Today I spent hours working on HoneyDrunk Studios from my couch. Some of that time I was playing a video game. Some of it I was watching TV. Mostly, I was talking.
I took my two dogs out. I played with them. I stepped away and came back. The day had room for ordinary life while the agents worked through the tasks I had handed off.
I had Codex open in voice mode. I would describe something I wanted done, talk through a decision, or ask where we were on a piece of work. It would coordinate separate agent tasks, bring questions back, and keep the conversation moving while those tasks ran.
By the end of the package refresh, 61 public NuGet packages had been published and verified. We had also worked through product ideas, organized what I wanted to focus on next, and gotten Claude to build and render a scene inside Blender.
There were interruptions, wrong turns, and a review system that needed more attention than I wanted to give it. I had to repeat myself a few times. But there was also this fairly ridiculous moment where I realized I was watching my studio move forward while sitting in the same spot where I normally wind down for the night.
I want to write about that part.
One conversation, several pieces of work
HoneyDrunk is my place to build things: software, experiments, and eventually games. It is also a collection of repositories that can accumulate a very impressive amount of maintenance when I have been away for a while.
Today started with some of that maintenance. Dependencies needed updating. There were open pull requests to sort through. Documentation had drifted. I wanted the whole thing brought back to a place where I could start building again without first spending another evening remembering what was broken.
The package upgrades were a good example of why having separate workers mattered. These packages depend on each other. Updating a foundational package means publishing it, verifying that it is actually available, and then moving its consumers forward. There are tests, compatibility changes, version bumps, changelogs, and release workflows along the way.
While that work progressed, I could keep talking about something else. We discussed the app I want to build. We worked through a learning curriculum. We looked at how the game-development tools could fit together. Every so often I would ask for an update, answer a question, or narrow the scope.
The work still took hours. I just did not have to fill every gap between those steps by sitting at a terminal.
Claude was in the conversation too
Partway through, I asked whether we could bring Claude into the workflow.
That required actual setup. Claude Code needed authentication, and we had to verify which model I could use. Blender needed its add-on enabled, the connection started, and the agent-side configuration in place. It was not a button that magically gave every tool access to everything else.
Once that was working, I asked for something visual: a cyberpunk piece around Tatted Dev and HoneyDrunk Studios.
Then I watched the default cube disappear from Blender.
Objects and lettering started appearing in the viewport as Claude's scripts ran. It built a scene, configured the render, and produced an image and a short animation. I could watch the changes happen in the application I would have been using myself.
The first result was a neon signature piece. It looked cool, but seeing it helped me realize that I wanted something different: a developer in a lab, surrounded by strange experiments. So I said that. The next scene went in that direction, with a floating honeycomb core, terminals, glowing vessels, and a little robot.
That was the part that really landed for me. I could react to something visible and direct the next iteration. A vague idea had become an editable Blender scene I could open and inspect.
It was a creative experiment, not a finished game asset pipeline. There is a lot of distance between making one interesting scene and shipping a coherent game. Still, getting to that first tangible result made the next step feel much more approachable.
I was still doing the deciding
The conversation was full of decisions.
Which old proposals were worth keeping? Which repositories were we done with? What belonged in a reusable HoneyDrunk package? What should the app actually help someone do? Was a render technically finished but creatively pointed in the wrong direction?
Those questions kept coming back to me.
Our app discussion is a good example. We started with familiar self-improvement mechanics: goals, tasks, XP, levels. As we talked, the idea became more personal. A virtual version of you, in a world that reflects what you do, where you go, and what you want to become. We brought that together with an older exploration concept under the working name Pocket Quests.
We did not build the app today. We clarified it, recorded the decisions, and set up an empty repository. That distinction matters. A productive conversation can leave you with a better direction without leaving you with a working product.
I also wanted those decisions somewhere a fresh session could find them. A long voice conversation is useful in the moment, but tomorrow's agent needs the current state, the open questions, and the next action written down.
The awkward parts belong in the story
Voice was not seamless.
Sometimes the assistant misunderstood which project I meant. Sometimes it answered a nearby question instead of the one I had asked. Background audio got picked up. I stepped away, missed an update, and asked for it again. We occasionally needed to stop and get back to the actual question.
The engineering had its own friction. Reviews queued up. Release automation hit an edge case. The automated reviewer also ran into command-access and incomplete-context problems; that repair was still ongoing as I drafted this.
Those failures are part of the work. A passing build does not mean a release has reached NuGet, and a reviewer that could not inspect the change has not completed a review. I kept asking for the distinction between prepared, merged, published, and verified because those are different outcomes.
The final release accounting was 52 package updates and nine first publications. Three unimplemented AI providers were explicitly held back. That is a much more useful result than a blanket claim that everything was upgraded.
More room to actually make things
In an earlier post, I wrote about wanting to make games and how easy it is for me to retreat into infrastructure work because I already know how to do it.
I still like infrastructure. Today's package refresh was necessary. But the Blender experiment gave me something different: a result in an area where I usually feel much less capable, created through a process I could participate in immediately.
There will still be desk time. There will be debugging that needs my full attention, code I need to understand, and creative choices I have to learn to judge. I would not describe watching TV as a strategy for reviewing a risky change.
But I do not need every part of the process to look like that. I can talk through an idea, send work off, come back to a question, and inspect a result. I can keep several useful threads moving without personally typing every step into every tool.
For a solo developer trying to find time for the things he actually wants to make, that is a meaningful change.
Tonight, it looked like a controller in my hands, a conversation still going, and a Blender scene that had not existed earlier in the day.
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