One night, I opened the analytics dashboard without any particular reason to check anything. It was more of a habit than a habit—closer to a compulsion. Just by looking at the numbers, I felt something satisfied knowing whether what I created had reached someone. But to be honest, I didn't have high expectations. I usually only looked at access from Japan, and I thought that was enough. After all, I made this in Japanese for Japanese people, so that was only natural. Just as I was about to scroll the screen, an unfamiliar country flag icon caught my eye. Brazil. And Indonesia. Mexico. Portugal. Countries I had never visited. Someone living in a place whose language, culture, and even rhythm of life I didn't know had downloaded what I made alone onto their smartphone. I couldn't quite process that fact in my head for a while.
I think anyone doing indie development would understand this, but the silence after release is quite difficult.
With a company product, there's a team, code reviews, and you can even set up user interviews. But in my case, I write code, polish the design, pass the app store review, and then—silence. I don't report to anyone, I'm not praised by anyone, the app just exists somewhere in the world. That's all.
Right after release, this gap feels especially large. After all that preparation, all that tension, testing over and over, and yet in the first few days after release, I feel like "maybe no one has noticed." I felt the same way with my first app.
"Why am I making this?" The Question
At one point, I really stopped. It's not that users weren't increasing, but the growth was so gradual that I couldn't tell if what I was making had any meaning.
With little feedback and a rating stuck at 3.2 stars, every time a review came in saying "I wish this feature existed," I'd shrink back thinking "I might not be able to make that." Checking analytics every morning gradually became depressing. The reason I kept making things was the passive reason that I had no reason to stop.
I won't write the specific number of users from Brazil here. It wasn't many. But there was definitely one person there.
I spent some time imagining that person. What kind of person were they? What were they using it for? How did they find my app? When using an app made in a different language, weren't they finding it a bit inconvenient?
It was the first time I'd thought so seriously about someone I'd never met, never talked to, whose name and face I didn't know.
"Reaching" Happens Quietly
In theory, publishing something on the internet should reach people all over the world. But I had almost never felt that in a real way until then.
It's different from the feeling of a social media post "going viral." That clearly moves numbers, notifications come in, and you feel a rush. But the Brazil icon that appeared in my analytics was far from that flashiness. Quietly, secretly, but certainly, my app was in someone's smartphone.
That quietness struck me even deeper.
That night sparked me to pause and reflect. Over this past year, what did I do, what did I give up, what did I put off?
To be honest, I made more mistakes than successes.
I had left the English app store description to machine translation. I left the screenshots in Japanese. I assumed "it's for Japanese users anyway" and put off internationalization. The onboarding screen hadn't been updated since the beginning, and honestly, I noticed "this won't make sense to first-time users" but left it alone.
Yet there are people using it. That fact came with a strange mix of self-loathing and gratitude.
Even Small Things Can Be Done
I know from experience that even if I psych myself up saying "okay, I'll fix everything," it doesn't last with solo development. Setting an impossible amount of work, cornering myself, burning out—I've done that pattern many times.
So this time I decided to do things small. Just one thing first. I changed the first screenshot to a design that could be read in English too. That's it. It took less than an hour.
The week after I changed it, downloads from English-speaking regions increased slightly. It's not a dramatic change, and I can't prove causation, but I definitely felt that sense of "I changed one thing, and it reached one person."
I think many people doing indie development have the stance of "making what I want to use." I'm the same. External evaluation comes second to my own sense of need.
But honestly, sometimes that motivation alone hits a limit. When I start thinking "it's fine if I use it," the polish on the details gets sloppy, the intervals between updates get longer, and eventually opening the repository becomes a hassle.
That night I learned about the Brazil user was the night "a reason from outside" came into me. Someone is using it. That alone made me want to continue. Strangely, the fact that I couldn't see that person's face became an even greater source of strength. Without names or attributes, various images of people overlapped, and the feeling of "I want to do something about this" became concrete.
When You Only Look at Numbers, You Miss Things
Analytics are convenient. But when you only chase numbers, "users" become symbols. When you get too used to words like DAU and retention rate and crash rate, the presence of each individual fades. I still check analytics regularly, but since that Brazil day, I've made a point of looking at the map by country. "What kind of use case do people in this country have?" Just imagining that changes my perspective a bit. Behind the numbers, there's life. I want to remember that feeling.
I think the reasons for continuing indie development are different for everyone. Some want to make it a side business, some want to improve their skills, some purely love making things, some want a portfolio. Everyone has their own reasons, and that's fine.
In my case, since that night, "reaching" has become one reason.
The starting point of making what I want to use hasn't changed. But to that, I've added the expectation that "it might reach someone I don't know." It's not a goal to strive for or an obligation—it's a softer feeling. Like putting a message in a bottle and throwing it in the sea—I don't know if it will reach anyone, but if it does, I'd be happy.
The Quiet Strength of Continuing Alone
A team would be reassuring, but being alone has its own freedom. I can change direction without waiting for someone's approval. If I decide "let's stop this," I can decide immediately. Conversely, if I think "this is interesting," I can start making it at midnight.
The strength of continuing alone lies in that agility. The night I learned about the Brazil user, by the next morning I was already thinking "what should I fix?" I didn't need to set up meetings, agree on direction, or get anyone's permission. That's quietly, I think, amazing.
If you're reading this article, you're probably in the middle of making something, about to make something, or perhaps wondering "should I continue?"
What I want to convey is not "do your best." Continuing to do your best is difficult, and I understand there are times when you can't.
But if I could tell you one thing. Open your analytics. Look at the map. If there's access from a country you don't know, imagine that country a little. Someone you've never met, never talked to, is using what you made.
That quiet surprise gradually transforms into the feeling of "I want to make again." At least, that's what happened to me.
If you keep making, someday it will reach Brazil. Being able to think that is why I open my screen today.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer. Making iOS apps and web services hand-in-hand with AI
