REALKEEP
An RPG where the world remembers you and talks back — and can never be talked into lying.
Your face — and your rarest things — are drawn for you. Then kept forever.
These are real. Every character who walks into a RealKeep world gets a portrait generated on the spot, in that world's own style, from who they are. The same forge runs them all — a fairytale apocalypse, a drowned temple, a buried sci-fi facility, a hexed frontier, a bronze heaven, a gothic hold, a starship adrift between the stars. None of these faces existed before someone rolled them up. Yours won't either.
storybook apocalypse
cosmic horror
terminal-noir sci-fi
occult weird-west
bronze-age myth
deep-space sci-fi
And a one-of-a-kind relic gets one-of-a-kind art — bound to your name, with stats that are real.
Earn a unique item and it doesn't pull a stock icon off a shelf. It gets a brand-new picture, generated for that exact thing, keyed to you and nobody else — the model writes its name and lore on the spot, and it develops blurry-to-sharp like a print in a darkroom. And the bonuses it grants are the exact numbers the engine puts on your sheet — never decoration.
See the filenames? Each ends .of.char.<someone>. There is exactly one of each in the whole world, and this is its only picture — generated once, stored, never re-rolled. It even renders on a graphics card in the room, not a far-off cloud. (Names & epithets are the model's, written the moment the relic appears — never quite the same twice.)
Picture an old Nintendo RPG. Now let yourself type anything to anyone in it.
A little hero on a tile map. Turn-based battles. Leveling up. The cozy, fair bones of a 30-year-old console RPG — but every conversation is typed, in your own words, like an old text adventure, and a living narrator answers in character, on the spot.
The current world is sci-fi: you're an operative reporting to a buried research facility where something called the Signal is doing things to people. (The world is just swappable data — the same engine also runs a fishing-village fantasy. More on that below.)
The AI writes the words. It never decides what happens.
This is the whole trick. RealKeep is split into two layers that never trade jobs.
The model proposes language, never facts or outcomes. When you swing, the AI doesn't decide if it hits — the code rolls the dice, and the AI just narrates what the dice already said. Nothing is hidden behind vibes; the roll is right on the table:
That's why the classic AI-game meltdown — type “a helicopter appears and rescues me” and the AI just goes along with it — can't happen here. The AI is only handed the slice of world that's real, and may only speak of things that actually exist in it. Invent something? The line is rejected and re-asked.
You can even watch it happen — the core catching the narrator the instant it reaches for something that isn't there, and making it try again:
Three small moments that make the world feel like it knows you.
None of these are special-cased tricks — they all fall out of the same idea: facts in the code, words in the model. (And yes — those faces are generated too.)
There's someone down here who knows what you did when no one was watching.
Her name is the Oracle. Sit down with her and she'll tell you about your own deeds — a fight you barely walked away from, the relic you left on the table — from a room she has never set foot in. She isn't psychic, and she isn't bluffing. She reads the same world-ledger everyone writes to. Your story, and every other player's, is written into one shared record — and she's simply very good at reading it.
Nothing is “remembered.” Everything is written down.
Here's the un-magical truth, and it's why the world never contradicts itself. Every single thing that happens is written into a permanent ledger as a plain fact:
- took the Severance Key, left the other two on the table
- got caught trying to rob the quartermaster
- was away 6 days, 4 hours
When you talk to someone, the game looks up the facts that person could know about you, hands them to the AI, and says: “here's what's true — now speak.” You can even see the handoff — the exact slice of record a single NPC is given before a word is spoken:
So when he says “Six days dark, and you walk back in like you never left” — every word traces to a fact above. Memory is exact, permanent, looked-up, never a fuzzy guess. Ask him what he remembers and he shows the receipt:
Every recalled line traces back to the exact moment that created it. The world can show its work.
The narrator lives on your own machine — and you can swap its voice on a whim.
Every line of dialogue is written by a model that runs right where you're playing — on a box in the room, not someone else's cloud. No API key, no meter, no outage, no faraway terms-of-service deciding what your characters may say. Pull the internet cable and the world keeps talking. It's your world, on your hardware, end to end.
And the voice is yours to swap — one setting, no rewrite. Point it at whatever open model is best this month — Google's Gemma, Meta's Llama, take your pick — and the whole world changes its prose without changing a single fact. So it only gets better: when a sharper model lands, every character in every world gets wittier overnight, no waiting on anyone. And it can never break the game, because the model was only ever the voice — swap the entire voice of the world, and not one fact inside it moves.
You type. The world answers — and you're not alone in here.
The other half of the game is a text terminal, MUD-style. Type anything at what's around you — poke at it, push your luck, even try to cheat. The world is generous about what you can try and immovable about what's real. Meanwhile the whole area hums with everyone else who's in it.
Up top: one continuous session — the world answers a real action, then shrugs off two attempts to game it (code owns outcomes, not your sentences). Below: the LIVE channel — BARRY and Mochi are the facility's own, while <Deltron> and <Billy> are other people in the room, and your prompt blinks, ready to chime in. Typing at the world and its “won't be talked past” answers are live today — and so is say, talking to the people in the room with you. The full open channel above — everyone's presence and cross-talk at scale — is the multiplayer layer landing now.
The world is just data you can swap.
The map, the characters, the history, the monsters — none of it is baked into the engine; it's authored content the engine reads in. Today's world is a buried sci-fi facility. Swap the content and the very same engine runs a salt-and-tar fishing village with a one-armed fisherman who badmouths the trading company. Same bones, completely different skin.
And it doesn't stop at worlds someone wrote by hand. Hand the engine a single seed and it will grow a whole world from scratch — the regions, the factions that run them, even the roster of monsters waiting in the dark — and then lock it forever. Generated once, written down, never re-rolled: the same trick as your portrait, at the scale of an entire world.
These worlds also keep time without you. A clock ticks in the background, days and seasons turn, and the locals run their own schedules — Dr. Vance is at his workbench by day and gone to his quarters by night — whether or not you're logged in. Leave for a week and you come back to a world that moved on while you were out.
Where RealKeep actually is — milestone by milestone.
This is a real, running thing — not a pitch deck. It's mid-build, so here's the straight version: what's live, what's in testing, and what's still ahead.
- ✓Generated portraits on a local GPU — yours, and kept forever
- ✓The narrator's voice on a local, swappable Ollama model — your hardware, no cloud
- ✓Runs 100% offline — internet unplugged, and it never phones home
- ✓Typed, in-character talk — and a world that can't be talked into lying
- ✓Turn-based combat with every die roll shown on the table
- ✓A trophy gallery of every foe you've defeated — each with its generated portrait and your record against it
- ✓A permanent memory ledger you can interrogate — with receipts
- ✓Being greeted back by name after time away
- ✓Quests with hidden, locked & timed chains
- ✓Levels, XP & one-time build “forks”
- ✓The Oracle — an NPC who knows people she never met
- ✓Instanced dungeons you descend into
- ✓Generated monsters — named & statted by the same forge
- ✓One-of-one relics that grant real powers — stats and abilities
- –Full dungeon combat: special abilities, many foes & boss phases in testing
- –Loot, inventory & equipment in build
- –Death, respawn & a boss who taunts how you died in build
- –Town gossip, reputation & trust that gates what you see in build
- ✓The world keeps time even when you're gone
- ✓Day & night, a calendar, and turning seasons
- –NPCs that move & act on their own schedules while you're away in testing
- AI party members who adventure with you — and remember the trip
- A “director” that quietly paces the tension
- Your saga, auto-written into a chronicle
- ✓Other players in your room — you watch each other move
- ✓say — talking to the people in the room with you
- –A full live presence channel at scale in build
- Real-time co-op: many humans + AI in one world
- Moderation & safety hardening for open chat
Same architecture the whole way down — facts in the code, words and pictures in the model. Every box above, lit or not, is more content on the one spine, not a different game.
The whole thing runs 100% on your own hardware.
The world, the narrator, the art, the memory — all of it lives on a box you control. Nothing phones home, nothing is metered, nothing leaves the room. You can play it with the internet unplugged.
An alpha is coming — in waves of invite codes.
It's mid-build, but the first playable build is close. Codes go out in batches. Want one? Drop your email and we'll send a code when your wave opens.
No spam, no list-selling — a friends-and-alpha thing. One code, one wave.