Starting Species Zero Felt Ridiculous

On June 13, 2026, I started building a game called Species Zero.

At the time, it was called Genesis Beasts, which sounds a bit grand now, but honestly the whole idea was grand. Maybe too grand. I wanted to make an infinite creature evolution simulator for phones. A game where you raise strange little AI-generated creatures, feed them, watch them change, and feel like no two are exactly the same.

That is not the sort of sentence I ever expected to write about something I was making.

I am 50, and I do not have a coding background. I am not the person who normally says, “I’m going to build a mobile-first creature evolution game.” I’m more the person who stares at a confusing screen for ten minutes and wonders if I’ve already broken something.

But that was part of the pull.

I have always liked the idea of games that keep unfolding. Not just levels to beat, but worlds that feel alive. Creatures that surprise you. Little systems that keep going when you are not looking. I wanted a game that gave me that feeling of checking in and thinking, “What happened while I was away?”

The problem it solved for me was simple: I wanted to make something I personally wanted to play, but I did not know how to make it.

Before AI tools, that would have been the end of the story. I could have written the idea in a notebook and maybe talked about it at dinner until everyone politely changed the subject. But I could not have built it. Not really.

With Lovable, suddenly the question changed from “Can I code this?” to “Can I explain this clearly enough for the AI to help me build it?”

That still sounded difficult. But it sounded possible.

What I hoped the AI could do was fill in the enormous gap between my imagination and my ability. I had the shape of the thing in my head: unique creatures, feeding, evolution, discovery, maybe even a sense of prestige for being the first to find something rare. Later, that became things like Discoverer Ranks and payments to speed things up, but at the beginning it was more basic than that.

I wanted the AI to help turn “wouldn’t it be cool if…” into screens I could tap.

And honestly, I also hoped it would keep me from getting lost.

That did not always happen.

From the very beginning, Species Zero felt bigger than me. Even getting the foundation in place felt like standing at the bottom of a hill with a bicycle I was not sure I knew how to ride. There were accounts, saving data, creature behavior, mobile layout, payments, and all these moving parts I only half understood.

The app was built with Lovable Cloud on something called TanStack Start. I am mentioning that not because I deeply understand every piece of it, but because it reminds me of how strange this whole adventure is. Tools and names I had never heard of were suddenly part of my day.

That is both thrilling and unnerving.

One of the oddest feelings was realizing that the AI could create a lot very quickly, but I still had to know what I wanted. It could build, but it could not care for me. It could not decide what kind of game would feel satisfying. That part was still mine.

And the first version did not magically feel good just because it existed.

At one point I found myself thinking, and later saying plainly, “This game is not good.” That was not a dramatic statement. It was just true in the moment. The creature existed. The feeding existed. But the reason to keep going was not clear enough.

That realization eventually pushed the project toward ideas like creature thoughts, overnight dreams, random events, social features, better art, and evolution that drifts over time. But the origin was much humbler than that.

It started with a feeling: I want to raise something strange, and I want it to surprise me.

Then came the scarier feeling: maybe, with AI, I can actually try.

Small takeaway: sometimes the first problem AI solves is not technical — it gives you permission to begin.