A text adventure written as you play

Write what you do. The world writes back, and remembers.

You write what you do, a line or a page. An AI narrator writes the world around your words: flooded lighthouses, night trains with tomorrow's tickets, markets that sell you your own coat. It pushes back, it remembers what you've made true, and every night it dreams your story.

Begin a story 40 turns free · no account needed · for adults (18+)

Live

you ⟩ I wake on a night train. The ticket in my hand is dated tomorrow.

The carriage sways through fields you can't see. Your ticket is still warm, as if someone held it a long time before you. Across the aisle a woman in a grey coat knits something pale that runs off her needles and under the seats, further than it should.

How it plays

A story you can't quite steer, and won't forget.

You write as you like.

A single move or four paragraphs: what you do, what you say, what's around you. Write "the station is dark and cold" and from then on it is: the story builds on what you tell it, and doesn't forget.

The world pushes back.

People refuse, bargain and lie. Doors stay locked. Water that has risen doesn't fall back because you rested. Every chapter asks a question, and its ending names the price. Or turn chapters off and let a story simply flow: no questions to answer, no ending to reach, a world that keeps going.

III

It remembers.

Places, people, open threads, what you carried and what you gave away. Threads you let go quiet come back, sometimes when you least want them.

Cut in

Interrupt the narrator.

Start typing while the story writes itself and it stops where you were reading. The words you never saw unravel, and the story follows you instead.

the narrator writes…Down the platform a single lamp burns, and in its light a man in a conductor's cap is counting something on his fingers, lips moving, and when he reaches the end of the count he looks up at you as if

› I run for the stairs.^C · 23 words unwoven

Every night

While you sleep, the loom dreams.

Weftwake reads your story overnight: it writes what happened, decides what will come back, and draws a plate for the chapter. Plates are keepsakes, numbered and yours. Weftwake doesn't sell them or run a market for them.

A morning letter, if you want one. The dream, the new plate, and the way back in, at most three a week, in the world's own voice. One click to stop them.

A lighthouse in a black sea, its lamp lit, a figure wading below — The keeper's lamp, eleven years litPLATE I

A dark train carriage, one passenger by a bright window — Third class, tomorrow's datePLATE II

A long platform in fog, a single figure under the canopy — The last service, standing room onlyPLATE III

A ferryman rowing a small boat through mist, a lantern in the bow — The crossing costs an hourPLATE IV

The cloth

Your story, woven.

Every thread is a warp running down the cloth; every turn is a row of weft. Tension is weight, sudden events knot, chapters band. Save it as an image with not a word of your story in it.

A close-up of a woven textile: coloured warp threads crossing grey weft rows

The score

It sounds like where you are.

Turn the sound on and music follows the story: real recorded strings, piano, harp, guitar and winds, arranged live as you read from what is happening. A cello by the fire, a string quartet at the moment of decision, silence when a scene needs nothing. Places have their own air: rain, the sea, a night train.

A chapter's crisis on a solo cello; then the danger passes, and a guitar plays alone.

Shape the world

Ask the world. Go elsewhere.

Ask a question and the world answers inside the story: yes, no, yes but, no and. Go somewhere else, or later, and time passes while you're away. The world still decides what it costs.

› /ask Is the keeper lying?She looks at the sea a moment too long before she answers, and her hand finds the key on her belt without her seeming to know it.

› /elsewhere the harbour, an hour later⁂Harbour, an hour later. The tide has come in without you, and the boat you meant to take is already a lantern far out on the water.

Five ways to read

A film, a manuscript, a print, a newspaper, a terminal.

Weftwake in the Nitrate theme on a phone — NitrateYour lines are title cards; the story plays like a film.

Weftwake in the Manuscript theme on a phone — ManuscriptYour hand in the margin, the story in print.

Weftwake in the Cyanotype theme on a phone — CyanotypePrinted by light, in Prussian blue.

Weftwake in the Night Edition theme on a phone — Night EditionYou write the headlines; the story runs beneath.

Weftwake in the Phosphor theme on a phone — PhosphorAn amber terminal, for the night shift.

Patrons keep the loom running

Begin free. Stay as a Patron.

Free

40 turns in all, shared across your stories
Your first dream and plate
No account, no card

Patron

$7.99 a month

600 turns a month, about 20 a day
A dream and a plate every night you play
Or $79.99 a year · packs from $3 if you run out

Founding Patron

$4.99 a month

For the first 200 Patrons
Your first 12 months, then $7.99 a month
600 turns a month, everything Patrons get

Yours, and safe

Private by default.

Your stories are yours.

No one else sees them, and there is nothing to share them with. Under Anthropic's commercial terms your words aren't used to train its models. Export or delete everything at any time.

Made with AI, shaped by people.

The narrator's words and the plates are generated by AI, and Weftwake says so when you begin and every few hours after. The world they're made in is designed: the story engine and its rules of tension, consequence and pushback, the narrator's voice, the music and the look of every plate are the work of InterfaceDelta's small team. Your own words are yours.

For adults, with care.

Weftwake is 18+. Stories can be dark; if a line stops being about the story, it pauses and shows where to find help. How it works.

Write the first line. See what writes back.

Begin a story

40 turns free · no account needed · for adults (18+)

Weftwake is young and grows often: new voices, new ways to play, better stories. Tell us what you'd change. Send feedback