Exit Game?

LEVEL ONE

When Pip arrived, the Grand Game Master was already waiting.

He towered over Pip, a thick ledger tucked beneath one arm and a Cheshire smile stretched across his face. With an elaborate sweep of his free hand, he gestured toward a bright purple door.

“Welcome,” he boomed, “to Level One.”

The door flung open at his words, revealing a classroom packed with tiny desks. Each bore a name that was taped neatly to its surface. Pip found theirs and sat just as the bell rang. They watched the room fill.

At the front, the Teacher wrote a single word on the board: TRIANGLE.

She set the chalk down and traced the shape in the air with her finger before spelling the word aloud.

Pip tilted their head. Wouldn’t it be simpler to draw it?

They raised a hand.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to—”

A reverberating voice drifted over their shoulder.

“You don’t question the Teacher,” the Game Master murmured.

The hand lowered.

Pip drew the triangle quietly in the corner of their page. Three clean lines, just to fix it in memory. The child beside them stared at her own paper, brow creased.

“Is it three sides?” she whispered.

Pip nudged the page closer for her to see.

Before she could look, the Game Master intervened again.

“Helping is cheating,” he said lightly. “She needs to ask the Teacher. You wouldn’t want to rob her of growth.”

Pip withdrew the page. The child erased her work and began again, tongue between her teeth as she frantically tried to reconstruct the invisible shape.

At the end of class, the Teacher collected the pages and handed out three more work pages.

“These are for tonight.”

Pip stared at the stack. “This will take forever.”

The Game Master leaned casually against the desk beside them, still smiling.

“You have three hours before bed,” he said. “Plenty of time.”

Pip imagined dinner, bath, and sleep. Three hours did not feel like plenty.

But Pip did it anyway, finishing the last question just as their eyes began to sting.

A triumphant arpeggio rang through the room, bright and theatrical. The ceiling parted like stage curtains, and light flooded everything.

“LEVEL COMPLETE,” the Game Master declared.

And Pip was lifted into the next door.

LEVEL TWO

The next room was enormous, tiered rows sloping downward toward a single illuminated figure at the front. Pip felt the familiarity of the room, body automatically moving toward a seat. They sat and folded their hands.

The Professor began immediately. Words flowed from his mouth, elegantly complex in sentence structure, filling the hall without pause. Pip tried to follow but became lost by the second slide, and quickly raised a hand. From the back row, it looked very small.

“Questions are for your own time,” the Game Master breathed from behind them. “Understanding comes after listening.”

So Pip listened.

When the hall finally emptied, their notebook was dense with writing they didn’t comprehend, while their mind felt strangely empty.

“Review each night,” the Game Master advised. “Integration happens through consistent practice and reflection.”

In the lab that followed, a rat sat caged next to a maze featuring a central block of cheese. A Friday deadline hovered like an unseen clock.

“We’ll write this up by Friday,” the supervisor said briskly.

Pip’s brows furrowed. “Shouldn’t we test more? Try different cheese? Include more rats?”

“We don’t have the time or funding for that,” the supervisor replied, already moving on.

The Game Master’s voice softened at Pip’s ear. “If you don’t publish, you perish.”

After running the trial twice, Pip wrote the report, noting both results and uncertainty. The Professor skimmed it and grimaced.

“You wrote this in plain language,” he said. “This is science. It must sound sophisticated.”

“But then fewer people will understand it.”

“Exactly.” He returned the paper. “This level is not for everyone.”

A student paused beside Pip. “That looks fascinating. What’s it about?”

Pip opened their mouth.

“Don’t share,” the Game Master interjected. “Your peers are your future competitors.”

Pip closed it again.

A coin appeared in their palm and Pip gave a small sigh. It felt lighter than it should have.

The same little melody from the end of level one swelled in the room, and a flash of light ripped Pip from the scene before they could reflect any further on the weight of the coin.

LEVEL THREE

Two doors rose from the floor, semi-transparent and glowing.

The one on the left was glass. It swung open, giving way to a long table with a Boss at its head. Rows of suited figures sat around him.

The door on the right side, which was white and wooden, then swept open and revealed three small kids and a Partner smiling from a couch. A family.

Pip moved toward the office door, then hesitated and glanced at the home.

“Erm—”

“This is a dual level,” the Game Master said pleasantly.

“So…this level is split? 50% for each door?”

He laughed a boisterous laugh.

“No. Both are full levels. You merge and manage them.”

With a snap sound, Pip suddenly found themselves seated before the Boss, a stack of folders sliding across the polished table.

“Deliverables by Tomorrow,” the Boss said. “Show me I didn’t make a mistake by hiring you.”

A meter appeared above Pip’s head:

PRODUCTIVITY: 100%

With that, emails instantly multiplied, filling an inbox. Requests blinked into existence.

The meter quickly began to decline.

A child’s whine bellowed through the air, and the room around Pip changed in an instant. Now, they stood in a kitchen. Three small voices called for dinner and help with homework. The Partner leaned against the counter, tired but hopeful.

Pip reached into their pocket and placed the coin on the table. It vanished and ingredients for dinner appeared. The Partner immediately assembled the meal as Pip began working through homework sheets with each child.

After dinner and bedtime routines, Pip descended the stairs with sleepy eyes, glancing at their coin counter.

COINS: 0

“Now go spend time with your Loved One,” the Game Master prompted gently.

Pip settled on the couch alongside their partner and yawned, slowly closing their eyes.

“You’re behind,” a voice thundered.

Eyes snapped open to find the boardroom had returned.

The productivity meter read 53%.

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to recharge.”

“You don’t bring personal matters into the workplace,” the Game Master whispered with a look. “Time management is your responsibility.”

The days began to run together in no time at all. Work bled into home, home bled into work, coins vanished on appearance, and meters dropped faster than they could be restored.

When Pip’s health warning flashed red, the environment shifted into a white room with a hospital bed and a Doctor reviewing a chart.

“Exhaustion. Elevated stress. You must learn proper balance and do better. You won’t survive like this for long.”

“I just don’t have enough time for both doors.”

“Then perhaps this role exceeds your capacity.”

“Your health is your responsibility,” added the Game Master, sternly.

Pip stared, feeling emotions swirl inside. Their mind went numb as their chest tightened, white dots filling their field of vision. The rooms fell silent. The meters froze. The world distorted, fragmenting like a pixelated glitch.

The Game Master stepped forward, ledger still tucked beneath his arm.

“This level requires exceptional skill,” he said gently. “Not everyone succeeds. That is what makes victory meaningful.”

“And how many succeed?” Pip asked.

He looked at his page. “Roughly one percent.”

“And the rest?”

“They refine themselves. Develop resilience. Try, then try again. Winning is reserved for those who fight for it, who work on themselves to improve themselves.”

Pip looked at the blinking productivity meter and the empty coin counter.

“But…how do I win a level that demands more than any player has?”

The Game Master’s smile grew wider.

“You must try harder.”

“But this doesn’t feel like winning,” they said quietly. “I feel like I’m just trying to survive. Minimize pain while running out the clock on each level.”

“That,” said the Game Master, “is the Game. Learning to survive and learning to be grateful for this wondrous opportunity.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

“If ninety-nine percent don’t make it,” Pip said at last, “I don’t think the problem is with the players.”

“Then you misunderstand the system and its rules.”

“No,” Pip said. “I understand who they serve. When you keep a person breathless and fighting just to survive the minute, they lose the capacity to wonder why. That, and the strength to