I commissioned some invisible people 0

In ‘I commissioned some invisible people 0,’ players delve into a tranquil puzzle experience centered on hidden object gameplay, where the objective is to locate and interact with invisible entities within a minimalist, meditative setting. As a freeware title with a point-and-select interface and free camera, it emphasizes observation and calm discovery, aligning with its zen-like pacing and April Fools’ release theme.

I commissioned some invisible people 0: Review

Introduction: The Paradox of the Absent Object

On April 1, 2024, a game appeared on Steam with a title that reads like a philosophical koan or a glitch in the matrix: I commissioned some invisible people 0. Developed and published by the enigmatically named “Follow The Fun” and part of a bizarre series that includes I commissioned some bees 0 and I commissioned some cats 0, this title immediately exists in a state of ontological tension. It is a hidden object game where the objects to be found are, by definition, invisible. This review posits that the game is not a failure of concept but a deliberate, minimalist provocation—a digital readymade that strips the hidden object genre to its absolute core and, in doing so, reveals the peculiar meditation at the heart of all searching. Its legacy will not be measured in sales or scores, but in its stark, quiet challenge to what we consider “play” and what we expect from a “game.”

Development History & Context: An April Fool’s Art Project

I commissioned some invisible people 0 (ICSIP0) emerges from a specific, liminal space in game development: the intentional April Fool’s release. Its inclusion in the “April Fools’ releases” group on MobyGames is the first crucial clue to its context. This is not a game born from a corporate pipeline or a crowdfunding campaign with stretch goals; it is an artistic gesture. The developer, “Follow The Fun,” is a pseudonym that itself feels like part of the joke—a directive rather than a studio identity. The “vision,” therefore, is one of absurdist reduction. The technological constraints are not those of the era (it uses the accessible GameMaker engine), but of the concept. The constraint is absolute: you cannot create visible assets for invisible subjects. The game’s architecture—a free camera navigating static images—is the simplest possible implementation of a “look and find” mechanic.

The 2024 indie landscape, saturated with cozy games and auto-clickers, provides the backdrop. ICSIP0 is a reaction against complexity, a conscious retreat into pure, unadulterated looking. It exists in the same conceptual family as “real-life” simulator parodies (Surgeon Simulator, Goat Simulator) but twisted into something more serene and, frankly, more bleak. It is the quiet, contemplative cousin to the loud, chaotic humor of typical April Fool’s games, suggesting a creator more interested in Duchampian readymades than slapstick.

Narrative & Thematic Deep Dive: The Commission as Meta-Story

ICSIP0 possesses no traditional narrative. There is no protagonist, no plot, no dialogue, and no world with a history. The entire “story” is contained within its title and official description: “The brief was simple. I commissioned artists to create a fantasy world, and hide as many invisible people as they can inside it. Now it’s your job to find them all!” This meta-narrative is the game’s sole narrative layer.

• The Absent Commission: The player never sees the “commission,” the payment, or the artists at work. The fantasy world exists only as the silent, static canvases we are given. The “invisible people” are not characters; they are a quantity, a numerical challenge (“Hundreds of invisible people to find”). Their invisibility is not a magical trait or a scientific anomaly within a story; it is a graphical absence defined by a single, non-clickable pixel. We are not discovering people; we are verifying the presence of a null-value cursor change.
• The Player as Final Auditor: The player’s role is not one of heroism but of tedious clerical work. We are the quality assurance agent for the artist’s阴险 (or whimsical) task. The “fantasy world” is irrelevant; it is merely a texture for the algorithm to place invisible points upon. The theme, then, is one of radical absence. It explores the human drive to find pattern and meaning (pareidolia) when presented with nothing but noise. The “people” are a Rorschach test imposed by the game’s own rules.
• The Zen of the Null: The game’s pacing is explicitly “Meditative / Zen,” but this is not the warm, fuzzy zen of a Stardew Valley. This is the zen of the void, the focus required to stare into a static image and discern the imperceptible. The accompanying music and ambiance for each artwork (noted in specs) attempt to create a sensory layer that the gameplay itself denies. This tension—between rich audio/visual atmosphere and a mechanically empty core—is the game’s central, unintentional commentary on the dissonance between atmosphere and interaction in games.

Gameplay Mechanics & Systems: The Loop of Absence

The core gameplay loop is as follows:
1. Select one of 5 unique artworks (fantasy scenes).
2. Pan and zoom freely with mouse/WASD.
3. Move the cursor until it changes from a pointer to a “found” icon over an invisible pixel.
4. Click. The invisible person “appears” as a single, often crude, colored shape (usually a simple silhouette or solid color blob) for a moment before vanishing again, incrementing your counter.
5. Repeat until the counter for that artwork reaches its hidden total (the game does not tell you this total upfront).

• The Innovation of Nothing: The “innovative” system is the complete removal of the “object.” There is no sprite, no animation, no sound cue (beyond the click) that signifies a thing. The feedback is purely numerical and cursor-based. Finding an invisible person offers no visual reward—the person remains conceptually invisible, only its count becomes visible. This is a pure abstraction of the hidden object genre.
• Flaws as Features: The “unlimited hints” are functionally meaningless, as the hint cannot point to a visible object. Guides on Steam reveal a “secret”: holding a key to make all invisible people visible. This isn’t a hint; it is a complete negation of the game’s premise, a developer’s backdoor that proves the mechanic’s absurdity. The “replayability” feature—hiding a small number of people again—becomes a cruel joke. Searching for a single invisible pixel in a complex artwork is an exercise in frustration, not relaxation, highlighting the fine line between zen meditation and meaningless toil.
• UI & Progression: The UI is functional, showing a counter, a timer, and a hint button. The “5x save slots” are a relic of a presumed need to manage progress that feels comically excessive for such a simple task. The game completion percentage is the only true metric of progress, a cold, numerical representation of your time spent scanning.

World-Building, Art & Sound: The Stage for the Void

The “world” is the one element that offers any traditional aesthetic value, creating a profound dissonance with the gameplay.

• Visual Direction & Art: The five hand-drawn, 2D artworks are competent fantasy illustrations—forests, castles, creatures. They are tagged “Comic Book” and “Hand-drawn,” suggesting a specific, illustrative style. This artistry creates a lush, imaginative space that is utterly betrayed by the task set before the player. You are not exploring this world; you are dissecting it, pixel by pixel, in a clinical search for non-entities. The art becomes an obstacle course, its beauty irrelevant to the core mechanic. The “fantasy” is purely superficial, a skin for the statistical hunt.
• Sound Design: Each artwork has its own “music and ambiance.” This is where the game most forcefully attempts to create a “wholesome,” “atmospheric” experience. The music is likely ambient, gentle, intended to soothe. But its relationship to the action is perversely mismatched. Soothing music plays while you perform a repetitive, visually barren task. This amplifies the game’s uncanny feeling—the experience of being calmly asked to do something fundamentally nonsensical. The sound design does not complement the gameplay; it comments on it, highlighting the absurdity through contrast.

Reception & Legacy: A Curio in the Catalog

• Critical & Commercial Reception: There are no critic reviews on Metacritic. Its MobyGames score is “n/a” with only a handful of collectors. On Steam, it has a “Mixed” rating (48% positive from ~325 reviews as of early 2026) with very low concurrent players (peaking at 4). This reception is predictable. Players seeking a genuine hidden-object game find an empty shell. Those expecting an April Fool’s joke find a persistent, playable artifact that is more confusing than funny.
• Player Discourse: Steam discussions reveal the core tension. A thread titled “Weird but quite fresh” captures the split reaction. Another titled “Bugs” likely refers to the janky nature of finding invisible pixels. The guides are essential, not for lore, but for practical survival: “How to make the game easier” reveals the “see all” key, a necessary cheat for sanity. The game is not reviewed for its story or challenge, but for its feel: “Relaxing” or “tedious?”
• Influence & Place in History: ICSIP0 will not influence game design in any conventional sense. Its legacy is conceptual. It is a perfect artifact of a certain strand of internet-age absurdist creativity, where the joke is not a punchline but an entire interactive premise. It sits in the lineage of “anti-games” or “not-games” (like Pet the Pet or Boring.com). It demonstrates the absolute minimum viable product for a Steam release with achievements, save slots, and tags. It is a proof-of-concept for emptiness. Its true successor is not a better hidden-object game, but any game that asks, “What is the bare minimum required to be called a game?”

Conclusion: The Definitive Verdict

I commissioned some invisible people 0 is not a good game in any traditional sense. It lacks engaging mechanics, compelling narrative, rewarding feedback, and meaningful challenge. It is, by standard metrics, a broken, boring, and frustrating experience. And yet, to dismiss it solely on these grounds is to miss its strange, abrasive genius.

It is a conceptual artwork first and a game second. Its value lies in its ruthless commitment to a single, absurd premise. It forces the player to confront the machinery of their own engagement: Why do we click? Why do we seek completion percentages? What pleasure is derived from finding something that offers no visual or narrative reward?

In the grand tapestry of video game history, ICSIP0 is a single, aberrant thread—a glitch, a placeholder, an April Fool’s joke that never fully unpacked itself. It is a game about looking for something that isn’t there, which makes it, ironically, a perfect mirror for much of the hope and disappointment we invest in interactive media. It earns its place not in the pantheon of classics, but in the cabinet of curiosities, a silent, perplexing monument to the idea that sometimes, the most profound statement a game can make is to have absolutely nothing to say. Its score is not stars, but a question mark. Its legacy is the lingering, meditative unease of having willingly, for a time, participated in a search for ghosts.