Written is not the same as heard.
Your scenes have lived on the page for months. Every rhythm, every interruption, every held breath — imagined, never played. The script is beautiful. It is also silent.
The three most expensive moments to learn a scene doesn’t land
Casting day — when actors are booked against lines nobody has heard out loud. Recording day — when studio time burns while a scene reveals it was always two beats too long. Integration day — when the files are in the build and the argument that read sharp plays flat.
Film crews solved this a century ago: before anything expensive happens, the cast sits at a table and reads the script out loud. The scenes that don’t work fail cheaply, in a room, while the script is still just paper.
Game dialogue skips the table read. It goes from silent document to expensive commitment with nothing in between.
This is a mint, not a generator.
Generators imagine — ask, hope, ask again. A mint strikes to spec. Your script is the die: every line struck as written, in order, with the cast you chose. And when one coin comes out flawed, you re-strike that coin. The rest of the run keeps its finish.