Exp-lore watches you play, understands what happened, and gives it the weight of a story. No journals to write. No buttons to press. Just play — and read what it wrote.
You've been gaming for years. Thousands of hours. Moments that made
your heart pound — the first horde you survived, the colony
that burned, the betrayal you didn't see coming.
Steam says “247 hours played.” That's it.
A number. The richest personal entertainment experiences of your life,
reduced to a counter.
You tried journaling once. Wrote three paragraphs after a great session.
It felt awkward. You never opened it again.
Your gaming life is invisible. Even to you.
Exp-lore is four systems working together — each one makes the previous feel inevitable in retrospect.
Captures your screen. Sends it to Claude Vision. Writes prose in a narrator voice you chose — chronicler, war correspondent, hardboiled cynic. Grounded in what actually happened. You just play.
Tracks behavioral patterns across sessions. Combat tendencies. Survival streaks. Death causes. Playstyle. The twentieth session's narrative is richer than the first because the system knows you after nineteen.
Finding a shotgun is Tuesday for a combat player. For someone who has avoided conflict for eight sessions, it's a turning point. Significance is measured relative to your history. The system notices what you don't.
Across characters and games, patterns emerge you never noticed. You always build near water. You name every companion. You hoard supplies for an emergency that never comes. The chronicle becomes a mirror.
You didn't type a word. You didn't press a button. You just played for forty minutes, and this was waiting.
The carpenter's daughter returned to the gas station on Riverside's edge — the same one she'd raided in her second week, back when a can of beans felt like salvation. Now she moved through it differently. Efficiently. The shelves held nothing she needed; her inventory was deep.
Three sessions without a scratch. The chronicle allows itself a rare note of optimism. She's learned the rhythms of this place — when the fog rolls, where the dead gather, which roads are clear after rain.
But the generator changes things. Found in a shed behind the farmhouse, half-buried under tarps. Working. In fourteen sessions, she has never had power. Something shifted tonight. The careful, methodical survivor is building something she hasn't built before: a home.
Every player who stays travels through these emotional beats. Each transition feels inevitable.
You install Exp-lore. Play for forty minutes. Glance over. There's a journal entry describing your session — the fog, the gas station, the scratch from two captures ago. You didn't write any of this. Someone found it worth telling.
Three weeks in. Twelve sessions. The narrative references events from session four when something in session eleven echoes them. You notice it writes differently for you than it would for your friend. "How does it know I always hoard food?"
You paste a Discord webhook. Your latest entry posts to your server. A friend reads it and messages: "Wait, you lost the generator? After all that?" They weren't there. But they get it.
Months in. Multiple characters. Multiple games. Each with a chronicle and an arc. Playing without Exp-lore feels like it doesn't count.
You open the retrospective. Across all your chronicles, patterns emerge you never noticed. You're a hoarder who never uses their best supplies. You name every companion and mourn every loss. The system noticed. It's been weaving it into the narrative for months. Now, laid bare — a portrait of yourself as a player. Not stats. Not a leaderboard. A mirror.
Exp-lore detects your game automatically. No setup rituals.
Screenshots at smart intervals. Skips duplicates and menus.
Claude Vision reads each capture. Understands events, inventory, danger.
Narrator-voiced prose, grounded in truth, shaped by your history.
You just play.
No journals to write. No buttons to press mid-game. No setup rituals. The best session with Exp-lore feels exactly like a session without it — until you read what it wrote.
Documentary with style.
Every word is rooted in what actually happened. Screenshots are the evidence. The AI is the witness, not the author. When it says "medical supplies are low," it saw a nearly empty inventory.
The twentieth session knows the first nineteen.
Continuity across sessions. Characters develop. Themes emerge. But it's not just narrative memory — it's behavioral memory. Over time, the system notices patterns you don't notice about yourself. The difference between a routine run and the night you broke every pattern you'd established.
The sharpness of what we refuse is what gives shape to what we are.
We create meaning, not performance. Your K/D ratio is someone else's problem.
We capture arcs, not moments. A 10-second clip can't hold what a chronicle holds.
We narrate what happened. Remove grounded truth and we're just another AI writing app.
We don't converse on demand. Think Disco Elysium's internal voices, not Alexa.
Sharing is a feature, not the product. The chronicle has value even if nobody else reads it.
We don't explain the game. We narrate your experience of it. The wiki tells you what a Spiffo is. We tell you about the night you found one.
Coming Soon
Exp-lore is in active development. Drop your email and we'll let you know when the desktop app is ready to download.
Free & local-first. Your stories live on your machine.
Cloud features (managed AI, hosted entries) will be optional add-ons.
Local-first. Your stories live on your machine. No cloud account required. No subscription to read your own history.