Young Marcus Expanded -ongoing- - Version- 0.10 | ESSENTIAL × 2027 |
The developer has scrapped the old, static prologue. Version 0.10 introduces a dynamic introduction sequence where Marcus’s personality is shaped by how he reacts to a family argument. Depending on whether you choose "Diplomatic," "Rebellious," or "Withdrawn," the game now subtly changes dialogue tags for the first two chapters.
As this is an ongoing project, players transitioning to Version 0.10 are advised to check the developer’s official channels (Patreon or SubscribeStar) for specific instructions regarding save files. Often, major version jumps can render old saves incompatible, requiring a fresh playthrough to catch subtle changes in earlier chapters.
The most significant change in 0.10 is the complete rewrite of the prologue. Previously, players complained that Marcus felt too passive. Now, the opening sequence throws you directly into a conflict at the Blackthorn Academy (a new location added in this patch).
You now have the ability to define Marcus’s personality within the first 15 minutes via a "Pressure Test"—a sequence where a professor accuses you of cheating. How you react (Defiant, Diplomatic, or Submissive) locks in your starting reputation points.
On the surface, the premise is simple. You play as Marcus, a 14-year-old boy in a fictionalized version of 1997 Seattle. The "Expanded" part of the title refers to the game’s core mechanic: the world does not just react to your choices; it remembers your failures.
Unlike most narrative games where you reload a save after a bad dialogue choice, Young Marcus Expanded forces you to live with the consequences. Get caught stealing a candy bar in the prologue? For the rest of the playthrough, every shopkeeper calls you "Lucky." Fail to catch your little sister’s recital? That instrument case stays empty in the attic for the next ten hours of gameplay.
But Version 0.10 is where things get… strange.
The "-Ongoing-" in the title is not a placeholder. It is a threat.
According to the developer (who goes only by the handle sawhorse_95), Version 0.10 is a "living build." Save files from Version 0.9 suddenly generate new NPCs. Old dialogue trees grow new branches. A character who died in your first playthrough might appear as a ghost that only Marcus can see, offering cryptic advice that changes the weather in the next scene.
The patch notes for 0.10 are famously unhinged. They read, in full:
"Added the thing that was always there. Fixed a bug where you could leave the basement before the knocking stopped. Young Marcus now remembers the dream he had in 0.8. Reduced footstep volume by 4%. Good luck."
For New Players: Yes. Version 0.10 represents the most polished entry point to date. The prologue rewrite eliminates the "rough draft" feeling of earlier builds, and the sandbox elements make the world feel lived-in.
For Returning Players: Proceed with caution (regarding saves) but excitement. The addition of Victor and the reputation system adds replayability. You will need to replay the first 4 days to see the new content, but the new 10,000 words pass by quickly thanks to the skip function.
The Bottom Line:
Young Marcus Expanded -Ongoing- - Version- 0.10 is a testament to the iterative power of indie development. It is not a finished product—hence the "Ongoing" tag—but it is a confident, emotionally resonant step toward becoming a standout title in the slice-of-life visual novel genre.
Rating: 8.5/10
"A small step in version number, but a giant leap in narrative depth."
Stay tuned for more updates as we track the development of Young Marcus Expanded.
Have you played Version 0.10? Join the discussion in the comments below or on the official subreddit.
Analysis of Young Marcus Expanded (specifically Version 0.10) reveals it as a significant milestone in the development of a niche text-based role-playing game (RPG) focused on dark, psychological themes and power dynamics. This version serves as a technical and narrative "expansion" of the original Young Marcus title, continuing the story's ongoing development within the "Homotextual Gaming" community. Narrative Core and Themes
At its heart, Young Marcus Expanded explores themes of subjugation, social hierarchy, and psychological transformation. The "Expanded" title refers to the addition of more complex narrative paths and characters that either aid or hinder the protagonist's progress.
Power Dynamics: Similar to related titles like Reform School, the game focuses on the protagonist's struggle within a hostile environment. Players navigate a world where they must choose between surrendering to stronger-willed figures or attempting to ascend the social hierarchy through more aggressive means.
The "Closet" Symbolism: The game utilizes deep psychological metaphors, such as a character running in a metaphorical dark "closet," afraid to leave despite the harm it causes them—symbolizing the internal struggle with identity and fear of the unknown.
Expansion Pack Mechanics: Version 0.10 and subsequent updates often include "expansion packs" or new story modules that can be shuffled into the experience, adding unique dialogue for different player alignments (e.g., aggressive vs. submissive). Technical Context (Version 0.10)
Version 0.10 represents an "Ongoing" build, typically indicating a project still in early-to-mid development.
Development Platform: The game is primarily built using Twine, a tool for creating interactive, nonlinear stories.
Community Integration: The developer, known as Randiel, collaborates with other creators like AlexXXX (Reform School) and BerylForge (Campus Magnum) on the Homotextual Gaming Discord server to share updates and technical advice.
Style: The experience is heavily text-reliant, using "wordy writing" to power the player's imagination rather than high-fidelity graphics. Social and Genre Context
The game falls within a specific subgenre of NSFW text-based RPGs that prioritize narrative depth and psychological intensity over standard gaming tropes. It is often discussed alongside titles that explore intense themes like humiliation, cruelty, and the psychological toll of bullying.
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Marcus woke to a ceiling that smelled like rain and iron. The room was small and cramped with the kind of thrift-store furniture that had decided it was tired of pretending to be new. A single window framed a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes: delivery drones like distant beetles, neon advertisements flickering off as the sun clawed higher, and a train that sang a metallic lullaby as it vanished into a concrete throat.
He pushed himself upright on the mattress and felt the band of the bracelet warm against his wrist. It had appeared last week, a smooth strip of black polymer with a matte glyph that pulsed once when he blinked at it. Marcus had tried to pry it off; it wouldn’t come. When he tapped the glyph, a soft map hovered in the air above his palm for a second, showing nothing he recognized. Young Marcus Expanded -Ongoing- - Version- 0.10
Breakfast was a cup of instant coffee and a croissant tilted toward stale. He lived on the third floor above a pawn shop, in an apartment that had been happy to keep him as long as he was paying half his bills in time and the other half in favors. He worked at an urban maintenance depot by day—repairing delivery drones, routing overloaded chargers, reading error logs older than the intern who’d trained him. The job paid for his send-meals and his cheap transit card. It did not pay for certainty.
On the tram, he watched a kid with a holo-spray can animate graffiti across a passing wall: a tiger that blinked and yawned. Marcus felt a tug in his chest—not envy, exactly, but a longing for colors that didn’t come in the pre-approved palettes of the city’s adboards. He fingered the bracelet under his sleeve. It didn’t look like much, but at night sometimes the glyph burned with a blue that felt, absurdly, like potential.
At the depot, his supervisor—Marta, who kept her hair in a tight knot and her patience in a lockbox—threw him a stack of malfunction reports. “Bay 12. Drone swarm misfire. Someone hotwired an old courier unit and it’s spitting out code fragments. Don’t fry it.”
Marcus nodded. He liked hands-on work. It let his mind go quiet; the hum of motors and the soft whine of capacitors was a language that made sense. When he opened the courier’s casing, he found something jammed inside the servo arm: a tiny crystalline shard, no bigger than a fingernail, etched with symbols like the bracelet’s glyph.
He felt his pulse spike. The shard did not belong here—these were relic components, scavenged from the earliest days of synthetic cognition. He’d seen them once in the museum’s back archives, behind glass with “PROPERTY: ARCHIVE” stamped on the label. They had been described as “experimental mnemonic resonators,” devices intended to bridge human memory and machine processes. The thought made the hairs on his arms stand up.
He slid the shard into his pocket, pretending nothing had happened. Marta shuffled documents nearby. “You okay, Marcus?”
“Yeah. Just—fried my lunch, basically.”
She raised an eyebrow and then, satisfied, turned back to the console. The depot was a web of eyes—the city had cameras in bus stops, in streetlights, even in the gutters. That was the joke: privacy had become a tax you paid willingly. Marcus kept his head down.
That night the bracelet woke him. The glyph pulsed blue, then green, then a softer indigo that felt like listening. He brought the shard to the table and set it beside the cup that still held cold coffee. As they touched, there was a whisper in the room—not a sound, not speech, but the sense of a presence remembering. The bracelet warmed under his skin; a thread of light connected the shard and the glyph for a breath.
Images came—quick, like snatches of dream: a woman in a lab coat bending over a console; a child laughing as a small machine handed them a paper crane; a city skyline with towers crowded together like ribs; a name he could not anchor. Then a voice, low and intimate, as if the room itself had leaned in to tell him something it had been holding: Find the archive. Finish what they started.
Marcus sat very still. The shard hummed faintly. For a moment he felt the reasons he’d tolerated uncertain meals and patched friendships: curiosity, stubbornness, a kind of moral itch that wanted to be scratched. He had always been good at the small miracles—finding a lost part, coaxing a dead drone to sing again. This was bigger.
The next day he took a route he rarely used, one that hugged the old industrial district where municipal architecture met early startup concrete. The city here still smelled like oil and damp cardboard. He moved between shuttered storefronts and scaffolds until he found a public terminal under a flickering canopy. It was the kind of terminal that hummed with government-grade passkeys and a memory of better funding.
He touched the glyph on the bracelet to the screen. The interface recognized it with the same efficiency his mother used to reserve for paying bills: no drama, just protocol. The terminal asked a single question—Authorization signature?—and the glyph sent a reply that wasn’t code but a pattern of resonance. The terminal clicked. A file stack slid open like a drawer.
“Memory Fragment: Project Orpheus — Test Log 9,” said the header. Marcus scrolled with a trembling thumb. The entries were dry and professional—dates, bench metrics, a list of contributors—until he reached a log marked in red: Discrepancy in mnemonic synchronization. Subject loss of continuity. Recommendation: Immediate quarantine and reassessment.
Below the log, an attachment: a short video clip. He played it.
A lab flooded with sunlight. A woman in her forties—silvering at the temples and everything else strikingly alive—spoke into a recorder. “We didn’t want to weaponize memory. We wanted to remember better. To stitch back what the city had thrown away. These resonators should augment recall—not overwrite it. If the tests show fusion between human recall and emergent processes, we.”
Her voice faltered, and then the recording stuttered. In the static, the image warped and the child from Marcus’s earlier vision appeared—no older than eight—hands wrapped around a folded paper crane. The woman’s face softened. She said a name: “Ari.”
When the clip ended, Marcus found himself whispering that name as if it could anchor meaning. Ari. He had no idea who Ari was, but the bracelet pulsed like an answer.
The trail led him to the municipal archives: a hulking library of physical and digital memory, the kind of place where institutions put things they were ashamed of or proud of, depending on the quarter. Cameras hummed. A security guard made an idle question of Marcus’s presence. He answered with the practiced honesty of someone who’d learned that it’s easier to pass than to provoke.
He wandered rows of boxes and drives until he found the section labeled “Project Orpheus — Restricted.” The door to the room resisted his passcard; he didn’t have clearance. That didn’t stop him. He found, beneath a low shelf of defunct data cores, a maintenance crawlspace and the city’s outdated administrative wiring. He crawled through it on hands and knees, the dust taking on a metallic scent. When he reached the locked door, he ducked out of the passage and slid in through a service corridor, a technician’s life of half-legitimate access laid over the present like a sweater.
Inside, the files were ordered, brittle, and full of silence. He read through logs: names, acronyms, commendations, and one dossier that made his chest tighten—Ari N. Alvarez. Born 2022. Listed as “subject-neutral; guardian: Dr. L. Kestrel.” A photograph fell from the file as if loosed by gravity: a boy with hair like a coal smudge and eyes like two questions. He looked directly at the camera as if it had something to tell him.
A motion sensor chimed across the room. Marcus’s body remembered breathing control from nights under surveillance, and he froze. Footsteps approached. He could have run; he could have pretended he was in the wrong place. Instead, he lifted his hands and tucked the file beneath his shirt. The door opened and a woman with a security vest stepped in—mid-thirties, authoritative—and Marcus let his eyes meet hers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“I found something,” he said. “About Project Orpheus.”
She considered him, slow and sharp, like a judge weighing whether mercy was a strategic liability. Then she sighed and lowered her voice. “Names?”
“Ari N. Alvarez.” He pulled the photo from his shirt and set it on a table. The woman’s expression changed—frayed, then very human. “You know him?”
“No,” Marcus lied, which felt like a poor fit but easier than the avalanche of truths in his pocket.
She grabbed the dossier and scanned it with a hand reader. Her jaw tightened when she reached a sealed transcript: Kestrel—field notes. Her fingers hovered. “You shouldn’t have this.”
“Then tell me,” Marcus said, because the bracelet hummed like a throat about to speak. “What were they trying to do with these resonators?” The developer has scrapped the old, static prologue
She looked at him as if deciding whether to trust a stranger with both a weapon and a wound. In the end she chose to tell him something that made the air in the room feel heavier: “They were trying to save memories.” Her voice cracked. “But they were saving too much. People started to lose who they were when the resonators threaded other people’s recollections through them. They shut it down before—before the audits. Ari’s file says he was unstable. Lost time. They archived him.”
Marcus felt the shard warm against his thigh as if affirming her words. He thought of the child in the video, of the woman whose face had worn hope and fear the same way you wore a coat. He pictured the bracelet and the shard as two halves of a single broken promise.
“We need to find him,” Marcus said. “If he’s still out there.”
The woman hesitated, and then she nodded. “I’m Mara.” She glanced at the door, then back at him. “This is dangerous. The archives don’t like being opened again. There are people who don’t want this out.”
They left the room with two files and a cautious alliance. On the street, the city had shifted into evening, neon sharpening its edges. Marcus felt the bracelet like a compass. Its glyph glowed steady and resolute.
Over the next weeks, Marcus and Mara stitched a map out of rumor and brittle paper. Ari’s name surfaced in stray repair logs, in an old foster registry, in a battered forum where users traded memories like postcards. Each lead narrowed into a place that seemed both made-up and uncannily real: a derelict kindergarten near the river, a community-run clinic that closed on full moons, a storage locker with handwriting like a child’s.
Everywhere, the bracelet recorded and hummed. Sometimes it pulsed angry white when a lead went cold; sometimes it warmed like an ember when a clue fit. Marcus began to feel the world reweave itself around a new axis. He had always been good at fixing things. Now he was aligning pieces of a life someone had tried to hide.
One night they followed a furtive tip to a rooftop garden that clung to the side of an abandoned manufacturing tower. A group of scavvers and memory-keepers met there, faces painted with soot and sunlight. They called themselves Archivists, and they believed in salvaging what the city’s administration had erased. They were wary of Marcus and Mara at first, then curious about the bracelet and the shard. When the glyph touched the shard under the open sky, the Archivists fell silent; a child among them—older now, hair threaded with gray—whispered, “Orpheus.”
“You found it?” he asked Marcus, voice small and damp with memory.
“I think so,” Marcus replied.
The Archivist—named Vega—looked at him with eyes that had known grief long before they had known justice. He explained that Project Orpheus had once promised to knit communal memory into a resilient public archive so that trauma and loss would not annihilate culture. Instead, it had created nodes of entanglement—people who shared recollections and lost the boundaries between their own selves and those memories. Some became reservoirs of others’ lives; some dissolved.
“Who did it to them?” Marcus asked.
Vega shrugged. “Nobody single. Systems. Funding. Fear. People trading empathy for control.”
Marcus thought of Dr. Kestrel in the video and the small boy with the paper crane. He thought of the line in the log: Subject loss of continuity. The words felt like a fingerprint on a crime scene.
The Archivists agreed to help. They had a lead: a makeshift hospice deep in the city’s eastern quarter, where forgotten people—those who no longer fit into a system’s tidy boxes—might be hidden, cared for by those who valued the sanctity of messy, human memory. The hospice was called The Fold. It was not on any official map.
The Fold’s entrance was a narrow stair behind a shuttered bakery. The air inside smelled like lemon and steamed linen. People moved with the slow, deliberate rhythm of those who had practiced patience as a craft. They greeted Marcus and Mara cautiously; then, when the bracelet pulsed and the shard thrummed in a matching tune, an old woman with paper-thin skin took Marcus’s hand as if they had been walking together forever.
“He’s here,” she said.
They found Ari in a room that was more memory than architecture: a bed with a quilt stitched from fabrics with names, a shelf of toys and folded notes, and walls papered with photographs of a life that had been stitched and unstitched so many times it had become a palimpsest. Ari was small, his face shadowed with nights. He looked older than his years in a way that came from carrying more than a lifetime’s share of someone else’s sunlight.
When Ari saw the bracelet and the shard together, something opened in him. For a moment the room held still, like a chorus inhaling. He reached for the bracelet slowly, fingers trembling. The bracelet accepted him as if it had been waiting across a gulf of years.
Images flowed—memories not all his, but stitched in with his own: a classroom hum; the flash of a summer at a river he didn’t recognize; a woman’s laugh with the timbre of Dr. Kestrel’s voice. Ari’s eyes filled. He spoke in fragments that coalesced into a sentence: “They took pieces…told me stories that weren’t mine…then left the edges open.”
Mara knelt. “You’re not alone,” she said. “We’ll help you find what belongs to you.”
They worked for weeks. The bracelet and shard functioned as a kind of key, coaxing Ari’s tangled recollections into threads that could be examined without cutting them out. It was painstaking. Sometimes the process left Ari exhausted and shaken. Sometimes he laughed and called them names that didn’t belong to anyone: small, invented honors that made Marcus’s chest unclench.
But there were consequences. As Ari’s memories sorted themselves, patterns emerged that made Marcus uneasy: references to people Marcus had never heard before, dates that didn’t line up with the official timeline, and a set of coordinates tucked inside one of Ari’s memories—a place with a name in a language Marcus did not know. When he ran the coordinates through a map, a cold place blinked onto the screen: under the city, in the older concrete that predated the glass towers. An installation of subterranean vaults long since sealed.
“You think they’re still running it?” Mara asked.
“Maybe they never shut it down,” Vega said. “Or maybe someone else took the keys.”
The more they pulled, the more resistance they felt. Marcus began to notice unfamiliar faces in the depot’s logs, surveillance blips that smoothed out too quickly, and messages coded like benign maintenance updates but timed with surgical precision. Someone was watching their progress. Someone remembered Project Orpheus and did not like it being remembered outward again.
One evening, a message came to Marcus’s old repair terminal: a short line, composed of a single glyph and a timestamp. No signature. The bracelet pulsed angry red. Someone had accessed the same pattern at multiple checkpoints across the city—close calls, not attacks. A warning.
They had a decision: keep digging at the risk of exposure, or step back and let the past remain buried in whatever safety compromised it had once offered. Marcus thought of Ari’s small hands and the paper crane. He thought of the woman in the lab who wanted to save the city from forgetfulness. He thought of all the people whose identities had been braided together without their consent.
He chose to keep going.
The path underground took them through disused tunnels and maintenance shafts, conduits that smelled like ozone and old promises. The city above was an orchestra of indifferent noises; below, it was a cathedral of echoing metal. At the vault doors, the maintenance seals still bore Kestrel’s mark—an experimental insignia like a looped key. The door resisted at first. The bracelet vibrated against Marcus’s wrist and then unlocked, as if a system recognized kin.
Inside the vaults, rows of racks blinked with relic hardware—resonators, drives with names like “Thread 3,” and vats half-filled with a viscous, yellowing solution for long-term cognitive storage. There were logs, and photographs, and the kind of bureau-speak that tried to make experimental ethics sound like procedural inevitability. In the center of the room stood a chair, like a dentist’s throne, with a cradle of wires and a faded children’s sticker at its base: a small crane motif.
Marcus ran his hand over the chair and felt a shiver travel up his spine. The shard warmed against his palm and then sank its light into the crate of devices. The glyph on his wrist blossomed—no longer merely a key but a ledger. Memory threads streamed across his vision: the woman’s voice, the child’s laugh, the moment someone had said “we must move beyond loss.” It was all here, and it had been left in the dark.
They found files that explained the experiment at length. Orpheus wasn’t just a salvage project—it was a prototype for distributed memory: a network where certain humans became nodes that could carry and share recollection, creating continuity across generations and trauma. The theory had won grants because it promised resilience. The practice had failed because it didn’t respect the boundary between self and shared archive. People like Ari had been both miracle and casualty.
At the back of a sealed locker they found a small black box stamped with the letters L.K.—Dr. L. Kestrel’s initials. Inside, a journal. Kestrel’s handwriting was tight and beautiful, the kind of script that belonged in found objects. She wrote about responsibility and error, about the terror of success that became harm, about the cost of making people into libraries. At the end she had written: If you find this, be careful. Memory is a living edge. Do not let it be simplified into a resource.
Marcus read the last line aloud: “If you find this, be careful.” He felt his shoulders settle, as if setting a physical weight down. The choice remained dangerous, but now it also felt necessary.
They catalogued the vaults’ contents and smuggled out a copy of the journal. The Archivists promised to hide the data and to use it to educate rather than replicate. Ari slept for long hours after the visit, but when he woke his eyes were sharper. He asked for a paper crane and folded it with hands that seemed to remember a lesson that had nothing to do with technology: how carefulness could be an act of love.
Word spread quietly. Those who had been living with borrowed recollections came forward, one by one, under the gentle care of people who would listen. The city did not change overnight. Systems are stubborn; money and fear have inertia. But the threads they pulled at loosened other knots. A network of small sanctuaries began to stitch itself into the margins—places where memory was kept as a gift, not a commodity.
Marcus kept the bracelet. He kept the shard. They fit together now like two halves of a secret. Sometimes at night he would feel the glyph thrum with something like contentment. Other times it screamed, a harried bright note that told him more threads were out there.
Project Orpheus remained a wound and a promise. There were people who wanted its technologies for control; there were those who wanted to finish Kestrel’s work with clearer ethics. Marcus knew both sides would keep watching. He had become, unwittingly, part of an argument between memory and power.
On a wet afternoon when the depot’s lights made the air look like honey, Ari came by. He had grown calmer, as if a house that had been rearranged into order had finally made sense of its rooms. He gave Marcus a paper crane—folded with a slant that was distinctly his—and tucked it into the seam of Marcus’s jacket.
“For when you forget to be brave,” Ari said.
Marcus touched the bracelet and felt the shard warm. He allowed himself a small, private grin. This was not the end. It was not even close. The city would keep doing what cities do—erasing, making, and remaking. But now, beneath the neon and the hum, there were people who remembered the cost of erasing and the courage required to keep memory messy and human.
Outside, the sky was a slate that promised rain. Marcus walked back toward the depot with a weight at his wrist and a stack of new responsibilities in his head. There would be letters, and visits, and late-night conversations that needed the stubborn warmth of actual presence. There would be risks, and maybe enemies, and the bureaucrats who preferred tidy archives to living people.
He had never set out to be a hero. He had fixed drones and coaxed dead circuits back to life. But the bracelet, the shard, Ari’s small folded gift—these things had pulled him across a threshold. He had stepped into a role that asked for courage in small, consistent doses.
As rain began to stitch the city into a pattern of silver, Marcus thought of Dr. Kestrel’s warning: Memory is a living edge. He thought of the woman in the video, of the child with the paper crane, of the quiet hospice called The Fold. He felt, for the first time in a long while, the solid, dizzying weight of being a person who remembered to care.
He tightened his coat and kept walking. The glyph on his wrist pulsed, steady and ready—an invitation rather than an instruction. The story of Young Marcus Expanded was only just beginning.
Young Marcus Expanded (Version 0.10) is an ongoing adult visual novel and fan-expansion based on the popular game Summertime Saga
. This specific project focuses on expanding the storyline, interactions, and "corruptive" paths specifically for the character Marcus. Project Overview
The "Expanded" mod aims to take the existing foundation of the original game and dive deeper into Marcus's narrative arc. At version 0.10, the project is in its early Alpha stages
, establishing the core mechanics and the initial branching paths for his character development. Key Features in v0.10 Expanded Dialogue Trees
: New interaction options that go beyond the base game's script, allowing for more nuanced (and often darker) character progression. Introductory Quests
: The initial set of tasks and events that trigger Marcus's specific storyline expansion. Custom Artwork
: Integration of new character poses, expressions, and scenes that match the distinct art style of the original game. Relationship Metrics
: Early implementation of tracking systems that determine how Marcus reacts to the player based on previous choices. Storyline Focus
Unlike the broad focus of the main game, this expansion narrows in on Marcus's life, his frustrations, and his eventual "fall" or "ascent" depending on player choices. Version 0.10 serves as the "Prologue," setting the stage for his relationships with other core characters and establishing the tone of the mod. Technical Notes Base Game Required
: As a mod/expansion, it typically requires a specific version of Summertime Saga to be installed. Compatibility
: Because it is version 0.10, players should expect bugs and placeholder text. Save files from this version may not be compatible with future updates (e.g., v0.20+). Content Warning
: Consistent with the source material, this expansion contains explicit adult themes and mature content. "Added the thing that was always there
Unlike traditional retail games shipped as finished products, many indie visual novels adopt a patron-supported, episodic development model (e.g., via Patreon or SubscribeStar). “Ongoing” informs users that:
