https://www.theverge.com/22321816/twine-games-history-legacy-art
Text Adventures
How Twine remade gaming
March 10, 2021, 11:00am EST
By Adi Robertson
Illustrations by Maria Chimishkyan
In the video game Howling Dogs, released in 2012, players wake up in
a prison with few options: a shower, a nutrient dispenser, a garbage
chute, and a recreation room with a virtual reality headset. For the
first few clicks, all you can do is navigate the prison: getting your
nutrient bar, cleaning up, examining a photograph by your bed. Then
you put on the headset, and you're thrown into a world of strange,
vivid imagery. You live out a strange snapshot life before being
thrown back to the same tiny room. You click through the same motions
again and again, each time visiting a different world, as sparklingly
strange as the prison is dull.
This was Porpentine Charity Heartscape's Howling Dogs: a poem, a
game, and many people's first introduction to an idiosyncratic piece
of free software called Twine. It was -- and still is -- one of the
easiest ways to start making games. An open-source program that
produces web-based interactive fiction, Twine can create branching
stories simply by putting brackets around words. But the tool is also
nearly as flexible as the web itself. Since its release in 2009, it's
helped create a new kind of interactive art -- strange, small,
lyrical, and often way outside the world of commercial gaming.
Porpentine followed up with other surreal worlds -- where raw intimacy
and hints of nostalgia collided with violent, nightmarish cavalcades
of trash and sex. Cyberqueen spun out the messy psychosexual
undertones of the '90s System Shock series, drowning a stock
first-person shooter premise in slime and bodily fluids. Cry$tal
Warrior Ke$ha sparkled like a glitter-strewn Tumblr post and turned
the "Tik Tok" singer into an otherworldly avenging feminine entity.
Ultra Business Tycoon III is an absurdist parody of a '90s business
simulation game, until its fourth wall cracks to reveal a melancholy
parallel narrative. Her writing was simultaneously incredibly
personal and transcendently detached from reality, and Twine shaped
it into something that felt like a space to explore rather than words
on a screen.
In an industry obsessed with photorealistic graphics, focus-tested
gameplay, and ever-evolving open worlds, Twine's simplicity felt
liberating. It imbued games with the DIY spirit of homemade
zines, many of them weirder, sharper, and queerer than their
mainstream counterparts. According to some of its biggest fans, Twine
was nothing short of a revolution.
The reality was a lot more complicated and less utopian -- but it
would still help reinvent a medium.
`"Mostly, video games are about men shooting men in the face"'
The Twine editor looks like an architect's drafting table crossed
with a conspiracy chart. Users start by creating a "passage," or a
simple text field, that can be linked to new passages. When you're
done with the story, you "publish" it as a single web file, which you
can load in any ordinary browser.
But Twine is much more than a branching choice simulator. It's an
open-ended system for making almost any kind of game with text, with
a scripting language that lets authors determine how each word
appears on a page. Twine encourages writing with a crude, hand-coded
look, but a meticulous control of rhythm. Passages can make readers
wait for agonizing seconds until a single word appears, or they can
drop a wall of forking hyperlink paths in an instant.
If it sounds like a blogging platform, that's because it was -- at
least at first.
In the late 2000s, Twine's creator, Chris Klimas, was a full-time
programmer and part-time student at the University of Baltimore,
slowly eking out a graduate degree in interactive design. Klimas was
inspired by old-school text games like Zork, but when he started
building his own games, he was frustrated by their puzzle-heavy
conventions. So he started looking for his own storytelling system
and ended up building one on top of TiddlyWiki -- a "non-linear blog
analogue" designed by programmer Jeremy Ruston.
Twine -- and Twee, the language Klimas wrote to underpin it -- wasn't,
fundamentally, a new idea. Authors in the 1990s had experimented with
digital hypertext fiction, creating multi-threaded novels through
websites or programs like Apple's HyperCard. But at the time, Klimas
wasn't familiar with hypertext. His software also had two big
advantages: it could be used with very little practice, and to play
the resulting games, all you needed was a web browser.
Klimas started using Twine to write short fiction and personal
essays. One of his first pieces was about experiencing syncope -- a
dreamlike, almost hallucinogenic fainting spell brought on by stress.
The episode had sent him to the hospital, and he wanted to convey it
in a way that readers could explore at their own pace. "That story
was me trying to talk through what happened there and what that
experience was like," he says. "Just sort of saying, like -- this is
this experience that happened to me, and what happened afterwards."
Unfortunately, other writers weren't nearly as compelled. "I was
trying really hard at the time to get writers interested in it. I was
like, 'Hey, writers! You know, like, you like writing stories. Maybe
you'd like making an interactive story!'" he says. "There was sort of
a small community. But for about a year, I think it didn't really go
anywhere."
After a couple of years, Klimas was nearly ready to write Twine off.
It was tough to even gauge the program's impact since it produced
tiny files that people hosted on personal websites or even storage
services like Dropbox. "I had kind of moved on," he says. But slowly,
he realized he was getting bug reports from people he'd never met
-- asking him to fix a tool he wasn't sure anybody used. And he saw an
article in The Guardian with a proclamation: the Twine revolution had
arrived.
Klimas had designed Twine from within the small world of interactive
fiction. His community revered classic text-based adventure games,
and they often scorned newer and visually splashier successors. "It
was like, text adventures are a cut above 'video games.' These are
serious things," he describes it now. "We were a little bit
self-serious."
What he'd discovered was weirder -- and quite a bit lewder -- than he'd
expected. The Guardian had interviewed game developer Anna
Anthropy, known for the BDSM-themed platformer Mighty Jill Off, as
well as the short and personal Dys4ia, about her experience with
gender dysphoria. Anthropy was also the author of a book called Rise
of the Videogame Zinesters, which urged people to express themselves
with simple do-it-yourself games.
Many now-legendary games were built by one or two core developers.
And tools like HyperCard and Adobe Flash -- as well as Doom and other
moddable games -- turned millions of ordinary people into amateur game
designers. But when Zinesters was published in 2012, the term "video
game" evoked glossy action franchises like BioShock and Gears of War.
"Mostly, video games are about men shooting men in the face,"
Anthropy wrote. "I have to strain to find any game that's about a
queer woman, to find any game that resembles my own experience."
Like Klimas himself, Anthropy started using Twine as an alternative
to complicated text adventure tools. "I was trying to find something
I could use to make choice-based stories," she recalls. "Twine was
the least bad."
Her first story adapted a world from ZZT -- an iconic 1991 shareware
game from Tim Sweeney, now the CEO of Epic Games, the studio behind
Fortnite. Soon, she was giving Twine workshops and promoting it as
one of the most affordable, approachable ways to make games.
Mainstream gaming had become sclerotic and timid, Anthropy contended.
Studios relied on hundred-person teams with multimillion-dollar
budgets, reworking old ideas that they knew would sell. "Mainstream
games are really depersonalized. They don't really tell us a lot
about the human condition," Anthropy told Guardian writer Cara
Ellison. "What I want to see more of in games is the personal -- games
that speak to me as a human being, that are relatable."
Anthropy wasn't the only person saying this. The year she published
Zinesters, The Atlantic feted Jonathan Blow -- developer of the hit
indie game Braid -- as a disgruntled "maverick" who might finally
"establish the video game as an art form." But Blow was still a
professional programmer who spent $200,000 painstakingly crafting
Braid. Anthropy was interested in people with far less money and
little formal training, using off-the-shelf tools like GameMaker and
Twine.
At first, Klimas didn't know what to make of this new community. "I
kind of came into it sideways," he says. "It sort of percolated
through to me -- like, this is people really doing interesting things
with Twine."
In the years after Twine's launch, it had expanded beyond those
original TiddlyWiki snippets. Twine stories were ultimately web
pages, and designers started adding images, sound, and JavaScript or
CSS snippets that produced new special effects. Some shared their
work online -- like Leon Arnott, one of the key architects of Twine.
Arnott's code snippets played with how words appeared on a page.
"Most of the features my code provided were to add dynamic changes to
text within a single passage," he says. A cycling hyperlink, for
instance, would simply change from one word to another as you clicked
it. A timed remove could erase words if a player spent too long
reading a passage. Some ideas were Arnott's own invention, and some
were features other writers had come up with but had struggled to
create with Twine's core feature set.
As Klimas kept building Twine's open-source editor, he gave Arnott
free rein of its default scripting language, Harlowe, cementing the
idea that Twine was about playing with words and timing, not just
choices.
A Choose Your Own Adventure book might spell out readers' options,
but they can read the book at any pace in any order. Twine games --
even ones mostly based around branching narratives -- can compromise
that sense of control. In Anthropy's Queers in Love at the End of the
World, for example, your unnamed protagonist is facing the
apocalypse. You pick an option for one last moment with your lover:
kiss her, hold her, tell her you love her. How do you kiss her?
Hungrily? Softly? Fiercely? What do you tell her afterwards? You keep
clicking, scanning the text for more options. But at the end of a
10-second timer, each game ends with the same text: Everything is
wiped away.
`It represented everything the stereotypical gamer despised'
The "Twine revolution" wasn't simply about non-programmers making
games. Twine offered a home for people who felt alienated from the
larger industry, particularly historically marginalized designers.
"Twine is this amazing queer and woman-orientated game-making
community that didn't even exist a year ago," Anthropy told The
Guardian.
And if you found an intriguing Twine game, the tools for building
your own were just a few clicks away. After interviewing Anthropy,
Cara Ellison found herself thinking about the kind of design that
Twine encouraged. "The more I thought about the rhythmic nature and
the poetic nature of Twine -- placing words on the page so that your
eyes would fall to the right kind of part of the sentence at the time
that you wanted -- the more I thought, well, that's quite sensual and
a little bit sexual," she says. So she began work on Sacrilege, a
melancholy story about romantic encounters at a nightclub. The short
game struck such a chord that, when a bug cropped up years after its
publication, a devoted fan discovered and repaired it. That fan has
maintained the game ever since.
Twine's rise overlapped with a bigger shift toward games that told
stories about real-world experiences or social marginalization. An
NPR article dubbed the genre "empathy games": nonviolent, often
mundane projects that tried to convey human struggles through rules
and virtual spaces. Many of these projects were tiny, but some became
breakout hits -- like the exploration game Gone Home, which sold
50,000 copies in its first month.
Some Twine projects earned praise from the broader industry. In 2013,
Howling Dogs made a surprise appearance at the Independent Games
Festival, where grand prize winner Richard Hofmeier spraypainted its
name over the booth for his own game Cart Life, telling them to play
Howling Dogs instead. Hofmeier described its effect as a kind of "
holy dread."
But Twine writers were more likely to ridicule the gaming world's
excesses than seek its approval. Author Michael Lutz created a
comically literal Call of Duty adaptation called Tower of the Blood
Lord, complete with a fake text-based online multiplayer and buttons
for crouching and jumping. He said he'd only played 20 minutes of the
real game, though -- so the multiplayer mode is a food stand
simulator, the "campaign" lets you swallow your commanding officer
whole instead of selecting a weapon, and the story involves talking
animals and questions about personal identity and the nature of
fiction.
Conversely, The Writer Will Do Something is an unsparingly unromantic
farce about big-budget game-making. Players join the production team
of troubled franchise ShatterGate, where they navigate byzantine
internal politics, impossible player expectations, and a dictionary's
worth of pretentious buzzwords. The game was created by Matthew S.
Burns and Tom Bissell -- who based it on real experience working on
Call of Duty, Halo, and Gears of War.
Even when they weren't explicitly poking fun at traditional video
games, Twine authors toyed with players' mechanical expectations. Tom
McHenry's Horse Master is nominally about buying, rearing, and
training a horse for a competition. But your horse's carefully
managed stats -- "uncanny," "realness," "pep," and other strange
descriptors -- aren't actually what's being measured.
For that matter, a "horse" probably isn't what you think it is.
Because Twine games also often exploit writing's power to casually
suggest unsettling mental images or intriguingly confusing commands --
something that graphical video games simply can't do. In another
game, your central power is the option to "unleash rat chaos." What
is rat chaos, exactly? Players can only guess.
The sublime fever dream of Howling Dogs helped put Twine on the games
industry's radar. But it attracted mainstream attention through a
very different project called Depression Quest.
Depression Quest is a deliberately unexciting "choose your own
adventure" story. You're a normal 20-something person trying to get
by at work, get along with your girlfriend, and work on a passion
project in your free time. Unfortunately, you're also deeply
depressed, so your brain won't let you do this. Each day gives you a
healthy path forward: order some food in the evening, go hang out
with a friend, talk to people at a party. These options are crossed
out, leaving behind choices like procrastination, long nights alone,
and awkward silence.
Depression Quest -- created by Zoe Quinn, Patrick Lindsey, and Isaac
Schankler -- earned positive mentions in outlets like Rock Paper
Shotgun, as well as an official exhibition slot at the Indiecade
festival. Like a lot of so-called "empathy games," it used rules to
convey the feeling of being limited and powerless, rather than
omnipotent and unstoppable. (Eventually, your life can take a turn
for the better, but only with some concerted work.)
But in 2014, a year after Depression Quest's release, Quinn's
ex-partner published a rambling diatribe and urged a mob of internet
trolls to harass them. The accusations included an unfounded claim
that Quinn had an affair with a journalist to promote Depression
Quest. And the movement -- soon dubbed Gamergate -- tarred Twine itself
as the tool of an "anti-gamer" cabal. It represented everything the
stereotypical gamer despised: terrible graphics, unapologetically
rough edges, and experiences that poked fun at macho fantasies.
Klimas remembers being integrated into the edges of Gamergate's
sprawling conspiracy theory -- which included many journalism outlets;
the creators of nonviolent and LGBT-themed games like Gone Home; and
somewhat paradoxically, the Pentagon's experimental research wing
DARPA. He wrote to friends in academia, warning them that Gamergaters
had dug up their names as well. But mostly, he was bemused by people
who complained that "any idiot" could make a Twine game. "I'm
like, congratulations, you understand now!" he says. "Any idiot can
pick up a pencil as well. The prejudice related to computational
complexity -- like if a tool is complicated to learn, it must be
better -- I completely disagree with."
As Klimas readily admits, his experience was very different from
Gamergate's primary targets. Quinn -- as well as others like cultural
critic Anita Sarkeesian and developer Brianna Wu -- were accused of
bizarre moral infractions and driven from their homes by threats. The
movement painted critics of sexist or transphobic cliches as greedy
criminal insurgents attacking defenseless big-budget studios, rather
than tiny communities who put most of their work online for free.
Gamergate's influence resonated across mainstream politics. The
movement bolstered the careers of right-wing outrage merchants like
Milo Yiannopoulos, who would later help promote the white nationalist
"alt-right." It fueled the growth of anonymous forum 8chan, which
became a base of operations for the violent QAnon conspiracy
movement. The controversy also forced companies and news outlets to
reckon with much broader, older online harassment problems.
Ultimately, many Gamergate supporters probably weren't that
passionate about niche game design software. But they saw ammunition
for an endless, ever-evolving culture war -- one that continues to
this day.
`"It manages to essentially teach you how to write well for video
games"'
Meanwhile, the "Twine revolution" was more fragile than it looked.
Within a few years, the term "empathy game" turned from a
straight-faced description to a wry, bitter joke. To critics, the
phrase implied queer or non-white game developers were attempting to
explain themselves to outsiders, and that playing a 10-minute game
was equivalent to living under oppression. Anthropy balked when
people described Dys4ia as a way to safely understand being a trans
woman. In 2015, she produced an art installation called Empathy Game
that was simply a pair of her old shoes and a pedometer -- making fun
of the idea that players were literally "walking a mile in her
shoes."
A game could lay out someone's personal experience, or it could help
explain social systems that were often invisible. But simply knowing
about that system wouldn't necessarily spur people to change it.
Awareness, it turned out, wasn't a substitute for action.
Expressing vulnerability online felt increasingly fraught. Developer
Merritt K, who had created games about BDSM and sex, took much of her
old work offline after Gamergate. "A lot of it felt personal in a way
that I was uncomfortable with," she told The Creative Independent.
"Not that those kinds of things didn't happen before, but being
personal online was a much more dangerous proposition after that for
a lot of people."
Twine itself wasn't quite as simple and universal as mainstream
coverage of it suggested. The tool's interface and scripting
languages were designed for writers who spoke English and understood
the conventions of branching storytelling. Learning its more complex
features requires sifting through a now-dormant Twine wiki, a
still-active Twine "cookbook," and myriad help threads across
multiple forums. Publishing a story requires a basic understanding of
web hosting or storefronts like Itch.io. It's easier than many
professional design tools but doesn't have the radical simplicity of
a stapled-together zine.
This tension had existed for years. Back in 2014, Dan Cox -- who
authored some of the most comprehensive Twine guides -- denounced what
he dubbed the "lie" that Twine didn't require programming. "Twine has
never been free of code and never will be," Cox wrote. Today, a wide
array of Twine script re-creates or integrates other languages like
JavaScript or CSS.
Unfortunately, Twine also doesn't work well for big and highly
complex projects. Passages start to freeze up if you type too much
text in them, and if you're developing a game with another person,
it's easy to accidentally overwrite their work. Klimas maintains the
Twine editor alongside a full-time job, funded by a Patreon campaign
that earns up to roughly $1,400 a month. It works remarkably well for
such a small project, but it's not as full-featured as commercial
software or a massive open-source collaboration.
Some Twine supporters have drifted away from the medium. Porpentine
had begun working outside Twine soon after Howling Dogs, and in 2017,
she distanced herself from other queer developers who had fostered
Twine, publishing an essay that accused unnamed community members of
abuse. When I contacted her, she described the essay as her farewell
to any coherent Twine community. "Twine is pretty old now, and kind
of died as a communal thing," she wrote in an email.
Over time, the online landscape for Twine has changed. Many older
games were posted on Philomela -- a simple hosting platform created by
programmer Colin Marc. "At that time, a lot of Twine games were
hosted on Dropbox, which obviously sucked," Marc says. "The site was
a way for me to be involved and helpful." (He also attributes it to a
"pretty embarrassing desire to be friends with all the cool game dev
people I followed on Twitter.") But over the years, Marc drifted away
from Twine, and the internet in general.
"My honest appraisal of Twine is that although it is really useful if
you have no technical expertise, it is actually quite constricting,"
he says now. "There have been really clever, interesting things done
with Twine, but they were done by people working around the
limitations of the tool." Marc realized that Twine might never have a
breakout moment, the way Gone Home had sold mainstream audiences on
exploration games. In 2019, he set off on a year-long travel
expedition with limited internet service, and he decided to pull the
plug on Philomela -- moving its existing games to Google Cloud Storage
and retiring one of Twine's original hubs.
More than a decade after its creation, Klimas's work remains a
significant force in gaming and interactive fiction. Browse the Twine
tag on the Itch.io storefront, and you'll find a steady stream of new
titles -- even if the "popular" tab includes a lot of games created
years ago.
Many designers use Twine or Twee to prototype branching narratives
they'll adapt for other platforms, including Black Mirror creator
Charlie Brooker, who worked with Twine for the interactive special
Black Mirror: Bandersnatch. University instructors use Twine to help
students learn game design basics before they start working with
general-purpose tools. Even without a unified community, Twine still
serves its original purpose: to give people an easy framework for
imagining nonlinear stories, whatever form those stories ultimately
take.
Twine has helped inspire other software. The platform influenced Yarn
Spinner, for instance -- the branching dialogue tool used in
award-winning indie adventure game Night in the Woods. "Ironically, I
think a lot of Twine's influence since 2013 has been in the form of
tools derived from it," says Arnott.
It's also still evolving. Klimas is currently developing a Harlowe
alternative called Chapbook, and while Twine remains open-source, he
helped design a proprietary tool for porting stories to iOS -- and
released his first game with it, Night in the Unpleasant House, last
year. During the pandemic, Arnott decided to overhaul Harlowe with
new features and fuller customization options, releasing what he
calls the first "full" version of the tool in January. "I feel like
Harlowe is currently in a state of stability it's never had before
-- my long-standing desperation to improve it has abated," he says.
While many people use Twine without any kind of support, there's an
active Twine community on Discord and Reddit. It offers help with
design problems and organizes Twine-focused game jams, most recently
a "Valentwines Day Poetry Jam" in February.
Some Twine designers have made the leap to professional game
development, fine art, or other fields. Porpentine has released
numerous games alongside zines, short stories, and a Sundance Film
Festival installation; in 2017, her games were exhibited at the
Whitney Biennial. Ellison's Sacrilege led to work on the big-budget
stealth game Dishonored 2, as well as acclaimed lo-fi shooter Void
Bastards. "It's a really good educational tool for figuring out
whether you like working in games or not," she says of Twine. "It
manages to essentially teach you how to write well for video games,
because it requires you to be concise and plan out how you're going
to make a conversation go."
And the minimalist, white-on-black "Twine story" format instantly
evokes text adventures and the early web. It's easy to convey big,
abstract concepts with a gloss of absurdity -- like Kris Ligman's You
Are Jeff Bezos, where your job is simply to spend Jeff Bezos's money
better than he does. Like a pixelated Mario Bros.-style platformer or
the camera of a first-person shooter, it offers a recognizable
template for translating almost any idea into a game.
`If those services shut down, players' work could be lost forever'
I put my first Twine story online in 2018. I chose the platform
because I had an idea for a silly pastiche of a first-person shooter
series, I wanted to make it quickly, and I was an experienced writer
but had no meaningful background in programming or art design. Then I
got hooked on learning its scripting system and web design
possibilities. A few months later, I convinced The Verge to publish
Wake Word, a short game about a "helpful" AI-controlled apartment
that keeps accidentally killing you. Its structure was shaped by the
surreal, cyclical prison experience of Howling Dogs.
I've released a handful of other short games since then, all of them
built in Twine. And sometimes learning its scripts first instead of
"real" coding feels like it was a mistake. I usually don't make the
branching narratives or experiential poetry Twine is best for, so
I've spent a lot of time accidentally working against its constraints
-- like the time I wrote the start of a narrative game with a single
fight scene, only to end up building a real-time word-themed combat
system by forcing Twine to reload randomly selected links using
dozens of overlapping timers. Still, coming incredibly late to the
Twine party, I've benefited from years of forum members answering
each other's remarkably complex scripting questions.
As a woman who started writing about video games a decade ago, I've
benefited in less tangible ways as well. Twine's popularity helped
raise the profile of several now well-known female gamemakers. There
are still huge problems with misogyny in the medium, but in 2021, I
feel a lot less pressure to represent women in games -- and more space
to do what I really want, which is apparently making jokes about
smart homes and cyberpunk tropes.
And sometimes Twine's reputation as simply a beginner's game-making
system feels like a disservice. Because for all its limitations,
Twine is one of the only tools custom-built for speaking the language
of the web. The past several years have seen the rise of video games
that mimic digital spaces, like the instant-messaging simulation
Emily Is Away or the faux website Mackerelmedia Fish. At its heart,
Twine is an easy way to write stories that take place in web
browsers, and the more our lives play out online, the more powerful
that can be.
One of the Twine jam organizers, who goes by Lee, says he grew up
reading Choose Your Own Adventure books. But, "I got bored with the
traditional [interactive fiction] format pretty quickly," he says. He
wanted to make something that didn't feel like a branching novel, but
also didn't require extensive coding or art experience. So he began
making horror games inspired by phone apps, websites, and creepypasta
-- the short, scary stories that circulate on internet message boards.
Lee's first published game, from 2019, is Please Answer Carefully,
which is supposedly a web survey about your screen time habits. After
a few pages, though, the survey's questions start getting strangely
needy. Then, the possible answers start getting a lot more sinister.
The experience is short and simple, without even the branches or
multiple endings many people expect of interactive fiction. But it's
also very effective, slowly twisting what's supposedly a blank mirror
for the player's personality.
These kinds of pseudo-software games can comment directly on the
larger conditions of the internet. Mark Sample's Content Moderator
Sim gives you an 8-hour (actually, 5-minute) shift at "ViralTitans,"
a fictitious content moderation contractor. Under a relentless timer
and some passive-aggressive messages from a supervisor, it dryly
describes social media posts that range from distasteful to
terrifying, asking you to make a call on each one. It hints at the
stress and frustration of being a moderator, but it's not just a plea
for empathy -- it's a test of which horrors you will personally let
slide.
In 2021, Twine's web-based design has proven surprisingly resilient.
"I believe really strongly in the web," says Klimas. "Things have
been moving in the wrong direction for quite a while in terms of the
web as a medium for consumption, not creation. But I think the battle
isn't completely over yet."
Twine is far from the only free and approachable game-making program,
but its openness is still unusual. "There are more tools, but many of
those tools are tightly gatekept by platform owners," Anthropy notes.
"Tools like Super Mario Maker or Dreams make game-making way more
achievable for non-professionals, but everything you create is owned
by Nintendo or Sony." If those services shut down, players' work
could be lost forever.
Many Twine stories could disappear at some point, lost to changing
browser standards or lapsed web domains. But whether their work is
ephemeral or stays online for decades, Twine lets people make art on
their own terms -- even if, eventually, everything is wiped away.
#
Chorus
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