Twenty-four hours, one Hyrule: Ocarina of Time, start to finish, streamed live — every dollar goes to Children's Miracle Network Hospitals.
The WhatsFine crew, all twenty-four hours. Guests drop in for a block.
Jess runs the kitchen, the printers and the column. By day she keeps a company's servers patched and its audits passing; by night she scales a recipe, levels a print bed, and files the take she's been sitting on all week. If it can be tested, she has tested it twice.
Brian runs the games and the gadgets, and takes the other side of the argument. A non-practicing attorney who wandered into marketing and AI, he reads the manual, the terms of service and the patch notes so you don't have to. His motto, borrowed from his own site: you can just do things.
Creative techno-wizard with style, sound, and generating laughs. Other confirmed details about the man known as Mike are scarce: some sources say he is a preacher, others a CIA operative, and at least one lists him as an engineering and consulting firm. All we can confirm is the second controller.
A West Coast adventurer who calls Portland home, and a Zelda and Animal Crossing aficionado. Emily joins for the Master Sword and the Forest Temple, which means that those cute little Kokiri and terrifying Stalfos will be facing off against our cutest and most courageous ally.
A masterful gamer whose domain runs from the classics through ROMs to the tabletop. The sweatier it gets, the better he plays, so he draws the Fire Temple and the Water Temple: the hottest dungeon in Hyrule, then the one that makes everybody sweat.
An artist, a skater, a scholar, and a gentleman. Michael takes the small hours through the Shadow Temple with an artist's eye, a skater's balance, a scholar's patience and a gentleman's manners, all four of which the darkest dungeon in Hyrule will test.
Ocarina of Time (2026), from Kokiri Forest to Ganon, with breaks along the way: dinner and a drone show at Columbia Lakefront, an unboxing hour, and the 3 a.m. takes. The dungeon plan is a plan, not a promise: Hyrule sets the pace, and this page keeps up.
The goal, the rules, a fresh save file. Kokiri Forest by the end of the hour. Say hi in chat.
Kokiri Forest, the Great Deku Tree, then out across Hyrule Field to the castle and Zelda.
Dodongo's Cavern and Jabu-Jabu's Belly, with Mike riding shotgun. Who he really is stays an open question.
We take the stream outside: food-truck dinner at Columbia Lakefront, then 800 drones in the sky around 7 for Howard County's 250th, a show by America's Got Talent finalists Sky Elements.
The Master Sword, seven years later, and the Forest Temple, with a Zelda aficionado on the couch.
Second break. Donor-picked tech, opened on stream.
The Fire Temple, then the Water Temple: the sweatiest stretch of the run goes to the guest who plays best under pressure.
Hyrule rests for an hour. Donate, name a game from the maybes, and it gets the hour.
Name the game — donateOpinions degrade live. Sauce, bidets, whatever chat brings.
The Shadow Temple, then on toward the desert. The small hours, the darkest dungeon, a gentleman on the couch.
Sunrise shift. Coffee's on; the last temple, then the tower.
Ganon, the credits, the final total. Then sleep.
The whole thing, credits and all, with breaks for food, tech and takes along the way.
On the bench. If there's time, or a donor names one, it gets a break hour.
Since 2008, gamers have used Extra Life to turn marathon play sessions into fundraising for Children's Miracle Network Hospitals — 170 of them across North America. You pick your hospital, people back your play, and the money funds treatment, research, and care for kids who need it.
We take that exactly as seriously as it deserves: twenty-four hours, one sitting, all four pillars. And none of the money passes through us — you give directly, and the receipt comes from them.
Donate leaves the site — Extra Life handles it, not us.