I grew up in Ouanaminthe, in northern Haiti, in a family that did not have money to leave anyone. What we had instead was transmission. My grandmother could make a meal out of almost nothing and she taught it hand to hand, not from a book. Nobody wrote it down because writing it down was not how it worked. You stood next to her, and one day you could do it too.
That system is beautiful and it is fragile. It works right up until the person is gone and you realize the recipe left with them, because it only ever lived in the doing. I have watched families lose more in that quiet way than any estate lawyer ever handled.
The money is inventoried down to the penny. The inheritance that matters is inventoried nowhere.
Think about your own family. What sentence does your mother say that you now catch yourself saying? What can your father fix that no one else can? What does your family do at the table that you have always done, without knowing who started it? Every one of those is being passed down right now — invisibly, unrecorded, one good year away from being lost.
So we built a game that writes it down.
The Inheritance is free, and the mechanic is deliberately simple: the youngest person at the table asks the question, and the oldest answers first. Three tiers — the Words, the Hands, the Ways. “Show us your hands. Tell us one thing they learned to do, and who taught them.”
Then the family votes one answer into the vault. The vault lives on your device and grows every holiday you play. It starts as one line. Over a few years it becomes the document no lawyer could ever draft — an actual inventory of what your family is, in your family's own words.
Do it while the oldest generation is still at the table to answer. That is the whole thing. The money will get handled either way. The rest only survives if someone asks in time.