The trailer for Join Us first appeared during the Xbox Showcase in June, offering a glimpse of a darkly humorous co‑op cult simulator where robed followers zip around on pigs, fire machine guns, and eventually confront massive, Cthulhu‑like tentacles. One element that didn’t make the final cut of the teaser was the infamous “snake gun,” a quirky weapon that, according to Wolf Haus Games’ CEO and creative director Joe Dietsch, was born from a simple suggestion by a team member’s child.
"His son asked, ‘What would a snake‑shooting gun look like?’" Dietsch recalls. "Because we had built a modular gun system that could be scaled in minutes, I whipped up a prototype in roughly half an hour.
The kid went nuts, and we kept the weapon in the game." This anecdote captures the chaotic, improvisational spirit that defines Join Us, an open‑world sandbox survival title where players can recruit followers—or invite friends in co‑op mode—to build a 1970s‑style cult empire. It also illustrates the studio’s technology‑first mindset, which has allowed a small crew to produce a high‑fidelity experience that would traditionally require a much larger staff. Michael Abbott, Wolf Haus’s chief operating officer, sums up the team’s philosophy: "We set out to be disruptors.
Everyone told us a twelve‑person studio couldn’t deliver a game of this scope, but we knew from our indie‑film days that we could punch well above our weight." The studio’s journey began with an arduous 80‑pitch marathon before securing equity investment from Krafton and Lifelike Capital, both of which now hold stakes in Wolf Haus. The founders’ Hollywood pedigree runs deep. Dietsch studied film at Chapman University alongside Louie Gibson—son of Mel Gibson—and the two later co‑wrote and co‑directed the indie features Happy Hunting and Manifest West.
Abbott is the son of renowned makeup artist Larry Abbott and helped launch Ascendant Pictures, a production company originally founded by Chris Roberts before he turned his attention to Star Citizen. Abbott’s film résumé also includes producing credits on titles such as Fight for ’84 starring Jamie Foxx. Join Us originated from Dietsch’s early experiments in Unreal Engine.
"I discovered Unreal was free to download and started tinkering with YouTube tutorials," he says. Though he had no formal training, he managed to create a handful of small prototypes before committing to a larger vision.
"I kept circling back to a doomsday cult simulator because it merged my love of survival games with grindhouse cinema, essentially fusing the things I adore about movies and games into a single IP." The proof‑of‑concept demo eventually landed on Abbott’s desk, who then presented it to Dooma, the studio’s early backer. Dooma’s CFO and narrative director, Dooma Wendschuh, had previously built a career as a film producer and screenwriter before transitioning to video games in the early 2000s.
He founded Sekretagent Productions, providing narrative services for titles such as Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones, Assassin’s Creed, and Batman: Arkham Origins. Later, he launched several tech ventures, including the cannabis‑formulation company Ebbu, which sold for roughly C$430 million (US$330 million).
After selling Ebbu, Wendschuh bought a remote island restaurant in Canada, intending to retire and enjoy a quiet life. Yet, in classic Hollywood fashion, an unexpected call from his former roommate Michael Abbott pulled him back into the industry. "I was looking at the demo Joe sent over, and it completely blew me away.
It was the spark that got me out of retirement," Wendschuh recounts. He then introduced the project to Reid Schneider, a former Warner Bros. Games vice president now heading Raccoon Logic, the studio behind Journey to the Savage Planet. Schneider brought on Pierre‑Olivier Chartrand, a veteran programmer from Ubisoft Montreal, as chief technology officer.
With the core team assembled, the next hurdle was financing—a task made tougher by a market downturn that began in 2023. Initial pitches generated enthusiasm but little commitment. The studio eventually partnered with Creative Artists Agency (CAA) in Los Angeles, which helped refine their pitch strategy and secure the seed round from Lifelike Capital and Krafton in 2024.
"Having CAA on our side, along with seasoned game veterans like Reid and Pierre‑Olivier, gave investors confidence that we could deliver," says Wendschuh. Despite the high‑profile backing, Wolf Haus has deliberately kept its headcount low—13 full‑time staff members at the time of writing.
Dietsch explains that a small, tightly knit team ensures everyone has a voice and can directly influence the creative direction. To make a sprawling open‑world title feasible with such a lean crew, the studio invested heavily in custom tooling from day one. "Every system we build must be scalable and debuggable by a single developer," he notes.
"We spent the first year simultaneously designing gameplay and engineering the tools that would let us expand the world without it collapsing under its own weight." The equity funding model gave Wolf Haus the runway to perfect these tools. Krafton and Lifelike’s investment was used to self‑fund development, with only a modest amount of project finance earmarked for marketing. "Our investors are aligned with us because they benefit from the studio’s enterprise value," Wendschuh explains. "That alignment encourages us to keep building robust tools rather than cutting corners." When asked about the role of generative AI, the team is unequivocal: they do not employ it in any creative capacity.
"We believe a game should retain a human touch," Dietsch asserts. "Using AI to generate assets would undermine the very reason we get up each morning—to craft something ourselves." Wendschuh adds that the studio’s limited use of AI is confined to administrative tasks like calendar management and email drafting. Even Krafton, which has publicly positioned itself as an "AI‑first" company, insisted that Wolf Haus refrain from using generative AI for core development. This stance mirrors the approach of Krafton‑owned Neon Giant, which also denied employing AI in its creative pipeline.
The commitment to handcrafted content extends to the game’s massive six‑kilometre‑square map and its 15,000 voice lines, all recorded by human actors. "For a small indie project, we felt it was crucial to keep everything hand‑made," Dietsch says.
"That authenticity is part of what makes Join Us feel alive." Dietsch also highlights a key advantage of game development over filmmaking: immediacy. In cinema, an idea can take years to materialise, requiring scripts, casting, location scouting, and studio approvals before cameras even roll.
By contrast, a game concept can be prototyped within hours and iterated upon instantly inside the engine. "You can have an idea at breakfast and see it in the world by lunch," he says, describing the exhilarating feedback loop that fuels his creativity. Wendschuh points out that film production is heavily front‑loaded, with massive budgets tied to securing a handful of high‑profile talent before a project ever sees the light of day. While anyone can technically shoot a movie with a consumer‑grade camera, breaking through without star power or distribution is rare.
Video games, however, have fewer gatekeepers; a small team can release a polished product directly to digital storefronts, bypassing the need for A‑list actors or directors. Both veterans agree that storytelling remains the core driver, regardless of medium. "When I was six, I wanted to make movies or games—it boiled down to a coin toss and maybe a camera for Christmas," Dietsch reflects. "I learned programming on a TI‑83, so the passion has always been there.
Whether you’re crafting a film or a game, you’re delivering an experience, telling a story, and engaging an audience. The tools change, but the purpose stays the same."