Everyone on the team types two lines and one question about them. We turn it into a small video game they play on their last day, walking through a little world and meeting every one of you.
No app. No accounts for the people signing. Nobody has to film anything. You play the whole game before you pay.
You know how the leaving card goes. Someone sets up a group card, twenty people write “All the best!”, and the coworker scrolls it on their phone for ninety seconds between the cake and the lift. Or someone suggests a video montage, and now eleven adults have to film themselves, which four of them will simply never do.
The messages are real. The format wastes them. A farewell gift for a coworker should hold their attention for longer than the walk to the car park.
So we kept the easy part — everyone types — and changed what comes out. Each message gets a moment of its own: the lights come up on one person, their words appear a line at a time, and then comes the question they hid in it. Nobody is skipped.
Their name, the occasion, the day it should arrive. You get one link and a short message to paste into Slack, Teams or the group chat.
You, once.
They open the link. No account, no password, no app. A message up to 400 characters, a colour to be lit in, and one question about the person with three possible answers.
Them, on their phone, in a meeting they're not enjoying.
You read every message before anything is built and remove anything you don't want. Then you play the finished game yourself. Only then do you pay, and it arrives at 8am on the day you chose.
You, once more. Then it's out of your hands.
“All the best for the future” is what people write when the box is blank and the meeting is starting. Two lines about one real thing is what they remember. The thing they said to you once. The printer only they could fix. The week they quietly moved three of your deadlines and never mentioned it.
The question is the other half. Something only people who worked with them would get right:
Three answers, one of them right, the wrong ones plausible. They answer it in the game. Get it wrong and nothing bad happens — the line on screen says “Memory collected anyway.” It's a gift, not an exam.
Set it up about ten days before. Give people a deadline three days before the last day, and mean it — the link closes on the date you set, and one reminder goes out 48 hours before to the people who haven't written. One, not two. Then you read everything, play it, pay, and it arrives at 8am on the day. Or you take the link and hand it over in the room, with the phone on the table and everyone watching them get your question wrong.
Two things in writing: you never pay before you've played it, and if you've paid and they haven't opened it yet, you can refund yourself within 24 hours from your own page. No email to us, no waiting for a human.
$39 Premium if you want unlimited people, every world, a downloadable clip of the ending and no Outro Party branding anywhere. Same numbers in euros and pounds.
Same organiser, same two-minute contribution. The difference is what the coworker gets: not a grid of tiles, but ten to fifteen minutes where every message comes from someone standing in front of them, with a question attached, and a memory book at the end that they keep.
No. They click the link, type, pick a character and close the tab. No password, no app, no email address required. Asking people to register is the fastest way to lose half of them.
You see every message before anyone else does and remove it with one click. Nothing is built until you approve. A word filter runs underneath and flags things for a second look; it never deletes on its own.
That's where it works best. Everyone types from wherever they are, and the coworker opens a link on their phone. Nothing to install, nothing to schedule.
$24 once, for up to 15 people. $39 once for unlimited people, every world, a downloadable clip of the ending and no branding. No subscription, no per-person fee, nothing added at checkout.
Not organising one this week? The two-minute invite text and twelve questions people actually get wrong. One email, then nothing until you say otherwise.