The screen was chaos incarnate. My "simple" little sandbox — blocky avatars, pixel-perfect puzzles, logic gates hidden behind redstone contraptions — was supposed to be a slow-burn tutorial. Yet Shuri's in-game character darted through my traps like a cheetah through tall grass, all clean movements and surgical precision.
She wasn't punching trees or fumbling for crafting recipes like a normal first-time player. She was dismantling my work, solving riddles I'd spent nights weaving, and breaking every timing estimate the system had projected.
I flicked open the analytics dashboard. New alerts pulsed like a heartbeat.
[PLAYER AWARENESS RISING]
Too fast.
The free trial was designed for ten hours — enough time to hook her curiosity, drip-feed her dopamine, and nudge her into my loop. Instead, she was tearing through the content like it was a pop quiz she'd already studied for. The "hook" I'd built so carefully was about to break in half.
I rubbed my temples, a shaky laugh slipping out.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was to be the omniscient puppet master, strings in one hand, coffee in the other, orchestrating an experience so seamless she wouldn't even know she was being guided. But here I was, a glorified puzzle maker whose only player had outpaced his "god."
It was no longer a game of numbers and statistics. It had become a duel of wits — and I was losing.
I exhaled slowly. "Alright, Alex. Adapt or die."
A wild idea sparked, born of desperation and a flicker of my old humor.
The game needed a creator.
Not an invisible hand or a faceless overseer, but a person. An entity with a name, a face, and a story — even if the story was just another mask.
If Shuri was going to tear at the walls, then I'd give her something to find.
I swiped to a new menu I'd been ignoring since the system update: [Creator Profile].
A blank screen. One field for a name. One default grey-skinned avatar.
I stared at the emptiness, and my grin bloomed like a glitch.
A homage.
A wink to the universe I'd left behind.
I typed a name.
The system's blue light flickered.
[Creator Name: Notch]
The default avatar dissolved into a new model — blocky head, bearded face, the unmistakable silhouette of a man who once built a digital world of infinite cubes.
Perfect.
It wasn't just nostalgia. It was camouflage.
Most people would see just another in-game skin. A handful of clever ones might catch the reference, but even they wouldn't connect it to the truth. "Notch" wasn't a god. He was a builder. And that was exactly what I wanted my players to believe.
But I needed more. If the system was letting me construct a creator persona, what about a name for the "real" world? When I finally broke free, I'd need an alias there too — a mask layered over the mask.
Almost on cue, a second option shimmered into existence: [Real World Alias].
My fingers hovered only a second before they typed.
[Alias: Markus Persson]
The system chimed its approval.
Two identities. Two shields.
In-game, I was Notch — the approachable creator, the nostalgic architect. In the real world, I would be Markus Persson — the eccentric recluse, the man behind the curtain.
And beneath them both? Alex. The man frantically stitching his survival plan together with duct tape and bravado.
I chuckled under my breath. The absurdity of it all hit like a punchline.
Here I sat, in a pocket dimension, using a video game to escape, stacking references like Russian dolls. It was the kind of setup you'd see in a meta-comedy — except this wasn't fiction. This was survival.
And I was no Light Yagami scribbling divine plans, no Lelouch pulling rebel strings with operatic flair. I was just a guy bluffing his way through the biggest improv session in the multiverse.
But sometimes? Bluffing worked.
My pixelated reflection stared back from the glowing interface. Blocky head. Beard. Simple shirt. No frills, no armor, no divine aura. Just Notch.
For a heartbeat, I almost laughed aloud. In a reality where gods flew, geniuses built impossible machines, and sorcerers rewrote physics like clay, I'd chosen the face of a game dev as my "creator persona."
Yet it felt right.
Not homage. Camouflage.
Everyone expected the "Game Master" to be some shadowy figure cloaked in mystery. Me? I'd rather hide behind a smile, a joke, and a skin so plain it disarmed suspicion.
I tapped Confirm.
[Creator Profile Locked]
[Creator Name: Notch]
The dashboard rippled. My entire pocket dimension shifted with it — not much, just a subtle reskin. The obsidian walls of my control room flattened into pixel textures, a low hum filling the air like the static of a new world loading.
I blinked. "…Well. That wasn't in the patch notes."
The system, as always, stayed silent. But for a second, I could've sworn it was laughing at me.
Still, I let the change wash over me.
Notch wasn't a god. He was a builder. Someone who laid foundations and let others run wild with them. And that was exactly the story I needed to tell.
Let Shuri tear through my puzzles. Let Doom's people sniff at the edges. If they thought I was just a quirky architect with a nostalgic face? Perfect. They'd underestimate me.
Because behind "Notch" was still Alex — the guy clawing his way out of the abyss.
The system wasn't finished with me.
A ribbon of light unfurled across the dashboard, its letters sharp as blades:
[Secondary Identity Creation Available]
[Recommended: Real World Alias]
I froze.
Until now, I'd assumed the "Creator Profile" was confined to the sandbox — just a gimmick for appearances inside the game. But if the system wanted me to forge a real world alias, then it was hinting at something bigger. Preparation. Integration. A bridge from this pocket dimension into Earth-616 itself.
My pulse quickened.
For days, I'd been staring at numbers, praying for downloads, and clinging to duct-taped plans. But this? This was a roadmap.
The cursor blinked, waiting for me. I didn't hesitate. Mischief and reverence twined together in my hands as I typed:
Markus Persson.
The system responded instantly.
[Alias Registered: Markus Persson]
[Integration in Progress...]
A shiver rolled through me, sharp as electricity.
Genius. Utter genius. No one would suspect the man behind this game was "that Markus Persson." Too obvious, too absurd, and therefore untouchable. For casual eyes, it was just a playful homage. For the clever? A deliberate misdirection.
I leaned back, studying the overlapping names across my screen.
Notch. Markus Persson. Alex.
Three faces. Three stories. None of them entirely real.
It was almost funny, in the bleakest way. Every second I spent in this void blurred the line between survival tactic and manipulation. I wasn't Light Yagami with a Death Note. I wasn't Lelouch staging rebellions with elegance.
I was a desperate improviser, bluffing through a multiversal poker game. And somehow, I was still in play.
---
The system pinged again.
[Notice: Player Awareness Elevated – Subject: Shuri]
[Estimated Time Until Curiosity Breach: 2 Hours]
Two hours.
My stomach tightened. She wasn't just playing anymore; she was probing. Testing boundaries, sniffing for seams in the code. And if she kept digging, she'd notice the cracks — the inconsistencies, the little fingerprints I couldn't wipe clean.
If Shuri unraveled the trick this early, the façade would collapse. My survival strategy would be rubble.
I needed a distraction. Something shiny enough to hook her attention, but subtle enough not to reek of panic.
I flicked open [Game Analytics], my fingers drumming the glowing console. My eyes landed on a new tab.
[In-Game Events].
For the first time since this nightmare began, I smiled.
The options were deceptively simple: spawn a puzzle, drop a resource pack, weave a questline. Classic dev toolkit. Classic bait.
I clicked [Questline].
[In-Game Quest: The Ancient Tesseract]
Perfect.
A labyrinth would rise beneath the digital earth — vast, twisting, studded with riddles and redstone traps. At its core, a shimmering pixelated Tesseract, nothing more than blocks arranged in luminous perfection. To a casual player, it was decorative. To Shuri, it was irresistible.
And the reward? A cosmetic, the oldest trick in the book. I conjured a pickaxe textured in gleaming Vibranium — no buffs, no gameplay edge, just aesthetic glory. Players kill for cosmetics. They brag, they grind, they chase.
But I wasn't finished. Not yet.
I added a final flourish:
[Custom Module: Wakandan Tech Expansion].
With it, she could craft "advanced machines" using Wakandan-style blueprints. Purely contained within the sandbox, harmless outside it — but inside? A Trojan horse. By giving her tools rooted in her own culture, I wasn't just flattering her intellect; I was binding her closer to my world.
The system whirred, blue light knitting my design into existence. My private void pulsed with energy, as though impressed with my audacity.
For the first time, my sandbox didn't feel like a prototype. It felt alive. Breathing. A lure cast into the multiverse.
The question echoed sharp and dangerous: Would they play? Would they stay? Would they become addicted?
I didn't get to finish the thought.
[Notice: The First Hero has acknowledged your presence. Do you wish to engage?]
The Observation Deck snapped open without my command. A city skyline filled the screen — New York, unmistakable even through blocky stylization. And swinging between skyscrapers was Spider-Man.
Not an avatar. Not a sim. Him.
And he wasn't looking at the city.
He was looking at me.
Directly into the camera.
He raised a hand, slow and deliberate, and waved.
My breath hitched. Spider-Man had seen me.
I slammed the notification shut, fingers trembling. A new alert replaced it instantly:
[Active Players]
[Player 1: Shuri]
[Player 2: Doctor Doom]
[Player 3: Unidentified]
[Player 4: Peter Parker]
The list made my thoughts skid into chaos.
Shuri, already dissecting me. Doom, the worst possible scavenger to invite — a man who either enslaved or destroyed anything that piqued his interest. Spider-Man, unpredictable, his reactions swinging between curious, suspicious, and dangerous. And the "Unidentified"? The wildcard that made my skin crawl.
My "little experiment" wasn't little anymore.
The list of names glowed on the dashboard like a curse.
Shuri. Doom. Spider-Man. Unidentified.
Four players. Four ticking bombs.
My little gamble had gone from a lonely sandbox to a multiversal powder keg.
I dragged a hand through my hair, my chest tight. Doom's presence alone was enough to put me on the endangered species list. Add Peter Parker, a hero with the curiosity of a cat and the stubbornness of a bulldog, and my odds of staying hidden shrank to nearly nothing.
And yet… my heart thundered with a different rhythm too. Excitement. Because if these people were in, then the game wasn't just a novelty. It was spreading. Growing.
Every player was both opportunity and risk. Shuri could multiply my hours through Wakanda. Spider-Man's natural charisma could make half of New York download it overnight. Doom… well, Doom would either destroy me or become my biggest unpaid playtester.
The wildcard, though—that was what kept me sweating.
"Unidentified," the system called them. Anonymous, scrubbed. Whoever it was, the System itself couldn't lock onto them. And if it couldn't? That meant the player was either deeply protected or fundamentally wrong. Both options terrified me.
---
The dashboard chimed again, opening a live feed.
Not gameplay. Not data. Reality.
The camera panned across a cramped laboratory, cluttered with tech that made Tony Stark's workshop look like a Lego set. Screens glowed with cryptic algorithms, beakers hissed steam, and a faint hum of energy pulsed through the air.
At the center sat a young woman, slouched in her chair, exhaustion written in the slump of her shoulders. Soot streaked her cheek. Her hands trembled as she brushed stray curls from her face.
She wasn't Shuri.
She wasn't anyone I recognized.
Yet she had the look—the look of someone who'd spent nights saving the world with duct tape and genius. And she was downloading my game.
I swallowed hard. Whoever she was, she wasn't just another bored teenager or random genius. She was important. The System didn't give me this kind of feed for nobodies.
Which meant my roster of "high-influence" players had just expanded again.
---
A notification pulsed at the top of the dashboard:
[Warning: Player Volume Surging – Stability at Risk.]
My throat went dry. Stability? What stability? Was my pocket dimension… fragile? Could the influx of players strain it until the seams tore open?
The thought made my pulse spike, but another idea slammed into me right after: strain wasn't just risk. Strain was proof.
Proof that the game was catching fire.
I forced a shaky laugh, the sound bouncing hollowly around the blocky walls of my void. "Congratulations, Alex. You've gone viral. And the prize? Getting noticed by all the worst people."
I wasn't wrong.
Doom would analyze me until he found leverage. Shuri would eventually trace anomalies back to the source. Peter Parker would treat me like a mystery he had to solve. And this new girl? She might already be unknowingly holding the fuse that led straight to my destruction.
So I had a choice: panic, or pivot.
I cracked my knuckles. "Alright. Pivot it is."
---
My cursor hovered over [In-Game Events]. The Tesseract labyrinth had been a good start. But now? Now I needed something bigger. A stage grand enough to keep Doom occupied, to dazzle Peter, to enthrall Shuri, and to hook the unknown girl before exhaustion consumed her.
The System's menu flickered, new options sliding into place as if reading my desperation.
[Global Event Module Unlocked]
The description made my pulse skip: a system to craft events visible to all players simultaneously.
I didn't hesitate.
[Event Title: The Sky Cracks]
The blueprint unfolded in my mind—blocky skies splitting open with pixelated thunder, light pouring through as floating islands descended. Each island riddled with puzzles, loot, traps, and secrets tailored to different playstyles.
Shuri would tear apart the mechanical puzzles. Doom would crave the arcane-coded riddles. Peter would swing from one platform to the next just for the thrill. The unidentified player? Whoever they were, they'd see spectacle. They'd see a world alive.
I added rewards: cosmetic masks styled after mythic deities. Again—no buffs, no gameplay edge. Just the illusion of prestige. The kind of thing people flaunted like medals.
The System thrummed, absorbing my input, reshaping the code. My pocket dimension shivered. For a moment, the edges of reality itself pixelated, as though bleeding from the strain of syncing with so many minds.
Then it steadied.
[Global Event: The Sky Cracks – Launching…]
---
On the feed, I watched it unfold.
Shuri's avatar lifted its head as a rift split the digital heavens. Doom's player character tilted upward, cloak fluttering in artificial wind. Spider-Man—God help me, Spider-Man—perched on the tallest building in blocky Manhattan, staring at the fracture with wide-eyed awe.
Even the exhausted girl in her lab leaned forward, her face lit by the glow of the portal opening above her screen. Her lips parted. For the first time in hours, she looked alive.
And me?
I grinned.
This wasn't just survival anymore. It was theater. A show. And I was the Game Master pulling the curtains wide.
---
The System chimed once more, voice cold and precise:
[Notice: Opportunity and Risk escalating. Player interactions may accelerate discovery.]
[New Goal Available: Establish Creator Mythology.]
A new menu unfolded. Titles. Lore. Dialogue snippets I could inject into the game world.
A mythology.
A narrative cloak for the mask I wore.
My hands trembled, but not from fear. From possibility. If they were going to look for me, I'd give them a legend to chase. A creator whose identity was wrapped in riddles, jokes, and distractions. A Notch who wasn't a man, but an idea.
It was camouflage turned into spectacle.
I selected the first option, heart pounding.
[Creator's Whisper: "The world is yours to build. I am only the hand that laid the first block."]
Elegant. Humble. Disarming. The kind of line that made you want to believe the creator was benign.
Perfect.
---
I leaned back, exhaling slow and shaky.
Four players. Four bombs.
And yet, for the first time, I felt like I wasn't just reacting. I was shaping the board, guiding the narrative, hiding in plain sight while feeding their curiosity breadcrumbs.
Would it last? Probably not. Doom's intellect, Shuri's brilliance, Peter's instincts—they would all eventually tear past my defenses.
But until then?
Until then, I was the Game Master. The storyteller. The one writing the myth in real time.
And as their avatars turned their gazes skyward at the cracking heavens, I whispered into the void:
"Welcome to the show."