GRANDMA: Turn Someone You Love Into a Pixel That Never Fades

Par PB Tails

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Campagne close Fin de campagne : 24/10/2026

Fonds récoltés : 1 516 €

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My name is Zhou Yichen, an artist. I make games — not the kind you win, but the kind you feel. I've made over 120 of them. When I was a child, my parents were always working, so my grandmother raised me. She never understood video games, but she would sit beside me while I played on my old Game Boy.

In March 2024, she fell at home — the base of her cane had come loose. My father has Parkinson's; my uncle had a stroke. I was the only one who could care for her. So I packed my computer and a few clothes, and moved in.

That's when I began recording our days — as a game. Bringing her meals. Eating together. Walking. Buying the soda she liked. Helping her bathe. Putting her to sleep. The same small things, looping, again and again. They seemed ordinary. To me, they were everything. Then her health declined fast. I couldn't find an ending for the game, so I set it aside.

On September 15th, I had a dream. My grandmother and I sat at a round table — and suddenly she rose into the sky on a paper plane, a great bird beside her, carrying her away, smaller and smaller. A few weeks later, on the Double Ninth Festival, she passed away in her sleep. I put that dream into the game. It became the ending.

In Grandma, you care for her — over and over, with no reward and no goal. Until one day, the little pixel character is too exhausted, and lies down to sleep. In the dream, Grandma meets him. She says: "Thank you for taking care of me. It's time to say goodbye." They part. A great bird flies away. When you wake, the house is empty. Only her things remain, the places she used to go. You walk through them, looking for traces of her. Finally, you reach the park bench where you used to walk together, and say your last goodbye. She is gone. But she is still here — in all of it. Then the road ahead is yours to walk alone. And when you reach its end, the game begins again.

I posted a few screenshots online, expecting nothing — maybe a few likes. Instead, countless people wrote to me. They told me about their own lost grandparents, partners, friends — about goodbyes they couldn't move past. They said this small game gave them a moment of comfort. That's when I understood: Grandma was no longer just my own grief. However private a feeling is — if it's about love, it becomes universal. A game can carry that. And it can let far more people feel it. So I started to wonder: what if Grandma wasn't only mine? What if it could hold yours, too?

By now you might be wondering: Why is this whole project called "Grandma"? For us, "Grandma" was never just a title. It was the name of the person who raised me — and the name of the game that kept her. But those thousands of messages taught me something: almost everyone has a "Grandma." Not always a grandmother. Sometimes it's a mother. A grandfather. A partner. A friend. Even a pet that waited by the door.

"Grandma" is our word for that one person — the one who shaped you, who you didn't get to thank enough, who you think of and smile before you realize how much you miss them. Getting Grandma's face into the game was one of the hardest parts. The Game Boy reads so few pixels that it couldn't capture her. I redrew her by hand, again and again, searching for the balance between looking like her and not — until the engine could finally hold her image.

We never planned to make a game cartridge.

But when Zoe — PB Tails' founder, herself raised by her grandmother — came across Zhou Yichen's story, she saw something that stopped her cold. Not a product opportunity. A reflection.

PB Tails makes metal hardware. Grandma deserved metal — a story this permanent shouldn't live in plastic. Our CNC workshop, our hand-polish finish, our laser engraving — every capability we'd built over years suddenly had a purpose we'd never anticipated. And it wasn't just the craft that fit: the same ache, the same love that arrived too late to say everything. This wasn't a licensing deal — it was personal. We'd spent years arguing that premium materials matter not for performance, but for how they make you feel. Grandma proved it. A metal cartridge isn't a gaming accessory. It's a pocket-sized memorial for a generation that grew up with screens and longs for something real to hold.

We made Grandma into a real, physical cartridge — one that fits a classic Game Boy or a modern retro handheld. Not plastic. Not mass-produced.

Some stories stay with us long after the screen goes dark.

GRANDMA is a short 8-bit game about care, memory, and the people who shape our lives. For this release, the game becomes something you can hold onto: a physical cartridge made in a strictly limited run of 5,000 worldwide.

This is a finite production run. Once all 5,000 cartridges have been claimed, this release will be complete. Choose the edition that means the most to you—and help bring GRANDMA from the screen into the world.

It took me days to turn my grandmother's photo into a pixel the Game Boy could finally read. And I thought: what if anyone could do the same — for the one they love? So we built The Grandma Wall — a living, online wall that every backer helps create.

This isn't a product launch. It's not about making money. Finishing this game finally let some of what I held inside find release. That's all I hope this can do for you — keep something alive. A memory. A voice. A way to feel what can't be said.

I'm not asking you to be sad. I'm asking you to do something while you still can: turn someone you love into a pixel that never fades — and then, maybe, turn toward the ones still beside you. Because some games have no ending. Just like love doesn't end.