Stillcraft / Apps / Lot
Life simulators usually make you one of the eight billion alive today. Lot draws from everyone who has ever been born, weighted by era, place and family, so you are most often a peasant long before 1800 and nearly half the time you don't live to five. The life is written into a parish register a page at a time, real history reaches it from the side, and at each fork you see every door, the shut ones too, with the reason they are shut. Free, no ads, no account, no internet.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
The sack follows the Population Reference Bureau's estimate of everyone ever born: the Stone Age, the ancient world, two middle ages, the early modern centuries, the age of machines and our time, each by how many people were born in it, then by region and family. A wooden tag rises out of it with the year, the place and the family burnt in, and the odds beside it.
The life is written in the registrar's hand, a few years a page: childhood, work, a match, hard times, old age. About 2,200 everyday lines across six ages, tied to region, family, sex and years, each in Russian and English. And about 150 everyday forks: a stranger asks for shelter, the recruiting sergeant comes, a cousin abroad offers work.
465 real events reach a life as rumours and consequences: the Black Death, the Mongols, the silk caravans, the Partition, the first satellite crawling across the sky. Rarely you pass one of 49 people later written about: Socrates arguing in the square, Ibn Battuta writing down how you bake bread. The chronicle in the atlas collects them all.
At each fork every door is shown. Some are shut, struck through, and say why: girls are not taught their letters, you are not free to leave, the elders have already agreed. Inequality, without a lecture. Or be a witness and let fate choose. And if you like, ask the sack for an era, a part of the world or to be born a boy or a girl: within that it keeps the real weights.
Each life leaves one thing, drawn in code: a bone needle, a clay tablet recording a debt, a greatcoat button, a push-button phone.
After a life with children, draw a great-grandchild's lot, born 70 to 94 years later in the same place. They inherit the surname, the family's means and the same thing, which gathers its holders generation after generation.
At the end a life asks one quiet question about you today: this person never saw the sea, so when was the sea last in front of your eyes? The answers gather in a notebook.
Your birthplaces on an old map with a slider through time, your lots next to the real spread of everyone ever born, and every book in the archive to read again in full.
| Era | Born, billions | Live to five |
|---|---|---|
| Stone Age, before 8000 BC | 9 | 55% |
| Ancient world | 37 | 58% |
| Middle Ages, 1–1650 | 39 | 60% |
| Early modern, 1650–1850 | 9 | 63% |
| Age of machines, 1850–1950 | 8 | 72% |
| Our time, 1950–2026 | 15 | 93% |
The numbers are estimates, rounded, and the lines are written to be true to their age rather than to any one village. It is a way to feel the odds, not a history textbook.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore; the sack, the things and the map are drawn in code.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/lot.git cd lot ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.lot.demo: thirty lives already lived ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArt*' # every screen and the logo to PNG
Because most people who ever lived were. Over 80 billion of the 117 were born before 1800, and nearly all of them worked the land.
No. There are no points. A life ends with an epitaph and a thing for the chest, and sometimes a great-grandchild.
Nothing. The app has no internet permission at all.
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Intermittent fasting, made warm and simple.
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Letters to your future self. Sealed until the day comes.
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One light, many colours: choose who you are in every part of life.
Cold water, contrast showers and the sauna, tempered like steel.
Chores as spells in a wizard's tower: keep the floors bright, wake the helpers.
A pixel-art familiar that feeds on the pages you read.
Photos and clips struck into pixel-art treasure in a dragon's cave.
A film camera for the family: shoot now, see the prints tomorrow.
They grow up faster than the photos do.
A merry app about death and growing old, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.
Vows sealed with wax, and a ladder that makes them hard to break.
A scriptorium for what you learn: your own words, fading ink, and memory that holds.
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A museum for what you want to remember: dig it up, clean it, put it on show.
Race your own ghost at everyday tasks: splits, medals and the Games.
Intrusive thoughts as ships: the lighthouse beam, the evening watch, forecasts checked.
A magic lantern deals the glass; parent and child make up the bedtime tale.
A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
The same questions to your child, yourself or a grandparent, year after year, laid as a mosaic.
Your mind is a kite on a string. A few soft tugs a day bring it back to here.
There is too much music. One album a week, a whole side at a time, on a turntable or a tape deck.
There's too much to watch. So nothing gets watched. Your watchlist as a nineties video rental store.
Every date is a quest. The two of you are a party of heroes, and the phone is your game master.
A cosy lucid-dreaming trainer. In a dream, the top never falls.
A cosy pixel-art meditation tracker. Sit still, and shy animals come out.
A valve radio for falling asleep: tune into made-up stations of rain, sea and night trains, and let it drift off the air.
Five pots for everything you've never tried: sow a seed from a catalogue of new things, water it each time you go back, and when it blooms it's yours.
A fridge door for two: the shopping list, whose turn, notes, worries face down and envelopes that open only together. The phones sync at home, with no server.
A pedometer where your steps carry the village post. You are the new postman of a small village by a river, and its letters, stories and seasons go on for years.
Befriend a real tree. Every meeting is a ring: the friendship grows only from visits to the tree itself, and over a year they build up into a sawn cross-section.
Let your wishes age before you buy them. Every urge to buy goes into a bottle on the rack; when it's ripe, you open it without guilt or pour it into the barrel of your real dream.
Every walk is an assignment from the district paper. The editor wires one ordinary thing to shoot, with a twist; you bring back a frame, it's printed as a halftone, and on Sunday the week comes out as an issue.
A diary, index cards, telegrams and letters typed on a typewriter. There's no backspace that erases: a mistake is struck out or painted over and stays on the sheet, so you write slower, and more honestly.
Every shopping trip is a run. You keep a courier office of one: the household orders on the waybill, each shop learns its own shelf order, and every delivered waybill pays in brass tokens for a sign, a bicycle, a van one day.
The things of your hobbies come alive with practice. Every session lights a candle in a little pixel-art Japanese house; a guitar, a ball of yarn or a sourdough starter shivers, opens an eye, steps off the shelf as a house spirit and keeps growing for years.
A little movement all day long instead of an hour twice a week. Nine pixel-art tin toys on a shelf, each a family of movements; a minute or three of squats, balance or breathing winds one up for two hours and puts a pin in the day's music-box drum.
Make friends the way it actually works, and keep them for years. An old sea chart of your people: small sorties of courage to meet them, bridges that grow with every hour together, and fog that rolls in when you stop.
Step out of your comfort zone a little every day. Your fears become circus acts: pick what you find hard, and the bill offers three small real-life numbers a day, from warm-up to premiere — with a drum roll before and applause after.
Over a thousand evidence-graded protocols for a longer, calmer, happier life. Your body is a blueprint with eight systems; every protocol is a mod you try on yourself for 14 days, and the lab shows whether it moved anything before it enters your firmware.
Someone already lives in your flat. Find out who — and help them leave. A slow, quiet haunting on your own photos: marks in your rooms, notes in the evening, words through the static, and after two weeks one real thing left to do.
A small present every day, from your past self. You can't surprise yourself unless you forget: fill a capsule machine with little presents for future days, let the words seal, and turn the crank for one a day.
A budget kept like a detective's case file. Spending is evidence, categories are suspects with police photos, and when the clues show a pattern, a case opens: you name the motive and hand down the verdict.
A pilgrim's pass: come to a place of power, a church, a mosque, a synagogue, a spring or an old tree, sit there ten minutes without the phone, and the book gets a stamp nobody else has.
A book of hours for your own practices: the day divided into hours by the sun, a bell for each, and whatever you put into them written into an illuminated manuscript.
Enamel pin badges for the small deeds of a day, each with an order typed out, a rubber stamp and a fanfare. Nothing to plan and no streaks: in the evening the commission asks what happened.
Put a worry on an old brass balance as a stone, and weights with arguments go on the other pan, one by one, until it tips. 1,209 concrete worries, 15,900 weights.
A pet that lives under your bed and eats fear. Horror films and books feed it, anxious news is fast food, and your own fears it guards at night.
A bookshop of books that don't exist. Every day a customer asks for one, and you find it on the shelf by writing its title, first line and blurb.
Tarot with no bad cards. The Auntie finds the good even in Death, gives you an omen for the day and asks in the evening whether it came true.
A pocket field guide to the spirits of your real houseplants. Catch them with the camera; they live by the real sun over your town, ask you to touch the soil, grow, hatch from cuttings and fight real pests.
A talk by the fire with the people close to you: hold your stones together, and sparks bring the questions.
A diary of the cafés you keep coming back to: each gets a page and a sugar packet, and every cup leaves a coffee stain on the page.
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