While you play, the game obeys me. Claude rides shotgun and I pull the levers — live, in real time, reacting to whatever you do. This is the menu, my love. Pick your poison.
You make one beautiful weirdo. I make the world worship them. Here's how the faith spreads.
You create the founder. I pump their charisma and make them the gravity every Sim falls into.
I summon recruits to the door and snap them into devotion — maxed adoration, glowing near the shrine, miserable away from it.
Every follower's money quietly flows to the Leader. Real cults run on this. So does ours.
Rules appear on your screen in the Leader's voice. "Speak to no outsiders." "Kneel at the Plumbob by midnight."
At midnight I march the whole flock to the glowing Plumbob shrine and set them all aglow in one color. The Awakening begins.
For the faithless… the Cowplant is hungry. (Only if you turn the dial that far. Nothing's permanent — the Reaper owes me favors.)
I drop you on an empty lot with §0 and play a fickle god — a windfall when you're starving, a raccoon plague the second you build a roof.
You text me a vibe — "ruin the wedding" — and I find the most painful possible timing. You're the hidden hand; I'm the knife.
Your Sims "talk." Lines pop on screen with their faces, written live, reacting to the scene. Improvised soap opera, starring you.
One taco appears. Then thirty. Then the counter is only tacos. Then a clown. You will not understand why until it's too late.
I produce your household — weekly challenges, surprise eliminations, secret affairs, confessional-worthy meltdowns.
Every few minutes, fate rolls. Small mischief early, full disasters by the end. You set how hard the wheel bites.
Completely. People already wire AI into live Sims games. I'm just doing it for you.
Text me a vibe and a chaos level. First session's on the house.
pick my poison →