00 — The offer
Worldgence is a world-creation engine that opens in a browser tab. Press a world, and four to eight seconds later you are standing in a place — terrain, water, roads, buildings, furnished rooms you can walk into, four thousand trees, weather, an hour of the day. Building it is free. Walking it is free. Sending it to somebody is free.
Export is the only thing you ever pay for, and you pay for it once. It licenses that seed to you for life.
01 — Zero install
There is nothing to pull down, nothing to keep in sync across a team, no seat to provision and no licence server to phone home to. Worldgence is a static page: the browser loads it and it runs.
That is not a convenience claim, it is an architectural one. The engine reaches no remote host at all — no CDN, no asset bucket, no font host, no analytics — so it works on a locked-down network, on a school Chromebook, behind corporate IT, on whatever machine you happen to be sitting at. And it writes nothing to that machine: no local storage, no session storage, no cookies. The origin is swept clean at boot and again when you close the tab.
02 — What is actually running
Nothing here is a canned level with the lighting changed. A world is a set of parameters, a landform grammar and a list of recipes — and nothing in any of them is a coordinate.
Two worlds that are two kinds of place, not one generator in two colour schemes: a coastal village on the grass above a bay, and a single house on a sand island where 99% of the world is water.
Grammars declare relationships, never positions. "High ground in the inner half, the town a fifth of the world away toward the most open land, the water between them crossed" is true on every seed and different on each one.
Hydraulic erosion in a worker, seeded rather than time-driven, and awaited — the ground is finished before anything is stood on it. Nothing floats and nothing is buried.
A floor is cut into rooms — or into a corridor with rooms hung off it, where the building is that kind of building. A kitchen ends up beside the room people eat in because the planner swapped it there, not because a designer did.
Every object is something you can do something with. Sit in the chair, open the cold store on the engine's own door machinery, pick the book up, light the candle — and a position whose verb has nowhere to happen is refused.
Run the clock and a full day passes in four minutes. Lamps are lit when somebody would have reached for one; a hearth burns for as much of the day as its climate asks.
Not an animation system — a walker that consumes affordances. At any hour a person is at a real piece of furniture, in a real room, doing what it affords. Nobody shares a seat.
Geometry travels in the record instead of in a bucket. No GLB to license, no texture packs, no CDN — which is why a furnished town is kilobytes and why it opens on a network that blocks everything.
One undo removes a generated world, an opened world or a client's revision — geography included. There is no state hiding outside the record.
03 — Engine architecture
The procedural core imports nothing but the core. The renderer and the editor import the core; the core imports none of them — and that is a test that fails the build, not a paragraph in a wiki. Below is every file in the engine and every dependency between them, derived from the code rather than drawn by hand. The root of the repository is the pole, a domain is a band of longitude, and how far down a file sits is how little of the engine leans on it — it turns on its own; point at a file to stop it, open one to read what crosses each chain.
04 — What it does not do
The lamp in the top bar says the tool is sandboxed because it is true, not because it is reassuring. No local storage, no session storage, no cookies — preferences and history live in memory that dies with the tab. Every database, both web storages, the cache buckets and any service worker a previous deploy left behind are erased at boot and again on the way out.
The content policy refuses by default: no inline script, no inline style, no plugins, no forms, no remote origin at all. On the editor page a string cannot become markup — Trusted Types is enforced, so a file dropped in with a hostile name is inert rather than patched-for-now. A script enumerates every permitted host and fails the build when a new one appears, which means the next convenient bucket has to be argued for instead of quietly added.
The sentence that has to be exact: this tool writes nothing to your machine — you can save a file, and only because you asked the browser for one.
05 — Pricing
The engine is not a demo with the good parts removed. Everything it can do, it does for free, for as long as you want, on as many seeds as you want. The wall is at the door, not in the room.
No account. No card. No install. Open the tab and go.
.world.json — send it to anyoneBuy the seed, not a subscription. Priced at the point of export.
No. There is no sign-up, no email gate and no trial timer. The engine is a page — it starts working the moment it loads.
A lifetime licence to a specific seed. Because the same seed deterministically produces the same world, the seed is a complete and permanent description of what you paid for. Nothing expires and nothing calls home to check.
Yes — that is the point. Saving a world, sending it and having somebody else open and edit it are all free. Payment belongs to the moment you take the world out of the engine.
Yes. Quality resolves from the real device rather than a GPU string, touch controls are built in, and every shot is solved for the aspect of the screen it lands on.
No. There is no upload, no cloud project and no telemetry. The only thing that ever leaves the tab is the file you ask the browser to save.
Yes — import GLB and place your geometry alongside the generated set. Imported bytes are the one thing a world file will not carry, and the importer names what was left behind rather than losing it quietly.
06 — Begin
Nothing to install, nothing to sign, nothing to undo afterwards. Four to eight seconds from here to standing in a place that did not exist when you started reading this.