Exterior Space General Q&A

General

Perhaps the most fundamental difference lies in this: all existing social platforms are designed around information—the core question is to define how information is created, distributed, and seen. As a result, “social” becomes a matter of designing the flow of information. Everything revolves around posts and feeds. Users discover content through follower graphs and algorithmic reach, and their expressive goal is naturally shaped into: “I want this post to be seen.”

In contrast, our design centers on the person. The core question is not how information moves, but how a person remembers, expresses, and interacts. We help users turn parts of themselves into visual, spatial objects—and compose those into a home, much like how people instinctively arrange their physical home. Social interaction then emerges through the space and the memories within it: visitors can explore spaces asynchronously or in real time, discovering others through mementos or space networks, pet traces, and plant gifts. The entire "social" structure here is to define how people encounter and relate to one another. And in this context, the user’s aim is no longer merely to fulfill “an expressive goal,” but something more primal and instinctive: to express themselves, to be seen, and to be understood.

From a cognitive perspective, “I want to express myself, to be seen, to be understood” is a more fundamental human need. “I want this post to be seen” is not the same thing—it’s a structural adaptation. It emerges when users reshape their original need to fit the logic of an information-centric platform, because that is the only form of expression such platforms structurally allow and reward. Platforms that center around information are therefore structurally incapable of allowing users to express their original intent honestly. As a result, users naturally transform expression—more or less, realized or not—into performance. This happens even to those who genuinely wish to express themselves, because a post, by its nature, is an active act to others. Users are left with no choice but to redesign themselves in order to be visible. In these platforms, expression must serve visibility, rather than emerge from inner feeling.

We hope to restore expression to its natural form: expression is not something constructed purely for others; before anything else, it is a natural outpouring and affirmation of emotion to oneself, a recording and preservation of experiences to oneself, and a construction of one’s existence in the real world to oneself. What people truly want others to understand is not a piece of information, but who they are. This is the psychological foundation of natural sociality—and the starting point of all genuine connection.

What is the difference between you and “metaverse” projects?

At its core, the “metaverse” perspective is about a universe—about building a world. It creates a virtual stage, provides scenes and assets, and defines what users can do within that world. Our perspective is not about a universe, but about individual presence—personal emotion and expression. We help users record their behavioral traces, express their experiences and memories, and ultimately present a structured, organic answer to the question: Who am I?

In the metaverse view, the commercial entry point lies in land, world, or environment. In our case, the entry point lies in personal existence: we provide a structural way for people to express their psychological presence in digital space—as something embodied. This is a deeper, more durable entry point than assets, maps, or objects. It is the root of personalization, the emotional substrate behind any point, reward, or achievement system. And it inherently carries a network effect—because memory, behavior, and relationships are already entangled.

It means that once such a product takes root, it will have extraordinary retention, immersion, and value—and be difficult to replace. It is the most compounding, high-leverage entry point in product design—one where value grows with time, behavior, and identity, not just usage. Because this kind of entry point is hard to quantify, it is often bypassed by traditional business models. But we provide users with a structured way to express themselves, specifically, through a space. In our view, real expression begins not just when you record a moment, but more when you decide to make it part of your space. That act of placement—of inclusion—is what turns memory into meaning. It’s the same reason people adjust the order of a photo grid on social media. And our business model is built on expanding that structure—turning what’s traditionally seen as a limitation into an advantage of user experience.

Why isn’t this a game? How are you different from games?

Video games, in general, happen in a closed system, where players enter to follow a fixed set of rules and achieve certain goals. Life is different, and we want to build a connection to the user’s real life—hence the difference.

Life does not happen in a closed system. It unfolds everywhere. That’s why user spaces are stored in a standardized format on distributed storage networks, accessible from apps, desktops, and browsers. In contrast, most platforms store user data on centralized servers or local devices, limiting portability and platform independence. These systems often require dedicated clients, even only run on certain devices. Games ask players to enter the game world and stay there. We don’t ask users to enter a different world—we exist alongside theirs.

Life does not follow fixed rules. It is open-ended, flexible, and full of surprises. Accordingly, our system is built on open standards with modular interfaces, allowing anyone to extend or reshape the space. We also support spontaneous visits—both real-time and asynchronous. Most games, even those that support mods, rely on closed SDKs or rigid plugin systems. Extensions are harder to build, harder to sync across players. Game also geared toward synchronous social play, with little support for asynchronous or passive interaction.

Life has no final objective. It’s not about winning or losing, and expression and memory don’t need to be validated through “winning.” We aim to provide an interactive environment for personal memory and storytelling—a space for being present. Spaces become a medium for self-expression, turning fragments of life into meaningful, triggerable digital artifacts. Games, by contrast, must prioritize gameplay, and rarely provide system-level structures for integrating real-life experiences.

Why Space?

People don’t express themselves because they were told to. They do it because the structure invites it. A shelf invites arrangement. A wall invites decoration. A space invites presence.

That’s why we built a spatial system—not a feed, not a list, not a graph. Because space is the only expressive format we already inhabit. It naturally supports behavior, memory, and identity, all at once.

A space starts when you bring a memento to it. And mementos aren’t just decoration. They’re not points you collect to complete a task. A memento is something that mattered to you—and you wanted to mark it. They’re emotional anchors. They carry something real—a place you went, a thought you had, something you lived through.

Placed in space, mementos form an expression, a narrative, and then evolve: visitors respond, pets leave marks, and new memory builds. Therefore, space is the story. A home is not just a place to post. You don’t decorate it for others—you decorate it because you recognize something of yourself in it. And you want that part to stay. It’s a place to return to.

We want to return to our home. We actually hope we can return home anytime, anywhere: we tweak our dorm room, we organize our office desks, and even when we post photo grids, we arrange them with care. We keep turning places that aren’t home into something that is. Behavior doesn’t begin with a need. It begins with an instinct. People want a home they can return to—no matter where they are, or when.

Eventually, our home becomes us. And we’ve always used space to say who we are—not just who we’ve become, but also who we’re still becoming. Think of the adolescent bedroom: a gallery of posters, photos, fragments of identification and aspiration. A parent might not understand the music on the wall, but they understand it means something. That meaning matters—not because it’s final, but because it’s part of becoming. Because in that bedroom, they see their child.

I don’t quite understand your third narrative about “infrastructure.”

Imagine that after the invention of the internet, someone created HTML—a way to structure and display information online. They then built a browser to view HTML content on the internet. They also built the first website—an internet directory—and opened up tools so anyone could create their own HTML pages.

We’re like that person. We’ve defined a standard for how information and presence can be expressed on the internet, and we’ve built a browser for it, an editor for creating it, and a “space directory” that helps people surf through this new kind of content on the internet.

Our third narrative is exactly this: a story about becoming the air—about becoming infrastructure.

You might ask, then: what’s our advantage? In this analogy, it’s clear—being the first browser, and the first internet directory, the first entry point into this new medium, carries a structural advantage, which naturally translates into commercial potential.

For questions about our use of blockchain, and other challenges of our project, please visit FAQ: Challenge.