
I don't draw a line between my personal and professional lives. I never learned how. Whether I'm helping build cultural preservation tools with Indigenous elders, designing creative programs for neurodivergent adults, or leading online game communities through conflict, the posture is the same: show up, pay attention, build something that holds. I hold a Masters in Arts and Community Practice from the University of Melbourne. My work has ranged from Nickelodeon and MTV Networks to community archives, public art, and player-run worlds. The environments change. I don't.
A whole subcommunity had lost its flagship server, and there was nothing replacing it. I built Valoria Earth to answer that gap: a geopolitical siegewar server on a 1:500 scale Earth map where diplomacy, trade, war, and nation-building were left in players' hands. The project grew through collaboration with long-standing developers in that scene, custom Java work, 120+ integrated plugins, paid marketing across adjacent communities, and cinematic trailers designed to make the world feel mythic before players ever stepped into it. It grew from three Discord members to more than a thousand, supported by a 35-person staff team I recruited and led. Launch day hit 150 concurrent players. A week later, a map-generation failure broke the world at the foundation. I refunded every rank purchase, relaunched rather than normalize a broken experience, and closed only when I could no longer support the community at the level it deserved.
Every long-running Minecraft server eventually becomes part town square, part municipal government, and part forensic investigation into who stole the diamonds. Wildercraft has always had a little of all three. I moved from player to staff to co-owner over six years, revived the Community Representatives program, led weekly rep meetings, and produced trailers during periods when the server needed fresh energy. Meeting the owner and long-time players in person years later made something obvious: this was never just a server.
The Discovery app came out of a specific ethical problem: how do you build a digital system for Indigenous song, language, and cultural practice without flattening it into a Western archive? Working through the Research Unit for Indigenous Arts and Cultures, I collaborated closely with Dr. Sally Treloyn and Dr. Reuben Brown, whose ethnomusicological research and fieldwork shaped the platform's structure. The work was also guided by a harder question raised in "How Do You Feel About Squeezing Oranges?": when knowledge is documented, does the community keep the juice, or are they handed back the empty glass? The result was a relational song database representing more than 60,000 years of cultural practice, built to work with institutional archives without surrendering community control to them. What stays with me most is still simple: handing an iPad to an elder and watching them move through ancestral songs in a system built to return knowledge, not extract it.
I started in visual effects and post-production, where too much important work was being held together with spreadsheets and workarounds, so I built a FileMaker production-tracking database for the Post Effects team because waiting for the industry to solve it was not useful. That instinct carried me across seven years of multidisciplinary work in post, production support, systems design, training, outreach, studio operations, and early digital archiving. I helped co-found the Digital Operations department, developed systems informed by institutions like the Library of Congress and LACMA when entertainment had no settled playbook, mentored interns, launched Friday Nicktern Screenings, and helped bring animation education into underserved schools through Let's Draw. The throughline was not any one tool. It was building structures, access points, and support systems that let creative communities do better work.
At Art Life, the adults I worked with were artists. The job was to treat that as fact and build from there. I taught photography, digital art, stop-motion animation, publishing, and touchscreen-based creative tools, helping participants develop portfolios through real practice, experimentation, and finished work they could stand behind. We made images in the studio and out in Melbourne. We built work worth printing, sharing, and keeping. I also co-founded the Art Life Open Studio Coloring Book, which brought 38 artists together in one published object and gave the program a lasting form people could hold in their hands.
I joined through a professional relationship that had held for nearly twenty years, then contributed in FileMaker Pro, HTML/CSS, and JavaScript across multiple live production systems — an environment that demanded precision, strong judgment, and clean thinking.
I came in after production and supervised post for nine separate Home Depot Spring Preview 2024 videos under an extremely tight turnaround, coordinating editors, a graphic artist, revisions, approvals, and final delivery through Wrike while effectively living on-call. The footage came from multiple live-action shoots. The job was to turn that volume of moving parts into finished, studio-grade pieces in time for a live media event where there was no room for almost.
My visual and academic work asks many of the same questions as the rest of my career, just more directly: who controls the frame, what a system preserves, what it erases, and what it means to give something back rather than simply capture it. Through documentary photography, fieldwork, and critical writing in Australia and Indonesia, I have explored public space, digital ownership, ethnographic responsibility, and the social assumptions built into the worlds people move through.