There are roughly 14,000 games released on Steam every year.
About 50 of them make real money on launch day.
The other 13,950 devs? They do the exact same stuff you’re doing right now. Same devlogs. Same Reddit posts. Same wishlist grind.
And no, the difference isn’t talent. It isn’t “being built different.” It isn’t even luck.
It’s one boring, brutal, unfair little system most devs don’t know exists – and the ones who do aren’t talking about it enough.
Here’s what kills me about indie devs.
You’re doing the work. Like, actually doing it. You post devlogs. You ship screenshots. You push GIFs on Reddit that get 4 upvotes (3 of them are your alt accounts – don’t lie).
Steam page? Built. Wishlists? Stacking.
And launch day still shows up and punches you in the throat.
Not because your game sucks. Your game is good. Sometimes it’s great. But you’re feeding all that effort into a machine that has the memory of a goldfish.
Reddit forgets you by Tuesday. Twitter buries you under 345 AI “thought leaders” explaining how your game would be better if it had farming. Discord is a ghost town unless you personally show up and perform like a community manager and a clown at the same time.
It’s like running a restaurant where you cook incredible food… then you throw it into the parking lot and whisper, “Please go viral.”
The thing is – you’re 90% there.
That last 10% isn’t more content. It’s not “posting harder.“ It’s not another devlog where you show off your new particle system to 11 people.
That last 10% is a system.
A system that takes everything you already do and aims it like a laser at the only window that actually matters: the first four hours your game goes live on Steam.
Miss that window, and Steam’s algorithm treats you like that weird kid at the lunch table nobody wants to sit with. Doesn’t matter if your game is pure fun. Doesn’t matter if you have 100,000 wishlists. Doesn’t matter if you spent four years hand-animating every blade of grass.
Without a system, launch day is a coin flip.
(except the coin has “NOPE“ on both sides)
This article is that system.
Phase by phase. Email by email. From first signup to launch morning to the “oh crap, what now?” part after the confetti settles and reality returns.
It works for your first game. It works for your DLC. It works for your sequel. It even works for the weird experimental thing you’re scared to tell people about because your friends keep saying, “So… what genre is it?” and you start sweating.
It’s a long read, so grab a drink.
Then let’s get into it.
Table of Contents
Phase 1: Signup that doesn’t suck
Your trailer goes live. 50,000 people watch it. Comments explode. “WISHLISTED!“ “Day one buy!“ “This looks incredible!”
And about 49,500 of them are lying to you.
Not on purpose – that’s just how attention works online. Little dopamine hit, tap the heart button, leave a comment, move on. By dinner they couldn’t name your game with a gun to their head.
But the other 500?
Those people are different.
They watched it twice. They squinted at the UI. They scrolled down sniffing for more content. They clicked through because your trailer didn’t scratch the itch – it created the itch. They wanted MORE.
Those people are the most valuable asset your game will ever produce.
More valuable than wishlists. More valuable than Reddit karma. More valuable than any retweet from other devs.
They’re the ones who buy in the first four hours. They’re the ones who kick Steam’s algorithm. They leave the first reviews. They tell friends. They start the snowball.
Your launch lives or dies on one thing: Did you capture them… or did you let them wander off with everyone else?
And the math backs this up. The average wishlist-to-sale conversion in the first week sits around 10-15%. A healthy email list? That pulls 25-40% conversion in the first 72 hours.
So how do you capture them?
Not by begging for signups. Not by tossing a giant net and praying. You give them the one thing they already came looking for: more.
Because here’s what happened in their head: They watched your trailer and thought, “I need to know more about this game.“
So give them the next step. Deeper into the world. Deeper into the process. Deeper into the “how the sausage gets made.”
And this part cracks me up because you already have the goods.
That vertical slice you built for a publisher pitch. The concept art folder with 200 environment sketches. The lore doc that started as a paragraph and mutated into a 40-page monster. Those soundtrack sketches that still give you goosebumps even though you’ve heard them 400 times.
I know that content exists. Every dev has one.
Any of it works. Pick the thing that feels like the natural “Episode 2” after the trailer.
It’s not a “gift.“ Not a “freebie.“ Not a bribe.
It’s a continuation.
That distinction matters more than you think.
Because most people treat lead magnets like a transaction: “Give me your email, I’ll give you a thing.“ Dead end. Done.
No.
Your lead magnet starts a conversation. It’s the opening line of a relationship that ends with “BUY NOW“ on launch day.
Quick note: don’t overthink this. Seriously. The worst lead magnet is the one rotting in your “almost done” folder. Just pick something and use it.
Now – the mechanics. Stupid simple.
Put the opt-in form on your site, front and center, right next to the wishlist button.
Two paths for every visitor:
- Wishlist on Steam
- Download [your specific awesome thing about your game] – drop your email
Both visible. Both valuable. People can do both. That’s the point.
And for the love of pixels, never write “subscribe to our newsletter” and hide it in the footer like an apology.
Nobody in the history of the internet has ever woken up and thought, “Today I need another newsletter.” But “download the exclusive 40-page fantasy lore bible“? Now you’re talking.
Okay. That’s how you capture the people who wanted more than a trailer.
Now the real question – what do you send them next?
Phase 2: The welcoming (set it and forget it)
Here’s something that will save your sanity, and I genuinely don’t understand why more game devs don’t use it.
You automate your emails.
It’s called an autoresponder. You set it up once. Once. Then every new signup gets the same sequence automatically – in order, on the schedule you choose.
Someone joins Tuesday in March? Email 1 Tuesday, Email 2 Wednesday, Email 3 Thursday. Someone joins in August? Same thing. Same emails. Same timing. You touch nothing.
This is why the “2-hour setup“ from the first article isn’t marketing fluff. It’s not 2 hours every week. It’s 2 hours once. Then the system handles it while you go back to making your game.
Now, why does this sequence matter?
Here’s why. Right now, someone just handed you their email address and downloaded your artbook/demo/whatever. They’re warm. Curious. Interested.
And if the next thing they hear from you is… nothing? They forget you exist within 48 hours.
Your artbook rots in their Downloads folder. The demo gets “I’ll try it later”’d into eternity. Six months later when you finally email again, their reaction will be “who is this?”
That’s not a fan – that’s a stranger who accidentally gave you their email.
This automated sequence takes someone from “oh, cool game“ to “I need to know when this comes out.”
Here’s the exact play-by-play.
Email 1: Deliver the goods + shake their hand (Immediately)
They signed up for a reason. Give them the thing.
Top of the email. No scrolling. No preamble. Download link. Done.
Below that: short intro. Who you are. Why you’re making this game. One or two sentences about what makes it different – not a press release, just the honest version you’d tell a friend.
Email 2: Go deeper (Day 2)
Now you continue the conversation your lead magnet started.
They downloaded the artbook? Show the ugly early concepts. The ones that look like a kindergartner’s fever dream. Show the sketch you almost deleted that became your most iconic location.
They grabbed the demo? Talk about the mechanic they noticed… and the one they didn’t. “Did you find the thing behind the waterfall? No? Go back. I’ll wait.”
Wallpapers? Backstory? Tech overview?
Same principle. You give them “more” in the direction they already leaned.
Email 3: The struggle (Day 3)
Most devs are afraid to send this one.
Which is exactly how I know it’s the most important email in the sequence.
Here’s what you do: talk about something that went wrong. A mechanic that took eight months to get right. A moment you nearly quit. A bug so catastrophic it became an inside joke.
Why?
Because everyone reading your email has a project they’ve poured their soul into. When you show your version of “this was way harder than I thought,” something clicks.
You stop being a product and become a person.
It’s the difference between a corporate headshot and a photo of someone covered in sawdust in their workshop. One gets ignored. The other one gets respect.
This email is where subscribers become fans.
Email 4: Show them they’re not alone (Day 5)
This email is social proof. But the non-cringe kind.
What other players said. Beta tester quotes. Discord screenshots where someone lost their mind over a feature. Even a Reddit comment that caught you off guard.
The message here is not “look how popular we are.“ (That’s what insecure brands do.) It’s: “you’re part of something OTHER people are excited about too.“
Nobody wants to be the first person on the dance floor. Show them the music’s already playing.
And notice we skipped a day on purpose. The first three emails go daily because attention peaks right after signup. Then you ease off and train them into your regular rhythm.
Email 5: The vision (Day 7)
Now you pull back the camera. Way back.
Where is this game going? What’s the world you’re building? What will the finished version feel like that the demo can only tease?
This is the “holy crap, these people actually know what they’re doing” email. The one that upgrades you from “random dev with a cool trailer” to “someone building something I need to experience.”
End with a soft call to action. “If this sounds like something you want to play, here’s the Steam/GOG/Epic page. Wishlisting genuinely helps more than you’d think.”
Email 6: Bonus (Day 9)
Give them something they didn’t ask for. Unreleased concept art. A soundtrack clip. A screenshot nobody’s seen. A physics engine blooper reel.
They already got what they signed up for. Everything after that is a gift.
And here’s what I’ve learned about gifts in business: they build loyalty in a way that transactions never, ever can.
When you buy a coffee and someone hands you a coffee – that’s a transaction. Fair exchange. You forget it before you hit the door.
But when you buy a coffee and they slide a fresh cookie across the counter and say “on the house“ – you remember that place. You go back and tell your friends.
Be the cookie. 🍪
Email 7: The bridge (Day 11)
Last email with a very specific job: tell them what happens next.
“From here, I’ll send updates every week or two. Behind-the-scenes stuff, dev progress, things you won’t see anywhere else. And when we get close to launch, you’ll be the first to know.”
That’s it. You set the expectation. You name the frequency. You promise value.
Because without this email, the shift from daily autoresponder to regular updates feels like abandonment.
It’s like dating someone who texts every day for two weeks, then goes silent. What do you assume? Nothing good. They think you forgot them. Or lost interest. Or died.
Same with games. Too many of them die during development.
This email reframes the silence as intentional. “I’m not disappearing. I’m making the game. I’ll be back soon.”
After the autoresponder, they land on your broadcast list warm, invested, expecting to hear from you.
Which brings us to the part that terrifies everyone: what the hell do you actually send for the next several months?
Phase 3: The Long Game (don’t disappear)
Now comes the hardest part of this entire system. And it’s not what you think.
It’s not technical. It’s not creative. It’s not even “time-consuming.”
It’s just… showing up.
Because here’s what actually happens. Devs set up the welcome sequence, feel proud. Rightfully so. Then they crack their knuckles, close the email platform, and sprint back to building the game.
Weeks pass. Months pass. Subscribers who were hyped open their inbox one day and realize they haven’t heard from you since Obama was president.
And when you finally email them again, their reaction isn’t “oh hell yes, it’s finally ready.” It’s “who are you?”
All that hype? Gone. Evaporated.
Like leaving a pot of water on the stove with the lid off. It was boiling. Now it’s empty. And you’re standing there wondering where the water went.
So here’s the goal, and I need you to hear how simple it is: keep your fans warm.
That’s it. Not “build a content empire.“ Not “become a thought leader.“ Just don’t let people who already said “I wanna play this“ forget your game exists.
“But Andrey, I barely have time to make the game, let alone write emails…”
Stop. I need to interrupt you right there because you’re about to talk yourself out of the easiest part of this whole system.
One email every few weeks – that’s all it takes.
And you already have the content – you’re just throwing it away.
What did you do last week? You posted a screenshot on Twitter. Shared a GIF in Discord. Maybe dropped a devlog on Reddit or showed off a new mechanic in a 15-second clip.
Take that same screenshot, same GIF, same devlog and put it in an email.
That’s it. That’s the whole strategy.
“But they already saw it on Twitter…”
No. They didn’t.
And I know this because social media doesn’t work the way you want it to.
Social media is a billboard on a highway. Cars fly past at 70 mph. Some people glance. Most don’t. And the highway keeps sending new cars past your billboard every day.
That’s what social media optimizes for – reach, virality, new eyeballs. Six seconds of attention from strangers.
Email is different.
Email is a letter you slide under someone’s door. It sits there. On their floor. In their space. They pick it up when they’re ready. And it’s addressed to THEM – not to “whoever happens to be driving past.”
Social media finds new people. Email goes deeper with the SAME people. Over and over. Building familiarity, trust, and anticipation. All aimed at one moment: the day you hit “publish” and you need every one of them to show up with their wallets open.
And nobody in the history of the internet has complained about seeing cool stuff twice. It literally never happens. But you know what people do complain about? Not hearing about a game they were excited about.
Here’s the distinction that matters: your followers are spectators. Your email subscribers are pre-customers.
Spectators watch. Pre-customers buy.
And you? You’re not a content creator chasing views. You’re a game dev building a launch weapon. Every broadcast email is another round loaded into the chamber. When launch day comes, you pull the trigger and they all fire at once.
Now think about the ROI of your time for a second. Actually think about it.
If you spend 10 hours on a devlog and only post it on Twitter, you effectively threw 9 hours and 40 minutes into the trash. Email is how you stop wasting your own life.
Stop creating content for strangers. Deliver it to the people who already care.
Now. One more thing. And this might be…
The most important paragraph
…in this entire section, so don’t skim it. I mean it. Slow down.
Most devs talk like this: “I spent three weeks building a new lighting system. Here’s how it works. Here’s the tech stack. Here’s why it was hard.”
That’s a devlog. That’s you talking about your process. And it’s fine… for other developers. For the five people who want to debate about volumetric fog rendering.
But you’re not making a game for developers. You’re making it for players. Players don’t care how your lighting system works. They care that the forest is going to look terrifying at night.
This is the same mistake business owners make all the time. They talk about the process instead of the experience. “We use a proprietary seven-step methodology“ = nobody cares. “You’ll sleep through the night knowing your finances are handled“ = everyone cares.
So flip the message.
- “I built a new lighting engine“ becomes → “Wait until you see this forest at 2 AM. You will not want to be here alone.”
- “We finally fixed the combat system“ becomes → “Fights feel completely different now. Watch this 10-second clip and tell me you don’t want to punch something.”
- “Added procedural weather“ becomes → “Sometimes it’ll start raining mid-quest and you’ll have to decide: push through or find shelter. Choose wrong and there are consequences.”
See the shift?
You’re not reporting what YOU did. You’re previewing them what THEY are going to experience. Every email must make them think not “wow, game dev sounds hard“ but “I cannot wait to play this.”
It’s the difference between a chef describing his knife technique and a chef putting a plate in front of you that makes your mouth water. One is impressive. The other makes you reach for your fork.
Your emails are the plate. Make them reach for their fork.
Now,
Frequency
Let’s be honest. In an ideal world, you’d email once a week. Polished devlogs. Gorgeous screenshots. Perfectly timed updates. A beautiful cadence that would make a marketing textbook weep with joy.
We don’t live in that world.
We live in a world where development crawls for months while you debug a save system that corrupts files every third Tuesday for no discernible reason. Then suddenly you’ve got four things to show in one week. Then nothing for three weeks. Then your hard drive dies.
Life happens. Crunch happens. Sometimes the most exciting update you have is “I fixed the thing that was broken and now it’s slightly less broken.”
That’s fine.
So here’s the real rule: Once every two to four weeks is plenty. Once a month at the absolute minimum. The bar here is not “consistent flow of high-quality content.“ The bar is “don’t go silent long enough for them to forget your game exists.”
Think of it like watering a plant. You don’t need to water it every day. But if you forget it for two months, you’re not going to revive it with one big pour. A little water, regularly, keeps the thing alive.
A short email with a single screenshot beats a perfect devlog you never sent. Every time.
Phase 4: Pre-Launch Schedule
The moment you lock in a release date, everything changes.
Everything.
Up until now, you’ve been in maintenance mode. Watering the plant. Keeping the relationship alive. Sending an email here and there so your subscribers don’t forget you exist. That was the job, and you did it.
Now the job turns into one thing: Build a launch.
And here’s how I want you to think about it. You know that moment in a movie (any good movie) where the music starts to shift? Not all at once. Not a sudden jump-scare blast of orchestra. It’s subtle. The tempo ticks up. A new instrument sneaks in. Cuts get tighter. And you’re sitting there gripping the armrest thinking, “Something’s coming…” You can’t pinpoint when the shift started – you just feel it.
That’s what you’re building with email over the next three months.
Your subscribers won’t notice the tempo changing. They’ll just feel the excitement rising. And by the time launch day arrives, they won’t need convincing. They’ll be waiting at the door.
Here’s the schedule.
3 months out: every 2 weeks
You move from “whenever I remember” to biweekly. Every two weeks. On the calendar. Non-negotiable.
Content-wise, this is the tease phase. More screenshots. More video clips. Cryptic hints – “something big is coming and I can’t say what yet but OH MAN.“ Behind-the-scenes glimpses of the final stretch of development.
The vibe is: this game is getting real.
And somewhere in this window – you drop the date. Crystal clear, no ambiguity. You give them the exact day and you ask for one thing:
“Mark your calendar.”
Not “pre-order now.” Not “tell your friends.” Not “smash that wishlist button.” Just mark it.
Because that one small action turns a passive reader into an active waiter. It takes someone from “oh cool, they’re making a game“ to “November 14th. Got it.”
You know what that is? That’s a micro-commitment. And micro-commitments are the seeds that purchases grow from.
Think of it like a restaurant that lets you make a reservation. You haven’t paid for dinner yet. You haven’t even seen the menu. But the moment that date is in your phone, you’re going. Psychologically, you’ve already decided.
“Mark your calendar“ is your reservation.
1 month out: every week
Weekly now. Every single week.
And this is where the shift happens. You’re not just keeping them warm anymore – you’re actively building desire. Anticipation becomes the product.
Go deeper than you’ve gone before.
- Feature breakdowns that make players imagine themselves playing.
- The story behind your favorite mechanic. What it almost was. What it became.
- A personal note about why you made this game in the first place.
- Beta tester reactions that hit you in the feelings.
- Early review quotes.
- Screenshots of your Discord losing its collective mind over a reveal.
The vibe: this game will be worth your time and here’s why from six angles.
1 week out: every day
Here’s where most devs panic.
“EVERY day?! Won’t people unsubscribe?”
“Won’t they get annoyed?”
“Won’t they think I’m desperate?”
Stop. Stop right there. Let me tell you something.
They signed up for this moment. Months ago. They read your updates. They opened your emails. They marked their calendar. They’ve been waiting for THIS.
This is not the time to get shy. This is the time to show up.
Seven emails in seven days.
And yes, every successful launch in every industry does this. Movies don’t drop one trailer and whisper “good luck.” They flood the final week with trailers, BTS, interviews, premieres, countdowns, reviews.
Because the final week is when people decide.
You’re not being annoying here. You know what’s annoying? Finding out a game you wanted launched three weeks ago and nobody told you.
Here’s the week:
Day 7 – “It’s happening“
The countdown starts. Energy shifts from “someday“ to “seven days from now.“
Include the date. The time. Where to buy.
Think of it like the lights dimming in a theater. Nothing’s happened yet, but everyone just sat up a little straighter.
Day 6 – “A gift for the patient ones”
Reveal a launch-day bonus.
An early-bird discount. Exclusive content. A wallpaper pack. A soundtrack sampler. Anything that rewards the people who’ve been with you since the beginning.
Because here’s a principle I come back to over and over: loyalty must be rewarded. Specifically and publicly. The people who showed up early took a risk on you when you were just a logo and a promise.
Day 5 – “Everything you need to know“
FAQ day.
Price. Platforms. Specs. Estimated playtime. What’s included. What’s not. How multiplayer works (or doesn’t). Controller support.
This email kills objections before they become excuses.
Day 4 – “Don’t take my word for it.“
Social proof day. You step completely OUT of the spotlight.
Beta tester quotes. Streamer reactions. Reddit comments. A screenshot of someone saying “I played for six hours and forgot to eat.” Press mentions. Discord testimonials.
Let other people sell for you.
Because here’s the truth about persuasion: nothing you say about your own product is as convincing as what a stranger says about it. You telling me your game is great is “marketing” (everybody says that). A random person telling me your game is great is a recommendation.
Those hit differently.
Day 3 – “Why we made this game.“
This is the personal one. The vulnerable one. The one that’s a little scary to send.
Why does this game exist? Not the elevator pitch. The real answer. What it cost you – not in $$$, but in years, in doubt, in “why am I doing this“ moments at late nights. What you hope players will feel when they play it. What this project means to you beyond revenue.
This email does something features never do. It makes people think: “I’m not just buying a game. I’m supporting a person who poured everything into something they believe in.”
People don’t buy products. They buy into people. This is the email where you let them buy into you.
Day 2 – “Tomorrow.“
You know how the most powerful line in any speech is usually the shortest one? Same principle here. Short. Intense. Almost nothing.
After six days of building, layering, convincing – you go quiet. Just two words in the subject line: “[Game] – Tomorrow.”
“Set your alarm. Clear your evening. It’s almost here” – That’s the whole email. Let the brevity do the work. It’s the deep breath before the jump.
And then… launch day arrives.
Launch Day (5 Emails, One Day)
This is it. This is the day everything you’ve built points toward.
Remember the first four hours? That tiny window where Steam’s algorithm decides if you’re “the next big thing” or “another harmless indie that will buried under the avalanche of other releases”?
That window opens today.
And you are not – I repeat, NOT – going to sit back and hope people wander in like confused tourists.
You’re going to fill the room.
Here’s the plan: you send five emails today.
“Five emails in ONE DAY? Andrey, people will hate me. They’ll unsubscribe. They’ll report me for spam. They’ll…”
No. They won’t.
And here’s why.
They signed up for this. Literally.
Getting mad at launch-day emails is like buying front-row concert tickets and then complaining that the band is too loud. You came here for THIS.
And here’s the thing most people don’t understand about email: you’re not hitting anyone five times. You’re giving five different windows for different people to catch one message.
Engaged lists open at like 30-50%. That means each email hits a different slice of your audience. The person who saw the 6 a.m. email isn’t the same person who checks inbox at 9 p.m. while eating cereal out of the box.
You’re not spamming -you’re making sure they don’t miss the moment.
You’re not spamming. You’re making sure they don’t miss the moment.
Email 1: Early morning – “Today’s the day“
Send this BEFORE the game goes live. Two, three hours before.
Short. Electric. Buzzing.
“The game drops at [time]. Here’s the link. Bookmark it. Set an alarm. I’ll email you the second it’s live.”
That’s it.
You know those photos of people camping outside the Apple Store the night before a new iPhone release? Folding chairs, sleeping bags, thermoses of coffee, everyone buzzing with “we’re about to be first“ energy?
This email is you walking down the line handing out folding chairs.
You’re staging. Putting everyone in position. Making sure that when the doors open, there’s a crowd ready to rush in.
The crowd matters. Not just for your ego – for the algorithm. Steam sees a surge of purchases in the first hour and thinks: “This game is hot. Show it to more people.“
Morning email builds the crowd. Crowd triggers the algorithm. Algorithm does your marketing for free.
I love free.
Email 2: The second it goes live – “GO GO GO!“
The shortest email you’ll ever write.
Subject line: “[Game Name] is live. Go play it.”
Body: “The game is out. Buy it here: [LINK]. See you inside.”
Done. Send.
No trailer embed. No feature recap. No “I want to take a moment to thank everyone who believed in me on this incredible journey.“ Save the Oscar speech for tomorrow.
They’ve had three months of buildup. They know WHAT the game is. They know WHY they want it. The only thing between them and buying is the link.
So you give them the link and you get out of the way.
This is something I learned the hard way in business: Every extra word between your customer and the buy button is friction. Every paragraph is a chance for someone to think “I’ll read this later,” close the email, and disappear into the void.
Link. Click. Buy. Play. Done.
Email 3: 2 hours later – the nudge
Some people opened Email 2 and got distracted. Some didn’t open it at all because they were in a meeting, driving, dealing with a screaming kid, or pretending to work. Life happens.
This is the nudge. Different subject line, but same destination.
“Hey – game’s been live for a couple of hours now. [X] people already playing. If you meant to grab it and got sidetracked, here’s your link: [LINK].”
This email alone catches 10-15% of your list that would’ve slipped through the crack between “I’ll buy it later“ and “I forgot.” And that crack is where money goes to die.
At scale, that’s hundreds of sales in the window that matters most.
E-commerce companies make billions recovering abandoned carts with a simple reminder. This is the same play. Except you’re not recovering a cart – you’re recovering an intention.
And intentions are even more fragile than carts.
Email 4: Afternoon – “The reactions are coming in“
Send this four to six hours after launch.
By now, people are playing. Reviews are popping up. Discord is on fire. Someone posted a screenshot that made you laugh. A streamer said something that made you tear up a little.
This email isn’t for the people who already bought. They’re playing. They’re having fun. They don’t need you. (cruel)
This is for the people who need SOMEONE ELSE to go first.
You know the type. You might BE the type. The person who stands outside a new restaurant and peers through the window to see if anyone’s inside before walking in. If it’s empty? “Eh, maybe another time.“ If it’s packed? “Oh, this must be good. Let’s go.“
So you show them the packed restaurant.
- Player screenshots
- First reviews
- A quote like “I played for three hours and forgot I have a job”
- A streamer clip
- Anything that proves real humans are having a real good time
The frame here isn’t “please buy my game.“ The frame is: “Look at what’s happening WITHOUT YOU.“
Yes, that’s FOMO. It’s a blunt instrument. But launch day is not the time for delicate poetry. The urgency is real. The algorithm is watching. The snowball is rolling downhill.
Let your players sell for you. They’re more convincing than you’ll ever be. Always have been.
Email 5: Evening – “In case today was busy“
Last one. Eight to ten hours after launch.
This catches different time zones. People who finally got off work. People who saw an earlier email and thought “tonight,” and now need the final nudge.
And here’s what you DON’T do: you don’t go desperate.
Forget about “LAST CHANCE!“ – it’s not last chance, the game will be there tomorrow. You’re not selling concert tickets to a show that already happened. You go calm confidence.
Hey. The game launched this morning. Thousands of people are already playing. The first reviews are [great / better than I hoped / making me a little emotional, honestly]. If today was nuts and you’re just now seeing this – here’s your link. No rush. But I think you’re going to love it.”
That’s it.
Five emails. One day. Done.
If you did this right, the sales spike happened inside that first four-hour window. Steam noticed. And now it starts showing your game to people who’ve never heard of you, never visited your page, never signed up for anything.
Your email list just unlocked free marketing from the biggest gaming platform on the planet.
Not bad for a bunch of “just send a newsletter” energy, huh?
Post-Launch
Breathe.
Seriously. Take a breath. The sprint is over. You made it. You didn’t die. (Or if you did, please don’t haunt me)
Here is the thing: games aren’t SaaS. You don’t get to upsell someone into the “Premium Fun Tier.” Nobody’s asking for an enterprise plan with dedicated account management and a quarterly business review about goblin loot.
They bought the game. They’re playing it. That’s the win. You did the thing.
So what happens now with your email list?
Something beautifully simple: you send an email whenever something actually happens.
Patch notes. Major updates. A DLC announcement. A new feature that changes how the game plays. Or a bug fix that players have been screaming about.
You’re posting this stuff on Steam anyway. You’re already telling Discord. You’re already writing it SOMEWHERE. Just copy it into an email so the people who care most don’t miss it.
That’s the whole post-launch email strategy.
Tell your people the news. They’ll come back, leave another review, tell a friend. The system you built keeps working – you just don’t have to push it as hard.
Now here’s the part I really want you to hear, because this is where the system pays you back in a way most devs never experience.
When your next game is ready – or your DLC, expansion, sequel, weird spin-off, “we swear it’s not a cash grab” update… You don’t start from zero.
Read that again.
You. Don’t. Start. From. Zero.
You start from a list of people who already bought from you. Already like you. Already opened your emails for months. Already told friends. Already want to know what you’re making next.
Your customer acquisition cost for those people?
$0
Not “low.“ Not “optimized.“ Zero. Because they’re already yours.
Every business I’ve ever worked with – every single one – would trade almost anything for a list of proven buyers who are waiting for the next thing. Most companies spend thousands trying to build what you’re going to have sitting in your email platform like a loaded launch cannon.
The hardest launch is always the first one. You’re building the system, growing the list, learning the rhythm, sending emails that feel weird at first, and pushing through every voice in your head that says “nobody wants to hear from me.“
Every launch after that? You start with a crowd instead of an empty room. You start with proof instead of promises. You start with fans instead of strangers.
And that changes everything.
Now close this article.
Stop reading and go build the damn system.
P.S. Some devs will read this and build it themselves. Some will bookmark it and never touch it. And some will hand it to someone who does this for a living and say “make it happen.“ If you’re the third kind – I build these systems end-to-end. [Details here]