![]() It’s pretty, also, because it’s got the most wonderful cello and piano accompaniment. There’s only really one direction to travel, even when it seems like there’s more.īut it’s also pretty because it’s framed by narrative. Everywhere is the path, and everywhere leads where you need to go. Whereas something like The Path actively encouraged you to deviate from the path, and find its obtuse dioramas, Dear Esther doesn’t give you that option. You walk, and randomly selected chunks of narration ambush you when you trip invisible, intangible tripwires. There are light touches, and unanswered questions, that feed into this lack of knowledge, which in turn heightens our fears, but it’s not a ghost story in a traditional sense. This world has its own history, and not explicitly knowing its background is enough to thrill. The desolate island it has you explore is certainly creepy, in the same way that anything abandoned plays with your fears. In its formative stages as a Half-Life 2 mod, Dear Esther called itself a ghost story. Whether or not you want to play Dear Esther shouldn’t be up to whether it is fun to play (it isn’t), whether it’s got some great mechanics (it doesn’t), or whether the difficulty spike is unfair and frustrating (it’s not there isn’t one).ĭear Esther depends entirely on two things from its players: an open mind about what exactly constitutes a game (and whether that is something you’ll get hung up on) and an appreciation of its bleak, ambiguous narrative that requires you to decide its meaning rather than be spoon-fed it. It merely asks you to walk, to explore, and, most importantly, to listen. Dear Esther doesn’t require you to interact with these inputs. It’s not needed, and neither is your right. ![]()
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