
Ever dreamed about building a viral app? My buddy Jesse Bray did it.
Jesse had an idea for an app called TimTalk — a hillbilly Twitter. People loved the demo…but building a scalable app proved more difficult than Jesse expected…
We Won $5,000 for an App That Didn’t Exist
How a fake trailer, a fictional hillbilly, and two million AI credits taught me that stories spread faster than software.
Everyone wants to know how to build a viral app.
I wish I had a sexy answer.
I don’t.
Because I never set out to build one.
I set out to make myself laugh.
That’s a very different goal.
In fact, the app that eventually landed me a $5,000 grant, two million AI credits, a spot in Create.xyz’s 30-Day App Store Bootcamp, and more traffic than I knew what to do with…
…didn’t exist.
Not when I entered the competition.
Not when I pitched it.
Not even when people started asking where they could download it.
I had built a trailer.
Not the software.
The software came later.
Looking back, that’s probably the biggest startup lesson I’ve learned in the last twenty years.
⸻
Let Me Introduce You to Tennessee Tim
Every startup has an origin story.
Mine starts with a fictional hillbilly.
His name is Tennessee Tim.
Tim wasn’t born from a market analysis.
He wasn’t the result of customer interviews.
He certainly wasn’t optimized for engagement.
He was born because I thought he was funny.
He gave weather reports that somehow turned into unsolicited dating advice.
He answered “love letters and hate mail.”
He told dad jokes so terrible they eventually became charming.
Sometimes companies even hired Tennessee Tim to roast their startups.
Imagine standing on stage…
explaining your revolutionary AI company…
only to have a fictional hillbilly interrupt your pitch and ask,
“So… does it make biscuits?”
People laughed.
Founders laughed.
Investors laughed.
For a long time I thought I was creating content.
Looking back…
I was giving people permission to play.
People weren’t just watching Tennessee Tim.
They were joining the joke.
I didn’t realize it then, but I wasn’t building an audience.
I was building a world.
⸻
Then I Made the Dumbest Pitch of My Career
Create.xyz announced a challenge.
Thirty days.
Build an AI app.
Most founders started writing code.
I started writing a movie trailer.
The idea was wonderfully stupid.
A social network where everyone was anonymously named Tim…
…nobody could swear…
…and somehow the internet became just a little less toxic.
Think…
Hillbilly Twitter.
Instead of building the product…
I built the launch.
The dramatic music.
The polished reveal.
The cinematic product shots.
The fake keynote.
Everything looked absurdly serious.
Until the punchline landed.
I figured maybe a few people would laugh.
Instead…
they handed me $5,000.
Accepted me into the bootcamp.
Gave me roughly two million AI credits.
That’s when it hit me.
They weren’t laughing at the joke.
They wanted the joke to exist.
(see the fake app pitch here“The Future is Tim!” .)
⸻
Nothing Motivates Like Public Embarrassment
There’s something uniquely motivating about convincing the internet your product exists…
…before you’ve actually written it.
Now I had thirty days.
Not to polish an MVP.
To invent one.
The fake app had to become real.
Fast.
People ask me all the time how I learned prompt engineering.
Honestly?
Panic.
Necessity.
Embarrassment.
I didn’t learn prompt engineering because I dreamed of becoming an AI consultant.
I learned it because thousands of people were waiting for software I’d accidentally convinced them already existed.
Every prompt mattered.
Every workflow mattered.
Every hallucination mattered.
Those thirty days taught me more about AI than months of reading papers ever could.
Not because the technology changed.
Because the deadline did.
⸻
Then Everything Broke
Launch day arrived.
People actually showed up.
A lot of them.
Enough that I remember staring at my dashboards thinking…
“Well… that’s probably not supposed to be doing that.”
Everything started breaking.
Requests piled up.
The logs turned red.
The AI credits disappeared far faster than I expected.
I’ll be honest.
I had no scaling plan.
I had no monetization strategy.
I barely had an infrastructure strategy.
I had a joke…
…and suddenly thousands of people wanted to be part of it.
I remember laughing.
Not because it was funny.
Because there wasn’t anything else to do.
Two million AI credits sounds infinite…
…until thousands of strangers all decide they want a hillbilly AI to tell them fart jokes in a country accent.
Then it feels very…
very finite.
So I rebuilt.
Optimized.
Patched.
Rebuilt again.
Eventually the experiment evolved into what is now TimTalk.xyz.
The Demo Day presentation eventually crossed more than 64,000 plays.
The joke…
…refused to die.
(see the TimTalk Demo Day here.)
⸻
Then I Finally Understood What Happened
For months people kept asking me,
“So… how did you make it go viral?”
I always hated that question.
Because it assumed the software caused the excitement.
It didn’t.
The excitement came first.
The software simply caught up.
That’s when I realized something.
The trailer wasn’t marketing.
It was the first version of the product.
People weren’t sharing features.
They were sharing anticipation.
They weren’t inviting their friends to download software.
They were inviting them into a joke.
“Have you seen this ridiculous app where everybody is named Tim?”
Congratulations.
You just became my marketing department.
The code mattered.
But it wasn’t what people fell in love with.
The experience came first.
⸻
The Startup Advice I Wish Someone Had Heard Me Say
Startup founders spend an enormous amount of time asking one question.
“How do I make this more useful?”
It’s a good question.
It’s just not the first one.
The first question is…
Is it interesting?
Useful gets used.
Interesting gets remembered.
Useful earns customers.
Interesting earns conversations.
Useful solves problems.
Interesting creates movements.
I think we’ve become obsessed with utility.
Meanwhile…
every product I’ve ever fallen in love with made me feel something first.
Curiosity.
Wonder.
Laughter.
Belonging.
Those aren’t marketing strategies.
They’re product strategies.
People don’t remember features.
They remember experiences.
⸻
Looking Back…
For over year I thought I was building software.
Looking back…
I think I was building stories that happened to have software attached.
The AI mattered.
The prompts mattered.
The code mattered.
But none of those are what people still bring up.
They remember the hillbilly.
They remember the fake trailer.
They remember that somehow this ridiculous joke became a real company.
Software has a shelf life.
Stories don’t.
So every time I start building something new…
I ask myself a different question now.
Not…
“Can I build it?”
Not…
“Can I monetize it?”
Not even…
“Will people use it?”
I ask something much harder.
If this app disappeared tomorrow…
…would anyone still tell the story?
Because if the answer is yes…
you’re probably not just building software anymore.
You’re building something people will remember.
Jesse Bray
I hope you enjoyed my friend Jesse’s story! We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.
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