Cold. That was the first thing that registered—not the kind of winter chill you could shake off with a blanket, but a marrow-deep, wind-scouring cold that felt personal, as if the universe itself had decided to slap me awake.
It didn't make sense. My last memory was of a stifling, overheated bedroom—the kind where the air got sticky even in December. I'd fallen asleep the way I usually did, sprawled across my bed with my phone in my hand, halfway through a reincarnation fanfiction where the protagonist woke up as a god.
I was pretty sure I wasn't a god.
I forced my eyes open and nearly forgot how to breathe.
The sky above was a swirling mess of purples and blues, like spilled paint across a starless void. Beneath my boots stretched a metallic platform, cold and silent, floating in nothing. Below, suspended in that same endless nothingness, hovered a sleek obsidian box—a house, or something pretending to be one.
This wasn't a hero's origin story. This was a cosmic joke.
No monsters, no magical mentors, no talking squirrels with shiny stones.
Just me. The house. The cold. And a silence so thick it felt alive, pressing against my skin.
Panic started as a low simmer under my ribs. Somehow, I knew with absolute certainty that I'd died. And somehow, I knew this place was real.
I took a step back. My boots made no sound. I wanted to scream but couldn't—breaking that silence felt like tempting a god to notice me.
Then the void spoke.
[System Initializing…]
[Welcome, User. Identity confirmed. Commencing setup for Game Master System.]
The voice wasn't in my head. It was everywhere—woven into the fabric of the void itself. A translucent blue screen flickered to life in front of me, glowing text sharp against the darkness.
My heart, which had been a drumline of panic, slowed. A system.
Every fanfiction addict's secret wish—a cheat code for a new life. My meta-fiction dream had just knocked on my door.
[System Name: The Marvel Game Master (TMGM)]
[User: Alex]
[Current Location: Pocket Dimension, Nexus-Realm]
[System Objective: Create and distribute games to the inhabitants of the Marvel Universe. The success of these games will generate Gaming Points, which can be used to purchase skills, items, abilities, and upgrades for your home base.]
I blinked. This wasn't an Isekai to swords-and-sorcery. This was the most complicated, chaotic universe imaginable—and it wanted me to make games.
The screen shifted.
[Gaming Points: 100]
[Current Abilities: None]
[Next Tier: System Upgrade (10,000 Gaming Points)]
A measly hundred points. Enough for a bag of chips, maybe. The screen changed again, offering a trio of entry-level options:
[Game Creator - Tier 1: Sandbox (50 Gaming Points)]
[Game Creator - Tier 1: RPG (50 Gaming Points)]
[Game Creator - Tier 1: Strategy (50 Gaming Points)]
Everything else was locked behind a paywall of numbers that made my eyes ache.
I glanced at the platform, then at the obsidian house. "How am I supposed to build a game? I don't even have a laptop."
As if on cue, new text appeared.
[Note: Your home base contains a fully functional, mind-to-digital interface.
You will create games with your thoughts, and the system will render them.
All games created will be deployed directly into the Marvel 616 reality, to be discovered by its inhabitants.]
Relief surged through me, light and dizzying. This was doable. This was my thing. I'd read thousands of stories like this. I knew the tropes. I knew the pitfalls.
I had 100 Gaming Points. Each starter genre cost 50. I could only afford one.
My mind raced. Which genre would hook the largest audience?
A sandbox. Low stakes. High replayability. Infinite creative potential. It would appeal to everyone—from ordinary people to heroes with god-complexes.
And I already had the perfect idea.
I reached toward the glowing screen. A single thought rose up like a memory.
Blocks. Pickaxes. Creepers. Zombies.
A world where the only limit was imagination.
"Minecraft," I whispered, like a prayer.
[Sandbox Game Selected: Minecraft]
[Cost: 50 Gaming Points deducted. Remaining Balance: 50 GP]
[Processing… Rendering digital environment…]
A ripple spread through the void. The obsidian house pulsed with blue light, its smooth walls shifting as if alive. A side chamber unfolded, cubes of matter clicking into place until I was staring at a room made entirely of blocky textures—grass, wood, stone.
I laughed. I actually laughed. "No way. This… this is real."
[Game successfully created. Deploying to Marvel-616 Reality.]
[Target: Randomized Distribution Protocol initiated.]
Images flickered in my mind—somewhere in New York, a flash drive appearing on a dusty game store shelf. Across the ocean, a pirated version uploading itself onto torrent sites. In Wakanda, an encrypted file slipping unnoticed into Shuri's private server.
Minecraft was seeding itself.
My heart thudded. "This is insane. Actual Marvel characters are about to discover Minecraft."
The thought of Tony Stark building a pixelated Iron Man suit or Peter Parker setting up a farm with Aunt May was enough to short-circuit my brain.
Then the system dropped its first bombshell.
[Warning: Games must achieve engagement milestones to unlock cross-dimensional travel.]
[First Milestone: 10,000 cumulative play hours in Marvel-616. Reward: Pocket Dimension Exit unlocked.]
I froze. "So I'm stuck here until my game goes viral?"
Silence.
I looked around my so-called home base. If my game flopped, I'd rot in this void, a cosmic spectator to my own failure.
Still, I wasn't helpless. Another tab blinked open.
[Home Base Management unlocked.]
[Available Upgrades: Dimensional Library (50 GP), Recreation Lounge (50 GP), Observation Deck (50 GP).]
My remaining 50 points dangled like a lifeline. Comfort upgrades, or something useful?
"Observation Deck," I said, pressing it without hesitation.
[Purchase Confirmed. Remaining GP: 0]
The metallic platform shuddered. From the main house extended a tall archway, its threshold glowing. Beyond shimmered a window wide as a theater screen.
I stepped forward—and forgot how to breathe.
Because on the other side, clear as day, was the Manhattan skyline.
And swinging between its skyscrapers was Spider-Man.
Not CGI. Not ink and paper. Real. Alive.
His suit was a vibrant slash of red and blue against the steel-gray city, a living exclamation point in a universe that suddenly felt terrifyingly vast and real.
It hit me then.
This wasn't a game I was playing. This was a game I was making. And my players were the most powerful—and dangerous—beings in existence.
My mind raced.
How do you get a superhero to play a pixelated sandbox game? An email? A flyer? Ridiculous. Heroes were busy—villains to fight, worlds to save, homework to finish.
No. The game had to be irresistible.
I turned from the window, the sight of Spider-Man burned into my mind. My home base pulsed faintly blue, empty and waiting.
I knew what I had to do.
I had to make a game that whispered to them from the shadows.
[Game Customization] blinked onto the screen.
This was it. The real work began.
The customization menu unfolded like a living thing, its options shimmering in pale blue light. Rows of symbols and text hovered in front of me, waiting—demanding—to be shaped by thought.
I drew in a breath, steadying my hands even though the system didn't actually need them. This wasn't a video game menu I could mindlessly click through; it was more like a living blueprint of possibility, a way to etch my imagination into reality.
The first thing that struck me was how empty the house around me felt. Blocky textures in one room, cold obsidian in another, sterile metal floors in between. It wasn't a home. It was a waiting room. And I hated waiting rooms.
So I focused on the menu.
If Marvel's heroes were going to stumble into Minecraft, I needed them to stay. Engagement wasn't about flashy mechanics or a pretty UI—it was about connection. Why would Peter Parker, whose daily schedule already balanced school, patrols, and existential crises, waste time on a game unless it gave him something he couldn't get anywhere else?
I shut my eyes and thought back to the thousands of games I'd played in my old life. The ones that hooked me weren't just fun—they felt like they mattered.
"Heroes won't want cheap thrills," I muttered. "They've got cosmic battles for that. What they'll crave is meaning."
The menu reacted to my words. Dozens of options branched outward like a spiderweb: achievement systems, world modifiers, hidden quests. My heart skipped when I saw one glowing line in particular.
[Dynamic Quest Integration: Connects real-world Marvel events with in-game objectives. Cost: Free (Introductory Feature).]
Perfect.
Imagine it—Captain America booting up the game to find a quest that mirrored his real mission. Or a clue inside the game pointing toward a villain's hideout before the Avengers even discovered it. The line between play and reality would blur until ignoring the game felt impossible.
I selected it, and the system pulsed with approval.
[Dynamic Quest Integration activated.]
The blueprint of Minecraft shifted, layering itself with new pathways and possibilities. The blocky landscape in my mind's eye wasn't just a toybox anymore—it was a stage.
But that wasn't enough. I needed something subtler. Something to appeal not just to the capes and geniuses, but to the ordinary players who'd inevitably stumble onto the game. After all, heroes didn't live in a vacuum. They had friends, families, people they wanted to share things with.
"No pay-to-win mechanics," I said firmly. "Everything's earnable. No corporate greed."
The thought sharpened into code, embedding itself into the system.
[Confirmed: All in-game abilities and items are earnable through play. No monetary transactions available.]
Good. That would sit well with the ethically-minded. Heroes like Peter or Sam Wilson wouldn't touch a predatory system with a ten-foot webline.
But I wasn't done.
Another idea bubbled up, reckless but irresistible: customization. I envisioned blocks players could design themselves, textures only they could create. Skins that weren't just cosmetic, but personal.
Tony Stark, for instance—what were the odds he'd resist designing a hundred different block types, all of them carrying his signature flair? Zero. Less than zero. He'd lose himself in it, and if Tony Stark fell into the rabbit hole, others would follow.
The system chimed again.
[Custom Block and Skin Creator unlocked.]
[Note: Advanced Creator Tools available with future upgrades.]
The empty house flickered, light spilling from its walls as though my decisions were already reshaping its foundation.
A new screen unfolded.
[Optional Features Available:]
— Player Achievements (Hidden Rewards)
— Lore Integration (Mythic-style storytelling)
— Replay Incentives (Procedurally Generated Challenges)
My pulse quickened. Achievements. That was the real hook.
If I could tie in-game accomplishments to real-world benefits, the game would become more than entertainment—it would be an oracle. Heroes thrived on mysteries, on unlocking hidden truths. The thought of discovering that the next world-saving artifact might be tucked inside a pixelated cave? Irresistible.
"Add achievements," I whispered.
The menu brightened.
[Achievements integrated. Hidden Quests will generate rewards relevant to player actions.]
I could almost see it happening: Peter Parker stumbling on a hidden cavern, receiving a quest that revealed a new chemical formula. Shuri discovering rare minerals in-game that mirrored undiscovered elements in her lab. Even Doctor Strange pausing mid-incantation to wonder why the hell a blocky dungeon whispered his name.
It would be chaos. Beautiful, controlled chaos.
The system hummed, faster now, as if my excitement fueled it. Lines of code spun themselves into existence, weaving between the blocky imagery of the Minecraft framework. What had started as a simple sandbox was evolving into something alive, something tailored for a universe that thrived on secrets and battles.
A new prompt materialized.
[Finalize Game Customization?]
I hesitated. For a moment, the silence of the void pressed in again, cold and heavy. This was it. My first real creation. My first gamble.
If it worked, I'd be free of this sterile prison. If it flopped, I'd die again—this time, slowly, watching the hours tick by with no salvation in sight.
I straightened my shoulders. "Finalize."
The void pulsed.
[Customization Locked.]
[Title Update Available. Please Input Final Name.]
I smirked. The system wanted a name, something official. The irony wasn't lost on me. Minecraft already existed in my world. Here, though? Here, it was brand new.
The words slipped out, half a joke, half a challenge.
"Minecraft: The Unofficial Guide to Creation."
The golden letters etched themselves across the screen, glowing with quiet authority.
Perfect. A meta-joke for my old world, and a clever piece of branding for this one. It sounded like more than a game. It sounded like a promise.
The system accepted it.
[Final Title Registered.]
[Deploy Game?]
[Yes / No]
I didn't think twice.
"Yes."
The void shuddered as if exhaling.
[Game Successfully Deployed. Stand by for Player Engagement Data.]
The Observation Deck's massive window flickered, Manhattan's skyline dissolving into a sterile graph. A single line crawled across the bottom, flat and lifeless. The player count.
I stared at it, my chest tight. Somewhere out there, someone would be the first to install the game. Someone would click "Play," maybe idly, maybe curiously. And with that first block punched, the clock would start ticking toward my freedom.
Would they play long enough? Would they share it? Would it spread like wildfire—or vanish, forgotten, into the sea of countless distractions?
My fingers curled into fists.
No. I wouldn't let it vanish.
This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about making my mark. About proving that even in a universe of gods and legends, a bored kid from Earth could create something they couldn't ignore.
The line on the graph trembled, as though teasing me.
Any moment now.
Any second.
And the game—the real game—would begin.