I didn’t set out to invent a new sport...

... I’ve spent most of my life designing things that were supposed to work. Mechanisms. Constructions. Systems. If something didn’t function, it had to be adjusted. If it failed — redesigned.
At some point I realised I was looking at sport the same way.

I love disc golf. I’m not a professional, just a persistent enthusiast. I appreciate precision, trajectory, the quiet satisfaction of a well-read line. But I also noticed something: many games come with too much inherited structure. Fixed fields. Fixed terminology. Fixed expectations. 

 

And outside those fields, people move less than they should. Young people scroll. Older people slow down.
Everyone is “busy”.

So I began testing a simple question:
What is the minimum needed for a real precision game?

 

A light disc.
A target.
And the rule that after every throw — you walk.
That last part matters.

DiscAim didn’t appear as a business model. It appeared as a prototype. I adjusted weight, balance, material. I tested how the disc behaves when thrown softly, when rolled, when aimed at something vertical. I wanted it to reward attention, not brute force.

The game grew from that. Not on a prepared field, but in ordinary space. A park corner. A flag. A bucket that turned out to be surprisingly honest as a target. A route invented on the spot. We needed a word for these playable fragments, so we called them snippets. Engineers like naming things. It helps thinking.

DiscAim is not golf. Not disc golf. Not a simplified version of anything. It’s its own structure — still forming.
And that is intentional.

I am at an age where I don’t need to prove that something is “the next big thing”. I am more interested in whether something is meaningful, playable, adaptable. Whether it allows a teenager and a retiree to stand in the same space and compete on precision rather than power.

Health changes. Speed changes. But attention — attention can improve.
DiscAim is built around that belief.

It also carries a quiet protest: against sitting too much, against outsourcing play to screens, against the idea that sport must always be institutional before it is real.

Aim.
Shoot.
Walk — anywhere.
That is not a slogan. It is the core mechanic.

The Club exists because development should be visible. Games shouldn’t fossilise too quickly. Rules should survive contact with real space. Formats should earn their place.

I don’t present DiscAim as finished. I present it as functioning and evolving.
Having spent most of my life designing things, I’ve learned that a good system shouldn’t only work today — it should make room for tomorrow.

So DiscAim isn’t just a way to play. I also built an app — simple, intuitive, and intentionally light.
It helps keep score without turning the game into admin work.

It lets you share results with family and friends — or anyone curious enough to follow along.
And it’s flexible enough to support not only the formats we use now, but the ones we haven’t invented yet.

If the game can evolve, the structure around it should be able to evolve too.
If you are curious, test it.
If you are sceptical, observe it.
If you are enthusiastic, improve it.

We’re not in a hurry. We experiment, we fine-tune, we laugh at ourselves now and then — and we keep learning.
If this idea makes you raise an eyebrow (in a good way), walk a stretch with us. Not as a spectator — as an accomplice. The most interesting trajectories are rarely calculated solo — even by someone who makes a living doing the math.

And who knows… the next turn in DiscAim might start with you ;)

 

Keep playing,

Gee Vee