About this site

About this site

My Urban Eatery started from one observation: plenty of people spend longer scrolling for something to play than they spend playing it. The goal here is not to hold the largest pile of games. It is to shorten the distance between "I'm bored" and "I've started" as far as it will go.

Where our responsibility ends

The dividing line is the frame a game runs in. Everything outside that frame is ours: deciding which shelf a game belongs on, every sentence printed on the page, how fast a page opens on a weak connection, and giving you a straight answer when something disappears. Everything inside the frame belongs to the studio that made the game — the rules, the artwork, the sound, any advertising it shows, and the updates it ships without telling us. We did not build these games, we hold no rights in them, and we cannot change anything happening inside one.

Rules we hold ourselves to when writing

First, the marketing blurb that arrives attached to a game catalogue never gets pasted onto a page here. It is thin, it repeats itself, and it already sits on a dozen other sites. Second, a number we cannot count ourselves does not appear on the site — no stars, no scores, no player totals. Third, the Thai and English pages are written separately rather than translated one from the other, because the two audiences need different things explained.

What this address used to be

Before this, myurbaneatery.com belonged to a restaurant business in the United States that has since closed. We did not buy that business, we did not take it over, and we have no connection to its former owners. Its trading name, logo, photographs and menus appear nowhere on this site.

Anyone who follows an old link here from an article or a directory gets a plain answer: that page is permanently gone. It does not get quietly bounced into a games page instead. Someone hunting for a dinner menu deserves to learn it no longer exists rather than to land somewhere they never asked for.

When we get it wrong

A wrong description, a game filed on the wrong shelf, a page that loads far slower than it should — these happen, and hearing about them is worth more to us than praise. When a game turns out to be permanently broken, we take it off the shelf and say clearly that it is gone, instead of leaving an empty page for the next person to find.