A yearly celebration for anyone who’s ever survived on 2% battery, half a sandwich, and sheer stubbornness. It’s a day dedicated to taking your favorite game, device, or creative project somewhere completely impractical—because survival isn’t just about staying alive, it’s about thriving in ridiculous conditions.

How to Celebrate:

• Play your favorite survival game on the go—Switch, Steam Deck, or whatever portable chaos engine you trust most.
• Bring snacks that will definitely crumble in your bag. Bonus points if they’re slightly squished.
• Post a screenshot, journal entry, or blog update titled “I Survived Portable Chaos Day.”

Why Celebrate: Because survival isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence, laughter, and remembering that every bit of chaos you carry is proof that you’re still in the game.

(And yes, coffee counts as a survival tool.)

I spend a lot of time wandering the digital wilderness, but a few sites always feel like home:

• WordPress — my campfire, my journal, and sometimes my chaos log.
• Fandom & Wikis — because I refuse to roam a survival map without pretending I know where I’m going.
• GOG, Steam & Fanatical — the holy trinity of “I’ll just browse” that somehow becomes six new games.
• Archive.org — for when nostalgia hits harder than a blizzard.
• survivorincognito.co.uk — my map of all the strange, pixelated worlds I keep waking up in.

(If it’s got maps, mods, or mysteries, I’m probably there.)

I don’t think I’d re-live any year exactly as it was — more like revisit a few checkpoints with the knowledge I have now. Life’s kind of like a survival game that doesn’t let you reload saves, but you still pick up experience points along the way.

If I had to choose, I’d go back to the year I really started finding my footing creatively. The moment I realised that writing, gaming, and storytelling could all fit together — that was the spark that built everything I’m doing now. I wouldn’t change the struggle; I’d just remind myself that it’s all leading somewhere.

(And maybe tell my past self to stockpile coffee and patience — they’ll both be needed.)

The Apollo 11 moon landing. Not just because humans actually did it, but because of what it represents — a mix of courage, chaos, duct tape, and sheer determination. It’s the ultimate survival story, just in space suits instead of bearskin coats.

The idea that we looked up at something impossible and said, “Yeah, let’s go there,” always hits me. It’s proof that even when everything could go wrong, sometimes we still make it back home.

Everyone should know how to make a fire — literally and metaphorically.

In survival games, it keeps you alive. In life, it keeps you moving forward. Sometimes it’s a spark of curiosity, a bit of motivation, or just remembering why you started. Either way, it’s worth learning how to light it — and how to keep it going when the wind picks up.

Also, always cook the meat before eating it. That one’s universal.

(Bonus lesson: don’t stand on the campfire to check if it’s hot.)

To me, being a kid at heart means keeping that spark of curiosity alive — the same one that makes me explore every corner of a game map I clearly shouldn’t be in. It’s laughing when everything goes wrong, building forts out of whatever’s nearby, and still getting excited about fireflies, campfires, and finding snacks in unexpected places. Basically, it’s survival — but with a sense of wonder instead of panic.

(Also, kids nap. So technically, being a kid at heart means I’m just staying true to form.)

Wish one: infinite coffee — survival fuel for both late-night writing and in-game near-death experiences.

Wish two: a portable base that works across every survival game I play. Same storage, same bedroll, no matter the planet, tundra, or haunted fishing town.

Wish three: immunity from permadeath — because I’d like to actually finish a game for once without something exploding, biting, or derailing me.

(If the genie can’t manage that, I’ll settle for a working flashlight and a full inventory upgrade.)

The closest thing I have to a family member in my daily routine is my inventory screen. It nags me when I carry too much, reminds me I’m starving, and never forgets that one ruined can of peaches from 20 days ago. Reliable, slightly judgmental, and always there when I need it — basically family.

(We don’t talk about the time I accidentally ate the raw meat.)

Does running from virtual wolves count? Because if so, I’ve clocked enough cardio in The Long Dark to qualify for the Olympics. Real-world me prefers walks — usually with a podcast or just the sound of rain. It’s less “gym grind” and more “calm before the next survival disaster.”

(Exercise is just stealth training with extra steps.)

Depends — does the ticket include a return journey and snacks? Because if not, I’m going to need a serious discount. Honestly, I’d rather explore a digital moon first; fewer airlock malfunctions, and I can pause when I inevitably forget my oxygen tank. But if we’re talking real life? Maybe a fiver — provided I can blog about it and call it “The Long Dark: Lunar Edition.”

(Portable chaos, but with zero gravity.)