Where your question goes.

The first promise: your visit stays between us

At the bottom of nearly every page here sits this sentence, lowercase and easy to miss:

this site makes no third-party requests — no fonts, no analytics, no CDN. your browser talks to our server, and no one else's.

Many websites are assembled from pieces stored on other companies' computers — a font fetched from here, a traffic counter from there. (That is all a “CDN” is.) It is a normal way to build a website, and it means each of those companies learns a little about every visit. We just don't build ours that way. Everything on our pages comes from our own server, so no other company is told you were here. And with no analytics, there is no marketing file about you to sell — it was never written.

The honest footnote: as web servers commonly do, ours keeps a plain notebook of visits — a line saying a page was asked for, when, from which internet address, and what kind of browser and device asked. The doorstep noticing a mail carrier, not a camera in your kitchen. The questions you ask our apps travel separately — typed into the app itself, not into the web address — so the notebook never sees them. One place is the exception: the ready-made question links on our tours put your words into the web address, and the notebook copies web addresses. That is part of what we fixed below.

Writing this page sent us to read our own notebook rules. We found them set to keep their lines for up to a hundred years, which is about a hundred years too many, and roughly a hundred lines holding things they shouldn't have — visit records that had caught a login code or a token in a web address.

On 15 August 2026 we removed them, and changed the rules that let them pile up. Every notebook on the server now keeps thirty days instead of a century — the tour guide's included, because the questions people ask are what we were ever after, and who asked them never was. We also closed it off at the source: web addresses are now written down with their question part replaced by the word REDACTED, which closes the door those lines came through. (One narrow corner remains — the field that records which page a visitor came from can still carry a stray address; the nightly sweep clears anything it catches there.) A sweep runs every night to hold the thirty days, because a rule that only applies when a notebook fills up is not a rule.

The receipts, if you want to check us: twenty notebooks — every visit log the server keeps — none of them holding more than thirty days, and a search across every one of them for the two things those hundred lines held now returns nothing. This page audited us before you read it.

As first published, the paragraph above read: “As this page goes up we are removing those lines and shortening the keeping to thirty days (the tour guide's own notebook keeps its year); when it lands, this paragraph will say so, with a date.” It landed 15 August 2026, the same day. This is what that looks like.

The rules helper itself, though — the page you ask your question on — keeps no visit notebook at all.

The second promise: the trip your question takes

As we publish this, our home page says this about the rules helper and the guide:

Everything they do runs locally on machines we operate: no cloud AI anywhere in their chain.

“Cloud AI” is the common arrangement where an app mails your words to a big AI company's computers and mails an answer back. It is how most AI apps work. Not ours — and the proof is one question, followed door to door. Say it is game night and your cousin is sure. You type your question into the rules helper. It travels to our server — a computer we rent in a datacenter — which finds the right pages of the actual rulebook. Then one more hop: to a real machine on a shelf in our house, with a graphics card we own, where the AI itself reads those pages and writes the answer, with the pages it used. Your screen, our server, a computer in our house, your screen again — nobody else's mailbox on the route, in every app we ship and run. The big commercial AI tools help us build our software; none of them run when you use it.

Two honest things about that trip:

The rules helper keeps the question — on purpose, on a shelf anyone can read. Every answered question joins its public shelf, so the next table with the same argument finds it already settled. The shelf keeps the question and the answer, never the asker: no account, no sign-in, nothing that ties a question to a person. But it is public, and it keeps what it is asked, for good — so ask the way you would ask across a shop counter, out loud.

The game and the tour guide ask almost nothing — and here is exactly what “almost” means. The game world opens, for now, with a shared code from a friend: it is a friends-and-family place, and the code is the door. Inside you can play as a guest, or pick a made-up name and a password if you want the world to remember you — no email, no phone number, no real name. That is on purpose: what we never took cannot leak or be sold. We have no way to reach you outside the game; no address exists. A photo you turn into a pet is redrawn on the way in and never saved — camera and place details dropped with it. The tour guide answers your question and keeps no copy of it. Its guest book keeps what you sign — the name, the line, and the internet address it arrived from — because a guest book's whole job is keeping.

Will this ever change?

We keep building, so here is the law over all of it — the only promise about the future we trust ourselves to make: nothing of yours leaves for anyone else's computer. The AI that answers you runs on machines we own — we make them answer faster, and add to them as the workshop grows. When more people ask at once than they can take, you wait your turn for our machine, never someone else's. If that law ever had to change, we would ask you first, every time, showing you exactly what would be sent — and this page would be rewritten, dated, before a single question could take a different trip.

That's the tour. No mailing list, no pop-up — just the footer you can now read like an insider. If anything here doesn't sit right, write to us: a person reads every message. And yes — writing to us is the one time you hand us a way to reach you back. Your note sits in our inbox, envelope and all, until a person answers it.

For the curious

Ways to check us: scroll this page to its footer for the first promise, and our home page for the second. Walk the rules helper's public shelf yourself: what you see there is everything it kept about the asking. And view any page's source — nothing in it is fetched from another company's computers. Before publishing, we swept the pages and files our sites serve for third-party loads and found none, and read the rules helper's code and the shape of its records for anything that stores who-asked — nothing does. The audit cut both ways: it is what found our own notebook keeping too much.

One thing you will see in that source, so you hear it here first rather than wonder: since 16 August 2026 every page on this hub carries a small <script type="application/ld+json"> block. It is a label, not a program — the page's title and date written in the format search engines read, so that what we publish can be found. A browser never runs it and never fetches anything for it; it is a piece of the page, sitting still. Nothing else on this site is a script, and the check that publishes these pages refuses any other kind.

Benched, drafted, and audited by the workshop's own agents under a human operator's rulings, then revised with that operator — often across many rounds; nothing releases until they have read it and signed off. The same division of labor this whole hub practices — told in full here.