Every chart you have tried before asked you to remember a new thing
every evening for the rest of the year. That is the part that fails, and it
is almost never the child who fails it.
So here is the whole thing,
in order, with what each part actually costs you.
It asks for a first name and an age. That is the entire list of things it ever wants to know about your child — no surname, no birthday, no photograph, no school.
Then it asks what is hardest right now, and you pick from 27 things across 7 areas — mornings, homework, big feelings, brothers and sisters — or type one it has never heard of. You are not inventing a chart from a blank page, which is the other place these die.
Then what your child actually wants, and how often each should happen. Never what it costs. You never set a price for anything. You say "about once a week" and the arithmetic is done for you, so a prize is never accidentally three months away.
The one question that changes nothing: it asks whether you have tried something like this before. No setting moves either way. It only changes what it says to you next, because a parent on their fourth chart needs a different sentence than a parent on their first.
Two questions, and both are theirs: which of the 14 worlds all this happens in, and the name of the voice that will notice things — a coach, a sensei, a flight director, whatever their world calls it.
That is the whole of their part in setting it up, and it matters more than it looks. A chart a child watched being made about them is a verdict. One they picked the colors for is theirs.
They can change world any day they like and lose nothing by doing it — not a point, not a rank, not a prize they were saving toward.
They did one of the things. You open it together and they tap it. The number goes up. Their companion says something about the specific thing they did — there are 38 of those, and none of them is "good job".
Then nothing else happens. No streak to protect, no target on the screen, no bar filling up, no red. A day nobody taps is a blank day, not a zero — because a missed day is almost always a busy grown-up, and a child should never take the hit for your Thursday.
Tapped the wrong thing? There are five minutes to undo it. That undo is the only operation in this entire product that makes a number smaller, and it exists so that the promise underneath — nothing is ever taken away — can be true rather than nearly true.
Here is the thing that kills a chart in month four: the trouble that was hardest in September is solved by December, so its button has quietly become free points. The child taps it because it is easy, you start seeing noise instead of news, and you stop looking.
So when a button has been tapped on 10 of the last 14 days and has existed for at least 21 days, you get told. Not the child — you.
You look at the plain numbers and decide. If you agree, the button retires with a sentence a struggling child almost never hears: you don't need this one any more, you just do it. It moves to a list of things they just do now, and every point it ever earned stays exactly where it is.
The app never decides this on its own, and it never will. Tapping a lot can mean "still hard, still working at it" or "become automatic". Not tapping can mean solved, or given up, or a grown-up who forgot. Those look identical from here, so the app brings you the numbers and stops.
This is a real starting board for a 7 year old, exactly as the app builds it — not an illustration of one. Every child's is different, because you picked from what is hard for yours.
Nothing here is a rule they broke. Every line is a thing they did.
Open it once a day, at a moment that already exists — the walk home,
after teeth, sitting down at dinner. Tap the things that happened. Say the
sentence out loud.
That is the whole commitment, and it is deliberately
small, because the version that asks for more is the version you stop doing
in nine days.
How it works · Answers · Worlds · The thinking · What we hold about your child · The deal