You may remember seeing the Join Us trailer during the Xbox Showcase in June. The clip introduced a darkly humorous cooperative cult‑simulation, where robed followers zip around on pigs, unleash machine‑gun fire, and the finale hints at colossal, Cthulhu‑like tentacles. What didn’t appear in that teaser was the infamous snake‑gun, a quirky weapon that, according to Joe Dietsch—CEO and creative director of Wolf Haus Games—originated from a simple suggestion by a team member’s child. "His son asked, ‘What if there’s a snake gun?’" Dietsch recounts.
"We had a modular weapon system, so I whipped up a snake‑shooting gun in about thirty minutes. The kid went nuts, and the weapon stayed in the final build." That anecdote encapsulates the chaotic, sandbox‑style gameplay Join Us promises: an open‑world survival experience where players can recruit AI followers—or friends in co‑op mode—to build a 1970s‑style cult empire. It also illustrates why the studio’s tech‑first mindset matters.
By focusing on reusable tools and scalable systems, Wolf Haus has managed to produce a high‑fidelity, large‑scale title with an exceptionally lean crew. "We set out to be disruptors," says Michael Abbott, the studio’s chief operating officer.
"Everyone told us a twelve‑person team couldn’t deliver a game of this magnitude. We’d been used to punching well above our weight in indie film, so we knew it was possible," Abbott explains.
After 80 pitches, the team finally secured equity funding from Krafton and Lifelike Capital, both of which took 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 veteran makeup artist Larry Abbott and helped launch Ascendant Pictures, a production house founded by Chris Roberts before he turned his attention to Star Citizen.
Abbott later produced movies such as Fight for ’84, starring Jamie Foxx. Join Us began as a hobby project for Dietsch in Unreal Engine. "Unreal was free to download, and I’d always loved games. The barrier to creating something felt huge, but I started tinkering with YouTube tutorials and built a few tiny prototypes," he says.
Though he had no formal game‑dev background, he quickly moved from those experiments to a more ambitious concept: a doomsday cult simulator that fused survival mechanics with grindhouse cinema aesthetics. He built a proof‑of‑concept demo, assuming he would eventually hit a technical wall.
When he showed the demo to Abbott, the latter took it to Dooma, a partner that helped refine the vision. Dooma’s CFO and narrative director, Dooma Wendschuh, entered the picture after a career that spanned film production, screenwriting, and video‑game writing for titles like Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones, Assassin’s Creed, and Batman: Arkham Origins. Wendschuh also founded several tech ventures, most notably the cannabis formulation company Ebbu, which sold for roughly C$430 million. After selling Ebbu, Wendschuh bought a remote island restaurant in Canada, intending to retire.
Yet, in classic Hollywood fashion, an unexpected call from his old roommate Michael Abbott pulled him back. "I was looking at a game Joe had made, and it blew my mind.
I came out of retirement to help," Wendschuh says. He introduced the project to Reid Schneider, a former Warner Bros.
Games VP now heading Raccoon Logic, and Schneider recruited former Ubisoft Montreal programmer Pierre‑Olivier Chartrand as chief technology officer. With the core team assembled, the next hurdle was financing—a daunting task amid a market downturn in 2023.
Initial pitches generated interest but not commitments. The studio eventually enlisted Creative Artists Agency (CAA) to represent them, returning to the pitch circuit in 2024.
Their persistence paid off when Lifelike Capital and Krafton closed a seed round, providing the capital needed to continue development. Abbott notes that CAA’s connections, along with the veteran presence of Schneider and Chartrand, were instrumental. "My agent at CAA, Derek Douglas, had represented me for twelve years and previously ran the video‑game department at William Morris," says Wendschuh.
What truly sets Join Us apart is how it’s being built: a thirteen‑person core team that maintains a "everyone has a voice" culture. Dietsch emphasizes that early‑stage tool development was crucial.
"Every system must be scalable and debuggable by a single person. We invested heavily in a toolkit that lets us expand features across an open world without the project collapsing under its own weight," he explains.
The first year of development was therefore split between ideating gameplay and engineering the tools that would sustain future expansions. The equity funding model gave Wolf Haus the runway to perfect those tools.
"Krafton and Lifelike’s investment funds the game directly, making it essentially self‑funded. We’re now adding a modest amount of project finance for marketing, but the core development has been covered by our equity partners," Wendschuh says. This arrangement aligns investor incentives with the studio’s ethos of building reusable tools rather than cutting corners. When asked about generative AI, the team draws a firm line.
"We don’t use generative AI for any creative work. The human touch is essential to us," Dietsch states. Wendschuh adds that the only AI they employ is for administrative tasks like calendar management and email drafting. Krafton, despite branding itself as an "AI‑first" company, specifically required Wolf Haus to avoid AI‑generated content, mirroring a similar stance taken by Krafton‑owned Neon Giant.
The studio’s commitment to handcrafted content is evident: the six‑kilometre‑square map in Join Us is entirely hand‑built, and all 15,000 voice lines were recorded by human actors. "Even as a tiny indie, we felt it was vital to keep the experience fully human‑crafted," Dietsch says. Dietsch also reflects on the differences between filmmaking and game development. In film, an idea can take years to materialise, requiring approvals, casting, and extensive pre‑production.
In games, an idea can be prototyped within hours, allowing immediate iteration. "You can have a concept in the morning, drop it into the engine, and see it in action that same day," he enthuses. Wendschuh points out that movies are heavily front‑loaded: securing a high‑profile director or star is often the make‑or‑break factor for studio green‑light. While anyone can technically shoot a film with a consumer‑grade camera, breaking through without marquee names is rare.
Games, by contrast, have far fewer gatekeepers. "You don’t need an A‑list actor or director to launch a successful game," he notes. Both mediums, however, share a core creative drive: storytelling and immersion.
Dietsch recalls that as a six‑year‑old he wanted to make either movies or games, and a coin toss plus a Christmas camera set him on his path. He learned programming on a TI‑83 calculator, blending technical curiosity with narrative passion.
"Whether you’re making a film or a game, you’re delivering an experience, telling a story, and engaging an audience. That fundamental goal never changes." In summary, Wolf Haus demonstrates that a small, tightly knit team—backed by Hollywood experience, savvy tech development, and strategic equity partners—can produce a sprawling, high‑quality game without relying on generative AI. Their journey from a simple Unreal Engine experiment to a full‑blown cult‑simulator showcases how tool‑centric pipelines, disciplined scope management, and a commitment to handcrafted artistry can defy industry expectations and deliver a uniquely human gaming experience.