Let's say the scary sentence out loud: I built a game that points a camera at children.
If that sentence doesn't make you pause, you haven't been on the internet long enough. It made me pause, and I'm the guy building it. My own kid is in that frame every single day. So before Sky Peck was a game, it was a set of rules — and I want them in writing, on the blog, where you can hold me to them.
The camera never uploads. Ever. The pose magic — the part that turns your kid's flapping into flying — runs entirely on the device. Not "anonymized in the cloud." Not "encrypted in transit." There is no transit. The video frames are born on your machine and die on your machine, milliseconds later.
Recordings stay home too. When you tap Record and get that vertical clip for the family chat, the file lands on your device and nowhere else. Sharing it is your hand, your choice, your chat.
Kids don't get accounts. A parent buys the license; a kid gets a nickname built from a safe list and a firefly in the Jungle. No email, no password, no profile photo, no age checkbox theater.
No ads, no analytics, no trackers. Open the site with your browser's network tab and count the requests to Google and Meta. It's a short count: zero. I don't know your "engagement." I don't want to know it — wanting it is how games went wrong.
And when you leave, you really leave. Account and data deletion is self-serve, on the site, no begging email required.
None of this is a feature. Features get A/B tested and quietly sunset. These are the terms under which I'm willing to point a camera at my own son — and yours flies under the same sky.
The room, the jumping, the giggling, the wipeouts? All yours. What happens in the living room stays in the living room.