Ataraxia

I moved to a new town in my late 20s. Every week, I drew a map–from memory–of my neighborhood and the spots I regularly visited: the park, the bougie deli, the library, the old timey movie theater. The map started out as basically my house, two streets, and one or two landmarks that I placed in the wrong locations. As the weeks progressed, my maps became more detailed, with side streets materializing, as well as locations of friends’ houses. It was a gentle exercise, and for me, it was a helpful way to make tangible the process of slowly settling into a new life. This is the feeling I got when I played Lauren O'Donoghue’s Ataraxia. In this game, you play someone who’s recently moved to a small island. Over the course of the game, you build relationships, grow vegetables, adopt a pet, and slowly earn the trust of the island’s inhabitants.

I thought this game was terrific. Several factors contributed to its success in my estimation. First, the mechanics and pacing: Soon after you move in, you begin receiving mail. Your first letters are from the Council of Islanders, inviting you to periodic festivals and special events. These punctuate the story and prevent the resource-gathering aspects of the game from feeling too grindy, and the day/night cycle from getting too monotonous. As you settle into your new life, letters from other neighbors begin arriving, which introduce additional opportunities to change up your routine. A seemingly “small” feature like being able to pick a book off your shelf and read it pulls way more than its weight in terms of freedom it gives the player.

Second, the character interactions: In my playthrough, I began a very tender romance with Sanvi the publican. In my interactions with her–and the other characters too, in fact–I felt less like I was manipulating a battery of stats, and more like I was just talking with somebody. Maybe this is because the stakes were lower than something like, say, Mask of the Rose, where your dialogue choices determine whether or not another character is executed? I don’t know. But as a player, I felt relaxed enough to let conversations and relationships unfold naturally.

Finally, the language: The language in Ataraxia was evocative without being self-conscious. This is my favorite kind of writing. Of course, the vocabulary and syntax were modulated when necessary (different in-game books are written in different styles, for example, and characters have different linguistic quirks). But overall, I could remain happily immersed in the game world rather than being jostled out of it by the showiness of particular words or constructions. There was so much care taken even with the “flavor” text that appears when you choose to explore a particular region (rather than collecting resources or talking to someone). From the insects beneath the forest rocks, to fishing boats returning with their nets full, to the habits of the village cats, there’s a world brimming with life there, whether you choose to look deeper or not

If I had a suggestion, it’s that I would have liked to have reached the game’s ending without being required to play through all four of the main character arcs. I was more invested in some stories than in others, and personally, I love the feeling of exiting a game world knowing that there’s still more left to explore.

This brings me to a theme that I really appreciated: (Spoiler - click to show)the impossibility of definitively “knowing” a place or people. Throughout the game, there are references to conflicting histories, gaps in knowledge, and the importance of holding multiple truths at once. For instance: “I was looking for answers. Clear, straightforward answers. But there’s no such thing, is there?” (Jonah). “My attempt to catalogue some of the most fascinating examples here will never be sufficient, but may at least give an impression of the curious nature of this ecosystem” (Ivo, A Natural History of the Western Archipelago: Volume 2). “Though record-keeping in that era was poor, it is now believed that…” “Accounts of what followed are conflicting. What we do know is that …” (Our Island Through the Ages). Insisting on the indeterminacy of the island’s ecology, mythology, and history introduces breath and movement to the game. It very effectively animates the world.

Earlier in this review, I mentioned that the game didn’t feel too grindy. That’s not to say that it didn’t feel grindy at all. And to me, the grind was actually the most effective part of the game. (Spoiler - click to show)I can’t remember how many days my playthrough took, but I think it was around 50-something? That means, 50 times over I repeated the sequence of harvesting my fruits and vegetables, visiting different parts of the island, talking to people, and sleeping. There is a cumulative effect to this mechanical repetition that is delivered through the descriptions: The house gradually feels more and more like home, you become accustomed to the forest paths and smells, you have fewer nightmares. The mechanics of the game suggest that a big piece of adjusting to something, whether it be loss, grief, a new environment, a new relationship, is just straight up time and repetition. It’s developing enough muscle memory so that, groping in the dark, your hand immediately connects with the lightswitch.

I’m so impressed (and kind of dumbfounded, tbh) that Ataraxia is this author’s first game! It felt so sure, so polished. I would put it up there with games like Master of the Land as an exemplar of how much depth, breadth, and freedom of movement an author can create in a Twine game. I very much look forward to this author’s future games.