hanging & wiving goes by destiny

A story that is actually seven stories, intertwined. You are Bluebeard's eighth wife and walk around his home accompanied by the ghosts (literal talking heads) of his previous wives. Each has a story of how she came to meet and marry the husband who would kill her, and each story is compellingly told.

It made me think about the institution of marriage as a whole. I saw some feminist critiques of marriage a while back, arguing that it's a forced labor contract where the man has all the power and the woman has none and must do unpaid domestic work at his bidding. This is especially true of marriage in historical times, and most of these wives don't seem to be from the modern world.

A woman who marries someone is traditionally expected to go along with his wishes, accompany him wherever he wants and defer to him for judgement. If he wants you to leave home and go with him, you go. If he wants you to clean house and play hostess, you do, because he gave you everything, didn't he? If being an old and single woman isn't socially acceptable, you have to bear with it. And if the marriage turns bad and divorce isn't allowed, there is really no escape. As a side note: In the US, banks could prevent women from opening their own bank accounts independently, without a signature from their husbands, until the Equal Credit Opportunity Act was passed in 1974. And today, of course, there are still countries in the world where the status of women's rights is quite miserable.

WIFE #3

...[T]here were matters that needed to be tended to at the estate, he told me. We would have to travel back. My heart dropped. I had forgotten that we were now one entity, and in all the dreams I had of this moment, he was the one telling me that he had to leave, not that we had to leave. I opened my mouth to protest, but already I knew it was futile. Behind me, my sisters trailed up from the ocean, silently watching our conversation unfold. I told myself I would not let myself cry in front of them, but in all honesty, I was too angry at him and at myself to cry.

WIFE #2

When we were married, we paraded through the streets of my small village, the dress he chose all but swallowing me up. I held my head high as we passed by in the carriage, looking each person who had referred to me as a devil in the eye. Still smiling as he waved to the villagers outside, he had asked me which of them I would like to punish for wanting me dead. My mouth opened and closed in part-astonishment, part-fear. There was no need to reply now, he had said. Think about it and let me know if there are any names. You own them now.

There were a few days before our honeymoon began in earnest, and the question kept me awake at night like a hot coal burning in my chest. I lay awake long after Bluebeard had begun to snore softly. I had the power to destroy them now, but did that mean I should? I thought back to the year, how the comments and barbs directed at my parents had at first been subtle, then more pointed, until they became bolder and bolder, to the point where my father returned home with bruises and scrapes after getting into a fight at the tavern, and my mother was snubbed by all our neighbours. I unfurled the list of grievances in my heart, and made my mind up.

The day before we left on a tour of the mainland, I whispered the names into his ear. He reacted as if I were merely giving him the names of flowers I liked. Smiling, he patted my hand and said that he would take care of it.

I had almost forgotten about it completely by the time we returned. As our carriage drove through the village, we passed by the big gates that led to Bluebeard’s estate. Like a welcome parade, there were the villagers I had named, tied spread eagled, nude, to the thorny brambles that surrounded the chateau. Their cries for us to be merciful were like a symphony to my ears. I turned to Bluebeard, who had grinned at me. I hope my wife has enjoyed her welcome, he said. The gates closed on the villagers’ cries.

My view on this game seesawed wildly over time.

I played it while going through the short game showcase in fairly rapid order. I felt dismay at seeing the large chunk of text in the first passage. Then I clicked through as fast as I could without reading to estimate the size of the game (since most choice-based games lack such indications, although this one turned out to be in acts). I found out that it was essentially 'click to move forward', and I sighed; the sigh deepened when I realized each page had many 'aside' links that went to several-page long linear texts.

So this, in the end, is just a long story, with mild nonlinearity. That means that, rather than judging it against all interactive fiction, where bad writing can be made up for by clever mechanics, I would instead be comparing it to all written stories.

And in that vein, it is good, getting better as it goes on, due to its slow buildup. But I feel like the narrators could have been more strongly differentiated in voice (all felt pretty refined, educated, resigned and frank, despite describing very different events) and that more of a plot arc could have been built up; the climax seemed sudden with no denouement.

I do believe this is just a matter of taste; I prefer more pulpy/genre fiction than literary fiction, and I can think of several people I could recommend this to who would deeply enjoy it. For me, I don't think my time was wasted and I'm glad the author has made it, but I missed the things mentioned above and, as a work of IF, I would have loved more involvement.

On a side note, the 'restart' button is in the lower right corner, and the 'move on' button was right next to it, and sometimes the way to move on was clicking a word, so I ended up clicking 'restart' on accident several times, often when the passages were most exciting. I feel like this is more my fault than the author's fault, so I'm only mentioning this so that others can avoid being dumb like me.