Why I Can’t Do Everything Alone — And Struggles Relinquishing The “Solo” Status

I’ve been a loner forever. I desired to do everything myself. Perhaps avoiding people out of fear wasn’t the best idea.

Singularity

There’s no denying I’m the textbook definition of a loner. I was always the shy, quiet kid. Especially in high school, where I was the biggest outcast imaginable. However, I did have a few friends before I moved.

College was a turning point. I became acquainted with people despite my awkwardness. In a discrete mathematics course, a classmate and I recognized each other from a prior class. We became seat-neighbors for the semester.

There were some guys from calculus and my lab group for physics. And perhaps most impactful was my university’s Pokemon GO group. A lot of familiar faces showed up for raids, trading, etc. I even used my meal card for a guy I knew.

It was a short-lived 18 months though. These in-person connections were soon replaced by distance. Right as things were looking up, the pandemic took everything away.

Back to solitude it was.

I don’t know if those were friendships. I have no idea what constitutes the term — at what point the social relationship becomes that. Regardless of what they’re called, I wasn’t as alone because of them.

It’s unfathomable to think it’s been nearly 4 years since the pandemic began. The equivalent of my entire time in high school. It doesn’t feel comparable, but the math doesn’t lie.

Next year will mark 10 years of reclusiveness for me. Maybe nine, if I count college as a temporary break. Still, it’s an absurd amount of time to remain largely alone. To hardly use my voice for days on end.

Even I can admit that’s a bit much.

I do have my family, and two online friends of 6 years; though we’ve only ever conversed through text. Life’s progressed though. Idle chat’s become a less-than-monthly activity.

This year, I suppose I also talk with people in the non-profit I volunteer for. Though again, it’s telecommunication. Friendly, but solely related to the site’s development. Not that I mind.

I remain in my room most of the time. Silent, alone, just trying to do whatever I can and maintain my mental state. That’s how it’s been for the past decade. Some say this time’s the age of loneliness.

I can believe that notion.

The Solo Route

This loneliness manifested in the work I do as well. Or rather the work I want to do but haven’t done, since my project’s on hiatus due to this year of creative block.

I guess I’m bringing this topic up again, because I only have like two things (not) going on in my life.

But anyway, I’ve always fixated on the idea of the solo route: one who makes an entire game, novel, program — or any other work.

To be *solely* behind it all.

To succeed alone was always what I wanted. When I first began my endeavors, I tried to teach myself everything. I would write the story, compose the music, program the game, and create the artwork.

I was a 16-year-old though — and an idiotic one to boot. So obviously, my lofty plans didn’t go as expected. My few months of screwing around didn’t produce prowess in seven different areas.

Nor was my first-ever written work a masterpiece when it was finally completed 4 years later.

In fact, I’d say it’s nowhere close to one.
Probably to be expected from an idea sparked at 16.

Over 6 years since then, I still have miles to improve. However, I think I did decently with the circumstances. While my prior work isn’t up to par with my standards, I took beginner’s steps in a variety of complex areas.

Take the visual art aspect, for instance. I researched concepts like two-point perception to create vector art with just a mouse. And with countless iterations, this is what I eventually managed to make.

I used to think this background was horrendous — now I think it looks alright for an amateur. But it took forever to make, and it’s still nowhere close to the quality or style I wanted. I never even used it in the end.

But I think it could work for a Flash game —if Flash wasn’t discontinued at least.

Perhaps it can just be a decorative piece for an article, 6 years in the future.

I got fed up with my shortcomings. I’d spent months trying to create art. A year passed, then two. But despite my efforts, the 1–2 pieces I made never matched my expectations. They paled in comparison to professional works.

*~How could this be?~*

That was sarcasm if the squiggly wigglies weren’t clear. After the frustration culminated, I figured I had to change my course of action. If I didn’t, making dozens of these background assets would be impossible.

So I tried 3D renders in Blender instead. I had no idea what I was doing, but after extruding cubes and messing with sliders for months, I ended up with this recreation.

I don’t feel much sentiment in this version, to be honest. It’s uncanny and sterile, even if the shapes and lighting are more accurate to reality. But I learned a bit about 3D modeling, at least.

At this point, I had to admit I couldn’t do this myself. This was background art. Character art was even more complex, with infinitely more points of failure.

I commissioned actual artists for both asset types in the end. On my current (slash halted) project, I’ve done the same. This was the moment I decided to stop trying to go alone.

Well actually… that’s not true.

Holding On

In the three years since this decision, I notice how I’ve mentally grasped for straws, trying to maintain this status of “solo.” I was technically the only person “officially” working on my projects, I thought. So maybe I could still be considered one.

I’d already outsourced the artwork, but I could still handle the music, writing, etc.

No — it was an obligation to do the rest myself.

I felt a non-solo endeavor was no longer impressive. Or even a form of cheating. The loss of flexibility and creative control was another factor. And of course, budget was another.

But perhaps most significant was the fear of what implications this brought. I commissioned others to produce the artwork. If I did the same for most of the soundtrack, the story, the writing, the GUI…

…Then what was I needed for? Could I even say this was my work?

I suppose I’d glue the pieces together, and maybe that’s what’s called a director or organizer. But I didn’t see it that way. It was self-centered, but I wanted to ability to say “I worked on this. My project.”

Not that I wouldn’t credit those who’d helped me. But I wanted to maintain that “sole ownership.” I thought any more external help would cross a threshold, where I’d be alienated from my own project.

However, one must question if I could claim full ownership of my work in the first place. I’ve shifted the definitions in my mind, but where the line truly lies may not be so subjective.

Never Alone

I read this article some time ago, and remember how it challenged notions I’ve had about “solo” achievements. The central argument it made was profound.

Enough so to where it sparked my own introspection, in the form of this very writing.

Essentially, it claimed no person in history has ever succeeded alone. If not because of what’s obscured behind the scenes, each achievement is still built on top of the work done by one’s predecessors.

This was eye-opening to me. It made me reflect on all that’s contributed to my outcomes so far. Even if the end result is a “solo” endeavor, the factors leading to it certainly aren’t.

The genre of video game I’ve focused on is the visual novel. It’s literally in the name — visual. A fundamental aspect of my projects is undoubtedly credited to the artists I worked with.

And what about my two online friends who helped, not just with technical aspects, but with emotional support in my darkest of times?

I use an open-source, free game engine. While I add features, the base work has already been done by those developers. Without this software, development is much more difficult.

I can enjoy my time free from the stress of financial stability. Without the support of my family, I’d be unable to afford the risks of creative exploration — not to mention the money spent on what’s ultimately just a hobbyist pipe dream.

And my unemployment wouldn’t just be depressing and mentally agonizing, but existence-threatening. If I had to focus solely on survival, it’s questionable if I’d have any leeway for discovery and mistakes at all.

I wouldn’t have access to the education and tools I had either.

Many ideas and practices of mine come from what I’m able to learn. My abilities are built upon the foundation that my teachers, professors, and peers helped cultivate.

Perhaps this is pushing the idea a bit, but without the computer, there is no video game in the first place. Without electricity, there’s no computer. Without the work of scientists from centuries past, there’s no knowledge of physics.

And hell, as I said before, the very basis of this article is the ideas from another.

Can I really say anything I’ve accomplished was my own, let alone…
…Alone?

It’s questionable whether I truly needed this status anyway. I feel I’ve gained evidence — even if I’m not the sole person in the spotlight, I can still feel fulfilled.

This is where the topic of my volunteer software engineer role comes up again. The second of the only two things I’ve got going on, that I’m obligated to mention and shoehorn into every writing.

Sarcasm aside, when I began working for the non-profit, the base site was already complete. I’ve handled maintenance, bug fixing, and adding additional features, but it’s certainly not “my project.”

Yet I still feel good about the work I’ve done.

To be fair, I’m one of only two active people on the development side right now, so I have a lot of impact and agency. But I haven’t done everything myself. I get my code reviewed with every pull request.

Nowadays, my PRs are mostly approved without additional comments, but I occasionally get a suggestion on how to better implement the feature. There are often discussions from the user side as well.

I don’t have, nor deserve sole credit. Yet I find it neat how drastically the site has transformed in these 10 months, and what research it can help contribute to. Plus, the thanks I get are immensely meaningful.

Because of this, I now have more experience in software development. But not just because of me, but also those I’ve worked with and the opportunities for “learning by doing” this role provided.

So perhaps this shows I don’t need the “solo” status after all.

Fearing One’s Part

I’ve realized something about the motives I’ve had. In a previous writing, I reflected on letting go of titles and labels, and ceasing further attempts to “be” anything.

What I “am” was always in the eye of the beholder, and therefore out of my control. My desperation to control the uncontrollable led to setbacks and negative ramifications throughout my endeavors.

Yet that’s precisely what this desire is. To “be” someone who achieves things alone. So it seems I’ve failed to uphold that idea.

I didn’t want the status for my own sake, but to appear more impressive. And by doing so, I’ve once again resigned my worth and control of my actions to external influences.

I have to ask myself what my goal is. If I were to guess, it’d be to write an engaging, immersive story, and build an experience around it in the form of a game. Not even necessarily for others, but for my own sake.

Getting further assistance is probably a better option. Yet it seems I forwent my own goal. Maybe it’s possible I can eventually improve enough to do things faster and get stuck less on my own. I’ve gotten this far already.

But if I can get there even earlier with less emotional agony, why not take that path?

I think my reluctance comes from associations I’ve developed with help. Particularly, my experiences regarding shyness/mental health may be a factor.

This concept was referred to as “babyfication” in a college essay of mine, but I’ve since learned the term is “infantilization.” Oftentimes, despite good intentions, I’ve felt looked down upon for my social shortcomings.

The occasional use of a literal baby voice wasn’t assuring either.

“It’s ~okayyy~ to get help. ^You^ don’t ~have~ to do it alone.~”

(Conveying intonation through text is hard.)

The context of emotions isn’t exactly the same as that of work. Nevertheless, I feel I’ve associated the term with concession because of this. And so I’m averse to the idea — of being seen as weak.

Perhaps I’m just a stubborn mule, but to me, seeking help has always sounded as though to become a damsel in distress, waiting for the hero to swoop in and save the day.

I’ve realized this isn’t necessarily true though.

I didn’t just cry for assistance, crawl away, and come back to a finished solution with outsourced artwork. I was still involved in the process somewhat.

I gathered reference images and compiled multi-page instruction documents. I wasn’t aware of everything behind the scenes, but I was given updates, asked questions, and occasionally suggested ideas.

Not everything turned out exactly as imagined, but sometimes the difference was an improvement over my initial thoughts. And that’s disregarding that I couldn’t draw the art myself anyway, let alone in a week or two.

There was communication and an exchange.
A collaboration, not a concession — one could say.

The fear and mistrust I’ve developed over the years is likely another factor in my reluctance toward help. Sure, I fear bombastic conflict or accusations of wrongdoing (even though that’s never happened to me while working with others).

But it’s not even in regards to others for the most part, but rather myself.

I fear what I may muck up to incur such wrath. What if I cause a big misunderstanding that paints me as malicious? What if I come off as untrustworthy? What if I forget something important?

Social anxiety and a history of awkward moments have marred my confidence too. Will I even be able to communicate properly? What if I say something in an unintended tone or phrasing, causing those aforementioned misunderstandings and wrath?

Maybe I’ll have earned such a response for messing up. And would I even accept help in the first place, or are my dilemmas self-imposed? There’s possibly something wrong with me.

What if I’m just horrific and deserve to stagnate?

I feel I’ve reached a point where some intrusive thoughts affect me less. But it’s a double-edged sword. It’s like the concept of ego, and the ego about not having an ego. The recursive cycle never ends.

This was guilt, and now the guilt of not feeling any guilt. Sometimes that inner psycho/conspiracist in my head starts rambling and thinking the worst of everything, and I have to go — “What on Earth am I imagining?”

Knowing thoughts are just thoughts doesn’t stop me from obsessing — whether these are truly intrusive or things I’d actually do. When I was younger, it was easy to think I’d never do anything wrong.

At least until I found myself on the other side of the fence. It wasn’t as simple as I thought to just “not be bad.”

So what could these cruel ideas precurse?

What if corruption is just human nature? Will I egregiously transform without even realizing it? Am I too far gone with my anger and mistrust from the accumulation of experiences past?

What I envision makes me feel terrible, as though they’ve already happened in reality. And so the death spiral continues.

“*Maybe it’s best I remain alone.*”

Imposter

None of those nightmares happened though. I’d say I have a 0.003% accuracy in predicting scenarios that actually occur. And for those I got correct, it was only because the odds were 50/50 — failure or success.

I was mortified by awkward moments. But no one mentioned them again. I wasn’t ridiculed, and certainly not lambasted or yelled at for years to come. For the most part, the next communication was just as fine as the last.

In the last decade, I feel I’ve come to fear people greatly. I developed a warped view of disproportionate risks and negativity, through social media and selective memory of personal experiences alike. And there wasn’t enough counterevidence to that notion in solitude.

There were so many rules and games demanded, from what I’d read. When speaking in this setting to this person, one must make eye contact, use these specific words, and avoid blinking too much.

Take one step out of line, and hellfire will rain down upon you.
You will be screamed and yelled at for your insolence. Shame. *Shame.*

Because of word associations, everything feels out of reach. When put into words (like this very article), it manifests as an unattainable vision. Or even a concept that’s incomprehensible.

When I hear about how I must act “polite” and “respectful,” be a good “listener” and “communicative” as a “collaborator,” I’m thrown into panic and disarray.

How the hell am I supposed to do that? Where’s the manual?

But in real life, I act without the need to analyze or think about this. The only times I’ve thought about “being polite” is when I sounded like a fake robot and embarrassed the living crap out of myself.

I was so nervous about “failing” that my behavior probably weirded out those I was with. Just recalling my forced laugh from weeks ago, makes me want to end myself.

But no one jested at me, nor was there an awkward vibe hanging in the (virtual) room the following meeting. I agonized over what was from my perspective alone. Even if I was judged, it was out of my control.

It felt as though one must pass this arbitrary bar, with the other party ready to pounce on the slightest of infractions. Imposter syndrome with human interaction itself.

I fixated so hard on the aspect of humanity and these duties to “treat people as people.” This notion assumed I failed to do so by default — that it was a conscious struggle to resist this supposedly innate wickedness of mine.

But through this fright, I’ve ironically developed a view of people as monstrous. Cold, calculating, and seeking any moment to strike at one’s mistakes. Terrifying beings who snap at a whim, and are meant to be feared.

Quite the opposite of humanizing.

Counterevidence

This notion just hasn’t held true. The fact I can even quantify my negative experiences says a lot. And the worst part isn’t that they happened, but what thoughts and assumptions they’ve spawned in my mind.

These events replay again and again in my head. Details of the past get distorted in a feedback loop, spawning equally distorted perceptions and visions of the future.

Yet reality’s hardly as bad as what’s envisioned, if they even happen at all.

Each mental image fixates on a climax — a worst-case scenario. It remains stuck there perpetually. But in actuality, these mistakes and conflicts have a way out. And eventually, they become past.

Again, if they even happen at all.

My years of solitude and a warped perspective from the online world have allowed these visions to snowball out of control, hence leading to further avoidance and isolation. I was paralyzed as a result.

But I may have to take risks again in order to move forward. To interact with others again. And not just through the filter of text, digital pixels, and social media.

I have to risk meeting others or even becoming acquainted. The fact they may hurt me, or worse yet — I do something to hurt them. The possibility of embarrassing myself or failing at sociability. And the chance of misunderstandings and conflict arising.

But it’s likely not as certain, nor terrifying as I think.
My interactions of the past year refute that.

As aforementioned, interactions in my volunteer work are cordial. Much of what I was self-conscious about had no significance. And in 10 months, I still haven’t received any scathing all-caps emails. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I went out to see and film the partial solar eclipse in October. Someone asked if I could give them a pair of solar glasses to take, but I had to save mine. They didn’t start yelling at me for my awkward yet polite refusal.

Another guy came up and greeted me. I didn’t completely miss the social cue that they probably wanted a look, and asked if they’d like to use the glasses. He whistled to call his family over, and I got to feel good helping them see an event that won’t be equaled here until the mid-2040s.

“Fantissimo,” as he put it.

Sure, I had a few awkward silences or responses in interactions. But they came to pass. No one I met was cruel, nor did I get into any dangerous situations. And that’ll probably be true 99.9% of the time in the future.

As I’m no longer in school, my only common ground for meeting people has vanished. Not that I utilized it well in the past, but at least I had the option before the pandemic, and then graduating.

I’ll have to create those situations myself.

Even disregarding the fear, it won’t be easy to find a way. I’m a stickler for only going out with a purpose. Perhaps I can go to a park and experiment with ideas I had as a child. Make a giant paper airplane or something.

I’ll just have to get used to being around people again, and gain evidence to counteract the negative perceptions I’ve developed — the overinflated risks and apprehension.

At the beginning of the year, I was too afraid of negative encounters to even go out. At year’s end, I’ve mostly forgotten I even thought that way. Perhaps in due time, this fear will fade away as well.

And finally relegate this era of loneliness to a distant memory.

Sweet Lies

Dispelling those fears solves part of the issue. That leaves the other part — relinquishing the desires and ego of the solo route. And to take on the vulnerability of one needing help.

Plethoras of unhelpful or even harmful advice, in combination with my distrust, led to my insistence on working alone. After all, it’s said change only comes from within. So I thought I could only rely on myself.

It’s also said you’re your own worst critic, and so with my constant dissatisfaction, I thought I could discern my issues best. But as I’ve discovered, one’s perception is ever volatile and susceptible to all sorts of noise.

Then there’s the sunk cost fallacy. By delegating tasks in areas I’ve spent years trying to improve in, it feels like my efforts were for naught. I haven’t drawn any vector art, let alone used two-point perspective since I began commissioning artists almost 4 years ago.

But the first step to solving a problem is acknowledging it exists — or so yet another saying goes. And so I suppose I should do that, in a cheesily repetitious manner.

I need help.

I need help with finding ideas and direction — getting unstuck and finding motivation to continue. I need help with my methodologies and developing better ways to progress. I need help to create better projects and finish faster. And yes, this loneliness is probably harmful to my health.

As aforementioned, saying this doesn’t relinquish my involvement. Nor does this make me open to everything, nor do I prostrate myself to others. Not everything will work out, and some may do the very opposite of helping.

But only by risking an initial encounter to start from, can I find and cultivate blooming connections which do.

I’d hardly gone anywhere with my project this year. It’s possible new ideas and motivation will come once I decide to resume with a fresh outlook. I will likely finish it eventually — just a few years later than I would’ve liked.

But then my third project will begin. If history is any indication, I’ll run into a roadblock again. Another few years will pass with barely any work done.

I’ve always felt behind. I had to create a masterpiece by age 17— anything beyond that meant it was too late and meant nothing. And even if I’d achieved that, I’d feel terrible because I didn’t do it by age 14.

Achievement at a young age was impressive. Achievement when older was just expected.

Of course, having more years of life meant I’d make something better. It wasn’t special anymore. I only thought that toward myself though. And as the years until my youth expired ticked down, I kept resenting how far behind I was — never happy with my progress.

“I’m 18 now, but I can still be that young achiever. I’m 20 now, that’s still sort of young. I’m already years behind — I need to be good at this by now. 21, I guess sports commentators still call that a kid...”

Maybe my idea of being young has changed, but taking until age 30 to learn and make a dream project doesn’t sound bad anymore. But even disregarding youth entirely, to say age erodes work’s value that much just doesn’t seem right — whether it’s 23, 45, or 76.

Though again, placing my worth in these superficial metrics isn’t good for me. Or thinking in terms of worth at all. This concept of value serves no benefit. I should find meaning in my work itself — and myself.

Taking the hard route simply isn’t necessary.

I don’t need to outsource my work completely. I can gain perspective and insights from collaboration or even just talking with people more. I can learn how to do things faster and better, and perhaps help others as well.

Forgetting about projects entirely, I must do this if I’m ever to find acquaintances or friendships again. Perhaps then, I won’t remain stuck or feel the emptiness of being lost. And obviously, I’d do my best to play the same role for others. There’s always someone to help — in both senses.

I may eventually make a significant work myself, after I’ve learned enough. Whether it’s writing, a program, or some unforeseen endeavor to satisfy my ego.

I’d proclaim I finally made something I’m proud of, and found happiness and meaning by myself. All at the impressively young age of [INSERT AGE HERE]. A work worthy of that “solo” status I so desired — “all on my own.”

But by doing so, I’d only be telling the biggest lie I’ve ever told.