classically trained artist. I wasn't a musician with years of theory under my belt. I was someone who loved all of these things intensely — music, art, technology, games — but existed at the intersection of them without the credentials to claim any single one.
For years, that intersection felt like a gap. A missing piece. A door that was always slightly out of reach.
The Four Loves
Let me be specific about what draws me to each of these worlds, because they're not interchangeable — they feed each other in ways that only make sense when you see them together.
Music is emotion made physical. A chord progression can make you feel loss before you even understand why. A rhythm can alter your heartbeat. I've always been captivated by that — the way sound bypasses the intellect and speaks directly to something older, something primal. Game music, specifically, is this hidden architecture. You don't notice it when it's working, but the moment it drops away, the world feels hollow.
Art is vision made visible. Every game world I've ever loved started as someone's imagination — a sketch, a color palette, a mood that someone committed to canvas before it ever became code. I see art in everything: the way light hits water, the geometry of a flower, the way a sunset looks like a shader someone forgot to ship. I've always wanted to translate those visions into something others could experience.
Technology is possibility made real. Every tool, every engine, every framework is a door that someone left open. The web alone — shaders, WebGL, Canvas, real-time physics in a browser — is an absolute miracle of creative potential. The fact that I can write a few lines of JavaScript and have a fractal respond to touch, or a ragdoll tumble through sacred geometry, still blows my mind.
Games are where all of it converges. Music sets the emotional frequency. Art builds the world. Technology makes it interactive. And games — games are the medium that lets someone step inside your imagination. They're the most multidimensional art form we've ever created, and I've been obsessed with them since the first time I held a controller.
The Gap
Here's the thing about having four deep passions: it's paralyzing. Not because you can't choose between them, but because you can't separate them. Game design lives at the exact center of music, art, technology, and gameplay — and to get there, convention says you need to master at least one of those disciplines first. You pick a lane. You specialize. You spend years becoming excellent at one thing, and then — maybe — you get to start combining them.
But I never wanted to pick a lane. I wanted to stand at the intersection and build something from the chaos of all four at once. And for the longest time, that felt impossible without a team, a studio, a budget, or a decade of formal education.
Enter AI
Then AI showed up. Not as a replacement — not as a shortcut — but as a brush.
Think about what a brush does for a painter. It doesn't paint the painting. It doesn't have the vision. It doesn't decide what the composition looks like or what emotion it should convey. It's a tool — an amplifier — that takes the painter's intention and translates it into strokes on canvas. The painter still has to see. Still has to feel. Still has to know when a painting is done.
That's what AI is for me now. It's the brush I never had.
When I want a shader that turns the Mandelbrot set into a living, breathing thing, I describe what I see in my mind — the colors, the motion, the feel — and AI helps me write the GLSL. When I need a physics simulation that makes a ragdoll tumble through sacred geometry with emotional weight, I describe the interaction I want and AI helps me build the verlet integration, the collision detection, the slow-motion mechanic.
When I need a sound design — a warm chord for a heart collision, a singing-bowl resonance for a chakra ring — AI helps me generate the audio that matches the feeling I'm going for.
When I want to write about what these experiences mean — the philosophy hidden in a falling simulation, the meditation embedded in a fractal explorer — AI helps me find the words for things I could previously only feel.
The Dream, Finally Real
I'm not pretending this is the same as ten years at a game studio. It's not. I'm not pretending I'm a programmer now because I can prompt a model. I'm not.
What I am is someone who finally has access to the full spectrum of creative tools I've always needed. The musician who couldn't compose can now generate the score. The artist who couldn't paint can now direct the visuals. The designer who couldn't code can now build the interaction. Not alone — but in collaboration with a tool that speaks all the languages I couldn't learn fast enough on my own.
trippy.ch is the proof. Every experiment on this site — the fractal explorer, the falling simulation, the interactive shaders — exists because AI let me stand at the intersection and start building. I provide the vision, the feeling, the direction. AI provides the execution. Together, we make things I couldn't have made alone.
What This Means
I think we're at the beginning of something. Not the death of human creativity — its liberation. For every person like me who had a vision but lacked the technical skills to realize it, AI is the bridge. It doesn't make you an artist. It lets the artist you already were finally make something.
The game designer I wanted to be at twelve years old? He's here. He's building. He's using AI as his brush, and he's painting with every color he ever loved — music and art and technology and play — all at once, on the same canvas, for the first time.
The gap wasn't a gap. It was a waiting room. And the door just opened.
— April 2026