You can scam someone out of money.
You can scam them out of time.
But you can’t scam someone out of a dream if that dream was yours too.
I wasn’t sitting in a back room, twirling a moustache, plotting how to trick families.
I was in the warehouse—spray-painting props at 2 a.m., editing scripts until my eyes burned, trying to build wonder with a toolkit made of broken pencils and belief.
But that part doesn’t go viral.
That part doesn’t trend.
What does trend is chaos.
Kids crying.
Parents angry.
A staged world that didn’t look like the fantasy in their minds.
And a man—me—standing at the centre, blamed for everything.
The truth is simpler than the narrative.
I overreached.
I believed I could take a low budget, a small team, and an AI-assisted script and still deliver something beautiful.
I wanted to prove that creativity didn’t need millions to matter.
That magic could come from scrap wood and raw courage.
That I could build a portal for people to escape, if only for an afternoon.
But the portal didn’t open.
The illusion cracked.
And all the faith I had in it turned to smoke when the doors opened and the eyes of the world came rushing in.
They didn’t just see failure.
They saw deceit.
But that wasn’t what I gave them.
I didn’t sell a scam.
I sold a dream I couldn’t afford to build.
I thought hope would stretch farther than money.
I thought enthusiasm would cover the cracks in the paint.
I thought that people would see the intent and forgive the flaws.
But that’s not how expectation works.
And that’s not how perception works when the press arrives.
They needed a headline.
I became one.
“Scammer,” they called me.
It’s a heavy word.
It shuts down nuance.
It flattens every truth behind it.
But I wasn’t hiding.
I wasn’t denying.
I was answering emails. Issuing refunds. Watching my name become a synonym for deceit while knowing the real story would never make it past the clickbait.
And still—
I showed up.
Because I owed that.
What they got wrong is thinking I was a performance.
I wasn’t playing a part.
I was building a world.
Not to trick you—
to invite you in.
But when you build a stage on unstable ground, even the best intentions fall.
I’ve learned that.
I’ve paid for that.
And not just financially—
but emotionally, reputationally, spiritually.
I watched friends distance themselves.
Watched strangers weaponise my name.
Watched the world label me something I never intended to be.
And through it all, I kept creating.
Because I had to.
Because there’s still a child inside me
who wants to believe in magic.
And maybe one day,
I’ll build something that doesn’t collapse under expectation.
Something real.
Something honest.
Something earned.
But this time—
I’ll build it slower.
Stronger.
With no illusions.