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Somebody needs a suit for a wedding. Somebody else needs one for a funeral. Each of them walks in with an occasion, a taste and a budget, and keeps half of it to themselves.

TailorTown is a shop sim about bespoke tailoring, from the bolt of cloth to the hand-over. You walk the floor, you carry one thing at a time, and everything that leaves the shop was cut and stitched by your own hand. The town is built from paper and card, down to the pansies in the window boxes.

Reopen grandpa's shop

Barnaby "Pops" Thimble kept a tailor's shop in this town for forty years. It has been shut since he retired to the coast. Mr. Hemming, who keeps the smart shop on the Row, walks you up to the door on the first morning and lets you in.

Dust sheets over everything. Paper hanging off the walls. A hoarding where the side room should be.

Pull the sheets off and take whoever the town sends you. The first is the neighbour, who wants his old trousers copied exactly. Pops left a notebook under the counter. It gets a new page for every job you learn.

Figure out your client

At the mirror you build the suit part by part: jacket, shirt, trousers, each with its own cloth, colour, pattern and cut. Then ask. Some clients like a suit loud and some like it quiet. Some want it new, some want it the way their father wore it. Nobody tells you which.

The notepad keeps what they let slip, and a pencil map narrows down the rest. A suit they love earns a tip and a regular. A suit they merely accept is forgotten by Friday. Some keep a dislike to themselves until they see it on. "Black? Nobody's died."

Know your cloth

Worsted, flannel, tweed, mohair, linen, poplin. Pinstripe, herringbone, houndstooth, windowpane, glen check. Every bolt is a finite number of metres, and the last half-metre of a good cloth goes quickly under careless shears.

Ring a mill from the shop phone. The cloth your orders need is already on the list, and anything else comes out of the swatch book. Fill the basket and place it in one call. The mill reps talk the whole time. The better houses only pick up once your name is worth answering.

Cut it, stitch it, finish it

Take the bolt from the shelf to the cutting table and steer the shears along the chalk. They glide down the straights. The curves are yours. Drift into the piece and you nick it; three slips and it's ruined. Then work the pedal and guide the seam through the machine: pull the pins, ease off at the corners, backstitch both ends. Press the wrinkles out; linger and you scorch it. Hang it on the rack. The jacket, shirt and trousers of one order find each other there and come together into the finished suit.

Every slip at the bench comes off the price.

Bring the house back

Ring the builders when the money's there. The hoarding comes down, and the side room takes the coffee machine and the iron. The workroom brings Percy, an apprentice who carries a whole part of an order off to his own bench and gets better with every job. The fitting room has a curtain, a tri-fold glass and space to fit a wedding party together.

Finished rooms earn a rug or a plant. Nearly every job turns up something of grandpa's: his old shears, a tin of photographs, measurements pencilled on the wall behind the paper. They go on the shelf in the front room.

Violet's flowers

Violet wheels her flower cart to your pavement on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Pot plants for the shop, seed packets, a set of garden tools. Ask about any plant and she'll tell you something true about it.

The window boxes start empty. The back garden starts as weeds.

Dress for the occasion

Black for a funeral. Nothing that upstages the couple. A board meeting is not a party. Pops's notebook has the rules the way he'd have told you across the bench: which colours and which patterns each occasion will take, named outright.

Make your name

The Tailor's Gazette lands on the mat each morning. It says what's in fashion this week, and the fashion doesn't sit still for long. It lists the town's events too: a charity gala, a wedding in five days, a funeral in twenty. Dress someone well for the big day and your name is in the next edition. Fall short and the story goes to Pinch & Pleat down the road.

Some events send a whole party in for suits that match. Saturday is market day.

Build up the workshop

Everything you earn can go back into the shop. Upgrades open up on the phone as your name grows, and each one is felt at the bench: pattern weights that hold the cloth still, pinking shears that forgive a wide cut, a rotary cutter for the straights. A speed dial, a walking foot, clips instead of pins. A courier account for the cloth. A coffee machine to steady your hands, and later an espresso machine you grind, tamp and pull yourself.

Keep the shop

Turn the sign in the morning, lock up at night, and keep the benches moving in between. Appointments to honour, rush jobs, and the client who wants something you'd rather not make. Everything saves.

Features

• A full craft chain you do yourself: take the brief → design the suit at the mirror → order the cloth → cut the panels → sew the seams → hang the parts together on the rack → hand it over.

• Clients who don't say what they want. Loud or quiet, new or old-fashioned, and a dislike they keep until it's on. A suit they love brings a tip and a regular.

• Your grandfather's shut-up shop to bring back room by room: a side room, a workroom with an apprentice, a fitting room for whole parties, and what he left in the walls.

• Real tailoring materials (8 fabrics, 14 patterns, 18 colours) rendered as woven cloth on the garment and on the client.

• Occasion-and-style dress codes that judge every part of the suit, not only the jacket.

• Clients of eight different sorts, men and women, with long memories.

• Hand-feel bench games: steering shears, a pedal-and-aim sewing machine, the iron and the coffee pour. How well you do shows up in what the client pays.

• Two dozen workshop upgrades that change how the benches play.

• Violet's flower cart, pot plants for the shop and a garden to dig.

• A morning paper with the fashion, the town's events and who dressed whom.

• Days you open and close, regulars, and deadlines you can miss.

• A town of paper and card, seen from above. Keyboard or controller.