The candy path only moves forward. A player who runs out of money is removed from the board. There is no pause, no recess, no time-out for grief, illness, or wonder. The game does not care why you stopped moving — only that you did.

Every square on the board is a transaction. Your hunger is someone's revenue stream. Your loneliness is a subscription. Your attention is the product — packaged, auctioned, delivered before you finish this sentence. Players who do not sell will buy. There is no third option.

Draw a card. Take your turn. The board rewards velocity. Ideas left unshipped are penalized — you slide back to the Peppermint Forest, back to zero, back to invisible. Move fast. You can fix it later. (You will not fix it later.) The notifications are already waiting.

The board rearranges itself every few years. The players who built the last candy kingdom are stranded on a square that no longer exists. You must become the thing that replaces you — hollow yourself out on a schedule, before someone else does it for free. This is called innovation. This is called growth. This is called surviving.

There is no off-season. There is no sabbatical. There is no such thing as enough. The A Player does not rest when they are tired — they rest when they are dead, and even then their equity vests. You are judged not by what you built, but by what you are building right now. The board is watching. The board is always watching. Tap faster. Move faster. The others are not sleeping.