I’m a game designer who models. That means I don’t hand off an idea and hope it survives — I build the world, then I build the assets inside it.My work starts with the person who will live in that world: what they need to feel, what they need to understand, and what the space around them should say without words. From there I move to the practical side — layout, pacing, and the 3D assets that make it real.What I bring:Game design — systems, level flow, and player experience.3D modeling — game-ready assets that match the design, not fight it.Narrative — the story that holds the world together and gives players a reason to stay.

As part of my course, I was tasked with creating a text novel. I chose the mystery-thriller genre and built the story around a single question: what would you say if a stranger on the street asked you about the miracles of this world? That question became the entry point for Anna, the protagonist — and for the player.

The hardest part of a text-only story is holding tension without visuals. I couldn’t rely on art or sound to carry the mood, so I built tension through structure: short choices, delayed consequences, and questions that stay unanswered long enough to pull the player forward. Every branch had to feel like a real decision — not a fake one that loops back to the same place.

A team of adventurers descends into a cave to defeat the Dark Lord. But the cave doesn’t stay still — the players reshape it as they go. Every card they play changes the board, the deck, and the odds.

My colleague and I developed a board game for 2-4 players. The basic idea: cooperative dungeon crawling, where the cave itself is a changing structure, and the team has to build their decks and abilities while the map changes underneath them.

The hardest part was balancing two systems that fight each other: deck-building (players grow stronger over time) and a changing board (the environment punishes or rewards positioning). If the board changes too fast, decks never get going; if it changes too slowly, the cave stops feeling alive. I tuned the pacing so that early turns teach the system, mid-game forces real team decisions, and the final fight tests whether the team built synergy — not just raw power.

You are the Changed. Monsters. Saviors. You are humanity’s shield. You let the poison in to fight the techno-beasts while ordinary people whisper behind your back. The main threat isn’t the beasts, the betrayal, or the war. The scariest thing is the whisper in your head. With every mutation, it gets louder.

Another project I developed with another colleague: a tabletop role-playing game set in a post-apocalyptic world, where the primary threat isn’t an external enemy, but rather what the player themselves becomes. The goal was to make this internal transformation just as intense as any combat encounter.

The hardest part was making «the whisper» a real mechanic, not just flavor text. If mutation is only a stat penalty, players ignore it; if it’s only a story beat, it doesn’t affect play. I built the system so that every mutation gives power and raises the pressure in the character’s head — the player is always trading strength for stability. That tension is the core loop: the more you can do, the less you control.

A blind girl, Agidel, dives into the depths of an enchanted sea, where the melody of a seashell helps her find her way. As she overcomes obstacles, she uncovers the secrets of the underwater world — and finds inner strength.