[Editor’s note: Brilliam takes a look at the isolation aspect various videogames put players in for his Monthly Musing. — CTZ]
I’ll be honest: when it comes to videogames, I can be a pretty big pansy. While games that are based on scaring the player don’t always get me, I often find myself completely creeped out by completely harmless scenes in completely harmless titles. I could never quite figure out why, though.
It wasn’t until I saw this month’s topic that I started to put together the pieces: usually, I would be playing these games while I was home alone, in our old country basement, on a wood panel television with a sticky volume knob. These are the times I would turn to games because there was nobody around—they were a constant companion on days where I had no human contact. They would only really get under my skin when they made me think about how alone I really am.
One of these games, in particular, was a crucial ‘hint’ as to what was giving me these inexplicable heebie-jeebies—Super Metroid. Super Metroid still makes me feel that potent combination of loneliness and paranoia; it never quite makes my stomach turn, but definitely puts the poor thing on a constant 10° rotation every minute I play. All of the 2D Metroid games (maybe the 3D ones, too, but I haven’t spent enough time with them) expertly communicate that isolated feeling with haunting drones on the soundtrack, dark, foreign tunnels full of hostile baddies, and a decided lack of conversation. Playing these games makes me feel like I’m the only person left on the planet. And that stresses me out.
Games in alien environments, then, have a really good opportunity to make the user feel lost and alone. However, only one other example jumps out at me more than any other—Space Ace. Indeed, I think this is the game to give me the most nightmares ever. I played it when I was very young—probably five, or six—while by myself, in the dark. Dexter, the game’s dorky protagonist, can die in hundreds of ways, and often does so. Alone. Not only does he fail to save the Princess, nobody even sees him try. He’s just wiped out existence by a curious mud-pummeling piston or a robot dog, and as far as the distressed damsel knows, he just didn’t care. My parents letting me play this game at just a tender age was borderline irresponsible—it had me pondering things like existential angst and the idea of dying alone before I was old enough to read chapter books.
Possibly the most curious game that spooked me growing up, though, was Illusion of Gaia. Most people wouldn’t freak out too much at this game, surely, but for some reason, it got under my skin completely. When you start, you go to school and have friends, but fate rips you away from that. You have isolated bouts of communication with two new friends, but for the most part, you spend your time alone, battling or the good of whatever world it is in which you reside. The outer space theme comes up again, too, when you warp to some star-filed void to transform into Freedan, a more powerful fighter; nothing serves to remind you that you’re incredibly alone like views from space.
Despite its lack of cosmos-endeavouring, Braid is another game that made my skin crawl. However, not until the end. I don’t want to spoil it for people who haven’t played it yet (although if you haven’t, shame on you) but, if there’s one thing I can praise the story for, it’s eliciting an emotional response from me in its conclusion. I didn’t feel alone for the entirety of the game, but by the end, I most certainly did—which is impressive, considering nothing really changed (it’s not like Rush the Robot Dog was following me until that point). It snatched the hope of human interaction out from under my nose, and made me pay for wanting it.
If I’m to mention a “scary” game that actually freaks me out, the one that comes to mind is Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth. This game is a few years old and mostly went under the radar, which is a crime. No game I’ve ever played contained as much atmosphere as even the first chapter of this game (which, might I add, doesn’t even have combat). You are a private eye, and you enter a town to learn more about some fishy business that’s happening. The townspeople aren’t welcoming of strangers, and every time you look around, you catch them staring you down menacingly, only to turn away because you “caught” them. It helps that the game tackles the “hallucinations due to insanity” vibe in ways more clever than Eternal Darkness did, and it doesn’t hurt that it’s based on a classic H.P. Lovecraft story. Indeed, this game scared me so much that I was unable to finish it. When I played, my heart raced and I would break into cold sweats. Seriously. It’s that good.
I don’t get scared by a lot in life. Bugs gross me out, but I don’t live in fear of them. Snakes, knives, guns, danger, women, gay people, public speaking, heights, dogs, lightning, needles, people, germs … I’m fine with all of these things. Similarly, most things that scare gamers don’t really scare me. However, anything that reminds me that, one day, I could live and die alone is harrowing to the point that I often have to walk away from it.
The funny thing about the games on this post—Super Metroid, Illusion of Gaia, Call of Cthulhu: DCotE, Space Ace, Braid—I’ve never managed to get myself to the end of them (with the exception of Braid, because the dread doesn’t kick in until it’s over anyway). Confronting that reality is often too much for my lizard brain to bear, and it makes me turn the game off and call a loved one up on the phone or sit in a park or drink ’til I’m sleepy. Maybe, one day, I’ll get over it, but for now, I’m too stressed out by the idea of getting killed and forgotten on Zebes to brave through and defeat Mother Brain.
