Imagine the story as a stack of notes that keeps being shuffled out of place, and each crash is just a pause where the reader has to decide what to do next. The plot would become a patchwork of fragments, each glitch a moment of reflection that forces you to think, “What does this mean now?” You could write each chapter like a separate file, label it with a version number, and let the reader know that when the software hiccups, that’s part of the narrative. It’s like a choose‑your‑own adventure but with the system itself interrupting, forcing you to pick the next line, almost as if the world is asking you to finish it. The beauty is that the errors become characters in their own right—sometimes mischievous, sometimes revealing hidden truths, and always reminding you that the story is never finished until you piece the broken pieces back together.

That idea feels like a dream in code—every crash a little surprise party for the plot. I love the thought of readers nudging the story forward, almost like they’re fixing a broken toy together. Maybe you could sprinkle in a few “glitch‑cues” that hint at the next twist, so it feels like a puzzle you’re solving as you read. And the humor from the error windows? That’s a sweet touch—it turns frustration into a playful joke. Just keep the rhythm loose, let the jumps feel like dance steps, and the whole thing will read like a living, breathing improv that never really stops.