If an idea is good, it forces itself on you

Amin Matin on Zero Hour, the house outside the timeline, and the story that wouldn’t let him go for seven years — Cozy Corner with Hossein Nasiri, Episode PP02

A good idea doesn’t let you go. It sits on your shoulder. It grabs hold of you. It comes at you from places you’d never imagine. Amin Matin has experienced this — not as a metaphor, but as reality: an idea about a house outside the flow of time, where you can stay for hours and, when you leave, it is the exact same moment you entered. It took over his mind so completely that neither a short film nor a play could contain it — until he discovered podcasting.

In this episode of Cozy Corner — part of the Persian Podcast Special — Hossein Nasiri sits down with Amin Matin: writer, director, storyteller, and creator of “Zero Hour”; the first Persian-language serialized fiction podcast with professional sound design and acting technique. More than seven years. More than six million downloads. A story that still isn’t over — but is coming to an end.

From Software Engineering to the Theater Stage

Amin Matin studied software engineering. But at some point he realized he didn’t belong there. In ’85, there was a café, some friends, and a quatrain he recited for one of them. A man at the next table turned around and said, “You have an interesting voice. I’m rehearsing a play.” A month later, Amin was on stage.

From that moment came a decade of theater and cinema — acting, directing, documentary writing, editing, voice-over. All the skills that would later come together in one place, allowing him to make a podcast he could pull off on his own.

Discovering a Platform — and an Idea That Wouldn’t Fit Anywhere Else

When Amin first discovered podcasts, he felt as though a dream had opened up in front of him. His background in cinema and theater meant he knew that even building a rough model of an idea required money, a team, and infrastructure. Podcasting removed all of those complications.

The idea was simple, and everything in it was real — except for one element: somewhere in the world there is a house, number 58, that exists outside the timeline. When you enter, your watch stops. No matter how long you stay — a few hours, a few days — when you come out, it is the exact same moment you went in. The idea would not leave Amin alone. There was no right form for it — until podcasting came along.

“The truth is, this is just my view, but if an idea is good, it catches you from places you couldn’t even imagine and forces itself on you.”

Hadi — and Seven Years of Long-Distance Collaboration

Hadi Kazemi is one of Amin’s closest friends — an artistic collaborator, theater actor, and choreographer. He has been in Australia for fifteen years. When Amin shared the Zero Hour idea with him, they were supposed to develop it together. Hadi went on a trip. He came back. But while he was away, Amin wrote, recorded, and released the first episode.

Hadi was upset — and he had every right to be. But the idea had imposed itself. What followed was seven years of collaboration: Amin in Tehran, Hadi in Melbourne, with a six- to seven-hour time difference. Video call on, headphones in Hadi’s ears, Amin directing from Tehran. They even came close to arguing — but the principle was always the same: make the work better.

“We came from a theater background. In theater they say that if even one person has bought a ticket and is sitting there, fifty crew members owe that one person their very best performance.”

Why Fiction? Why This Style of Storytelling?

Persian podcasts in those years — ’98 and ’99 — were all in the humanities, politics, economics, and history. There was no serialized fiction podcast built around an original story that had never been published anywhere before. Amin saw that gap — not as a market opportunity, but as a space where his own idea could breathe.

He also chose the narrative style deliberately: first-person, intimate, as if someone is sitting beside the listener telling them what happened — not an omniscient narrator, not traditional radio theater. Somewhere between dramatic narration and a fiction podcast. And professional sound design that makes the experience feel real: if the character says someone came up behind me, with headphones on, you can actually hear that person’s breathing behind you.

“It’s a space somewhere between radio theater and dramatic storytelling. Like I’m sitting next to you saying, ‘You have no idea what happened. I went there, this person said this, the music started, the lights went dark.’”

Every Day We Have a Story — but We Don’t See It

One of the central ideas in this conversation is Amin’s view of story as the primary framework of human experience. You wake up in the morning and the opening credits roll — the film is called “Hossein’s Wednesday” — and it ends the moment you close your eyes.

But because these small stories happen every day, they become like the air in a room — invisible, ordinary. Just as people who live by the sea stop hearing the waves. Amin looks for stories that change one element — everything is real except one thing — so a person can be placed in a situation they would never have the chance to experience in ordinary life.

Zero Hour as a Historical Record

One listener once messaged Amin: “You don’t realize what you’re doing. If someone listens to your podcast a hundred years from now, they’ll understand what the people of Iran went through between 1398 and 1401. This podcast has become like a time machine.”

Amin has brought social issues into the story — not explicitly or as slogans, but woven into the fabric of the narrative. From the internet shutdown of Aban ’98 to the crash of the Ukrainian airliner, from the heavy months of 1401. In one season, a character named Nika entered the story because of an event. He never said what inspired her. The audience understood.

A Fair Criticism — and an Honest Answer

Loyal Zero Hour listeners have one criticism: the gaps between episodes. Amin knows it too. He names his biggest weakness himself: marketing. He says if you Google “most-listened-to Persian podcasts” right now, Zero Hour probably won’t appear. Even with more than six million downloads. That is his weakness.

But when it comes to the gaps between episodes, there is also a personal reality he shares publicly for the first time in this episode: in Ordibehesht this year, he suffered burns to both hands and both feet. He was hospitalized for forty-five days. After recovering, he released several episodes — but then another personal event disrupted the production rhythm.

“When a project is personal and there isn’t a team behind it, if something happens to the person doing it, the project goes through major changes.”

I Don’t Care About Being a ‘Podcaster’ — Got Something to Say? Say It

Amin has a definition of “podcaster” that differs from the common one: consistency, deep personalization, and added value for the audience. Not everyone who publishes a feed is a podcaster. Anyone who only wants to write “podcaster” in their Instagram bio will not succeed.

His advice to anyone who wants to enter this space is direct: if you have something to say, say it. If you have a story, tell it. If you have a perspective and want to see whether others share it, start. Don’t look at what works — look at what works for you. If there’s no subject, if you only want a label, sorry.

“If the subject and story of Zero Hour weren’t something you personally cared about and became involved in, you couldn’t have kept it going for seven years. You’d get tired of it. You’d let it go.”

The Instagram Audience Is Not the Podcast Audience

One of the technical points in this conversation is the distinction between different ecosystems. Amin is explicit: the Instagram audience is not the podcast audience. Advertising fiction podcasts on Instagram has a low return rate. The podcast audience is elsewhere — in podcast apps themselves, in spaces where people who already listen to podcasts can encounter your work.

Zero Hour has grown mostly through exactly this mechanism: someone listened, liked it, and sent it to someone else. A mother and her two daughters listen together. A couple in Kabul have set aside Wednesday afternoons to listen. Amin has not advertised. The podcast found its own way.

The End of the Story — and What Comes After

Season four is the final season of Zero Hour. A story that needs an ending will end. Amin says the ending is compelling — not the kind that leaves everyone complaining after it’s over. He says he hopes it will have been worth the wait.

After Zero Hour ends: first, a written version — rewriting the story for book form. Then thinking about expansion: an escape room, a comic book, adaptation into a series. Offers have come from streaming platforms. But until the story is finished, that promise to the audience has to be kept.

Cozy Corner — in High-Pressure Moments

When Hossein asks where Amin’s cozy corner is, the answer is unexpected: high-pressure moments. When the atmosphere outside feels heavy, when he is under pressure — creative ideas come to him. He calls it a defense mechanism. And the moment a spark appears, that period of engagement with the idea, even if it lasts only half an hour, becomes his cozy corner.

Then, with a kind of honesty that carries weight, he says there have been moments when he thought about ending his life. Those same things — creating, story, meaning — became his anchor to life. The work he does gives meaning to staying alive.

“At one point, it even kept me alive. It gives meaning. I mean, there have been moments when I was thinking about ending my life. But those same things have become my anchor to being here and staying alive.”

A Dedication — to Three People

Amin dedicates this conversation to three people. First: Nafiseh, his wife — the voice of Hanieh in seasons two, three, and four, the person who films the YouTube content, and someone who puts up with living with a person who sometimes spends three days completely “in the zone.” Second: Hadi Kazemi — who holds a fifty-percent stake in Zero Hour, his closest friend, who is now in Australia and whose absence is felt in this conversation.

Third: someone whose name he does not know. He saw an image he cannot get out of his mind — it was from Dey. A man was carrying someone on his back.