Most games want your evening. This one wants two to five minutes of your morning, for years.
The Long Game is a slow game. You check it the way you'd check on something alive: briefly, often, with a little dread. A ping lands halfway through a meeting. A piece of ground's gone, your calf's tight, it's race week, and you feel something before you've even opened the app. That feeling is the whole game.
Attachment does the heavy lifting. One runner, invested in daily, becomes yours in a way a roster never could. Football Manager's depth, a tamagotchi's grip, and a choose-your-path race day when the training finally gets spent.
Some lines we hold, written down so you can hold us to them:
Not recovery, not time, not luck. The shop sells shoes, poles, a head torch and gels: things that stop the world charging you a penalty. A race entry buys a number and a place on the start line, and that's the lot. Nothing for sale makes your runner faster than their training did.
Standing orders, race plans, anything that keeps your runner moving while life happens, free, forever. We will never sell you back your own absence.
No stable to churn through. The whole design leans on the years you and one athlete put in together.
Injuries are earned, not rolled. Gear fails only after it told you it was failing. If something goes properly wrong, there was a ping you chose to ignore, which, we'd argue, is the authentic trail running experience.
The field keeps training with the app shut. Come back from a month away and you're detrained, not deleted: ground to make up, never a runner to bury.
Two people in Wellington, New Zealand, who between them have run these hills and had this ground taken off them. The trails in the game are the trails out the window. The weather in the game is fetched off the real forecast every morning, which we thought was a nice touch until the first winter.
One region, a handful of real races on a real calendar, mountain routes in the Tararuas, a board of ground anybody can add to, and the two of us doing it in the evenings. It's live rather than finished, so things will move under you and something will break at some point. When it does, that will be our doing rather than yours.