ANAGAMA
An anagama is a kiln that is a tunnel up a hillside. You light a fire at the bottom and for the next several days the flame climbs, and everything it touches on the way is changed by it.
Free games that play in the browser. 38 products.
How these are made. Every CSAF product is made with AI. Each entry below repeats the AI disclosure exactly as its store page states it (for example "AI Assisted, Code, Graphics").
An anagama is a kiln that is a tunnel up a hillside. You light a fire at the bottom and for the next several days the flame climbs, and everything it touches on the way is changed by it.
You steer a stream of glowing motes up a foundry shaft. The pour has a COUNT — how many motes you carry — and a TEMPER: EMBER, FROST or IRON. Both matter, and they are not the same thing.
You never move a knight. You plant a banner — and every knight in the House charges it at once. A charge that never started is a death. Knights who fall are dead.
A soda works on a drying salt lake. Sink wells into the brine under the bed, run it east through evaporation pans, crystallise salt and bittern, still the bittern into potash, and burn the two back together into soda ash for the railhead.
You have no weapon. The garden shoots. A plant in flower is both your income and your covering fire. Harvesting it pays you and takes the gun away.
A tower defence whose towers never shoot. You do not place guns. You hang bells. Every bell sounds a ring on the metronome, and the ring spreads out across the valley.
Drive a storm-powered ironclad up an insane hostile coastline. Everything in this game is charge — the run, the money, the miracles, the ram.
cleave (v.): to split apart. cleave (v.): to cling to. Five cards are dealt into one row. You and the end of the world draft from that same row. Every card has two faces.
A courtroom where the trial is the fight. Opposing counsel raises an argument. You have a fraction of a second to name the objection that answers it — and only the right one works.
Marchwood House is pitch dark and you cannot carry a light. Every sound you make draws the room for you, and hands the Lamplighter your exact position in the same instant.
Every spring the river comes up over the valley. You do not stop it. You aim it. Silt from the floodwater is the only fertility your fields will ever get.
The frozen ground here yields impossibly well, and the price is not money. A smallholding in a valley the winter never leaves.
Gravity is not a button here, and it is not yours. The room falls toward whichever of its four wall tanks is heaviest. All you control is where the water goes.
Everything in the vault is decaying. That is what pays you. You run a containment vault.
A deduction game whose every case is generated, and then proven, before you ever see it. Free, in your browser, no account, no install. You keep a lighthouse on a bad coast.
Six otters, one raft, and a river that never ends the same way twice. You do not steer. The river does that. You decide three things, and everything else is consequence.
A typing roguelite set in a letterpress print shop. Words crawl down the galley towards your composing stick. Type one and you set it, and the trouble it was carrying goes away.
A settlement stands on a shelving coast. It wants water in some places and never in others, and it will not listen to you. You are not its god of harvests, only of tides.
Every water game on the shelf treats water as a number you pile up. Here the water is the ground you are standing on. You are granted a salt fen, an eight year lease and no sea bank at all.
You never cast a spell. You cast a rainbow. One shaft of dawn strikes your horn and leaves it as seven bands of light. Each band is a different verb.
The overture runs three minutes. At the end of it the curtain goes up on a corpse, and then it runs again. You are the prompter, in the hooded box at the lip of the stage.
A plant that thrives grows big, and a big plant shades, drains and sours the ground around it. The bed you laid out perfectly stops working because it worked.
You never find the key. You forge it. In most games like this, a locked thing asks what you are carrying. A bramble wall wants the fire rod, and there is exactly one fire rod.
Every timing-duel tells you that you lost the exchange. This one tells you why — to the millisecond, on every single input.
A cozy farm that grows while you are away, and the only way to get new seed is to raid the wilds for it. SEEDLIFT crosses a farming incremental with an extraction raid.
A single line, a winter timetable, and one train at a time. Every other train game asks you to make the railway bigger. This one is about the thing that actually decides what a railway can carry: a single track holds one train at a time.
A match-3 where the board is your mech. The grid is a walking machine's armour plating, laid out as a silhouette: head, torso, two arms, two legs. When something hits you, it spalls the plates in the region it struck.
Every voyage you fly is inscribed forever. The route you took IS the constellation. You fly a route between stars on flux and hull.
You are the cave. Cut chambers into a hill, put things in them, and decide what happens to the people who come down looking for whatever they think is in there.
He is not lying to you. He is legislating. A narrator describes the room you are standing in. His sentences lie on the floor where he said them, and they are not true yet.
A racer whose road is the beat. Every dash on the lane lines is one beat, and it lights up as you cross it. Change lanes on the beat and the song speeds up, and so does your car.
Run a small dye house through the seasons. Grow the dyes, keep the vats alive, and dip bolts of cloth until they match the colour the town ordered. THE DYEWORKS is a free browser incremental where the colour on the cloth is what you sell.
Your army is a crowd you shape with movement alone — and it dies. Stand still and they ring you. Run and they spear. There is not one order button in this game.
They gave you the key at the town hall and did not ask for anything back. A derelict public glasshouse at the edge of town, in the first week of winter.
You carry the mail between 9 islands, and the ocean itself is the mechanic. Free, in your browser, no account and no install. The sea in TIDEPOST is a real current field.
The forest floor eats everything. You are what does the eating. You are the mycelium under a forest floor. Spread hyphae across the litter, digest what you reach, and fruit where it counts.
Dawn is coming and you are extremely not a morning person. Shut every window. Drape every mirror. Get the garlic out of the house. Then get in the coffin and hold the lid shut.
The house is full of things that belonged to people you loved. Every one of them will burn. Every one of them is worth more than the heat. You have one fire and fifty-three keepsakes.