Transformice: every mouse bets its fate on a stranger made god

Steam puts the birth in 2015; the studio's own announcement board has already celebrated fifteen years of cheese.

Two minutes to reach the cheese, and a god who may prefer chaos

In every round, one of the mice stops being a mouse. It becomes a shaman, handed the power to raise a wooden bridge, drop a cannonball or shove everyone into the wrong hole. The rest of the room has under two minutes to trust that choice, or to pay for it.

The map never stays the same: the official house counts 200 stages, split across seven ways to play, from a plain race to a maze of traps.

Outside the official house, more than 5 million stages have come from the community itself: people who opened the map editor or wrote their own modules in code to invent a fresh way to lose. The in-game shop changes only the color of your mouse, never the physics that settles the race.

Fifteen years on, someone is still drawing stages in there

The store page puts the birth at January 30, 2015. The studio's own announcement board, posted in May 2025, celebrated fifteen years of cheese — figures that refuse to line up, because Steam is not where this game actually began.

In July 2025 a new event went live: fishing relics out of a lake, with twelve brand-new stages in a space setting added to the catalog. The house still has people drawing stages in there.

That date is worth holding on to, because further down someone will call the house abandoned — and the announcement board says otherwise.

The fans themselves warn you: this is a good curse

Some vouch for the game while telling you not to start it. One player with 64 hours logged writes, in September 2026, that the game is a curse, that it eats into daily life and that the sensible move would be to uninstall. In the same piece of writing, that player calls it beautiful and recalls playing a first account in 2018.

Others tell the story the other way around: they came in as children and still drop back to walk the same corridors. One of those accounts, with 347 hours banked, asks only that the house break its routine and try something different once in a while, because the same old game wears thin on repetition. Another, at 60 hours, boils the visit down to a single word: childhood.

For a different crowd, the chaos is the product. A player with 724 hours logged treats the global chat as part of the fun, not a flaw. Another, at 13 hours, sums up the paradox of the shaman slot: still hates taking the role, years after the first time, and still plays anyway.

The complaint is not about the game — it's about whoever sits beside you

The most repeated criticism is not aimed at what the game does: it is aimed at the people playing alongside you. An account with 392 hours sums up the frustration — plenty of cheating in the races, and bans that look short-lived, just long enough to come back and carry on the same way.

Picture opening the room after work and hearing, as your welcome, an insult chopped into the name of another player's own mouse. An account with 9 hours, in October 2026, reports exactly that: religious and political slurs stuffed into the names of the mice all around. Another, at 59 hours, uses a single word for the room: heavy.

None of these marks point to real abandonment: they point to upkeep that cannot reach everything. The same house that published new stages in July 2025 is not the one deciding, on its own, the tone of the people talking in there. The trouble is not the cheese — it is the room around it.

Who can stand the room, and who walks out after one race

Anyone willing to step into a room without any idea who will turn into that round's god finds exactly what they came for: collective chaos, a bottomless map editor and people who have been in there for over a decade. Anyone who needs control over their own character, or a chat without insults, will not last past the first race: in there, the fate of every attempt really does sit in a stranger's hands, and nobody gets to pick which stranger.