When Journey began and I was plopped down in the sand, briefly shown how to manipulate the camera, and set free in the desert. Traditional tropes we associate with teaching us the rules (complicated button layouts, explicit tutorials, wacky friends demonstration mechanics) seemed deliberately removed from Journey’s visage. It was as if the development team at thatgamecompany regarded established means of instruction as a potent barrier of entry. The closest association I can think of are the niche of runners who believe shoes are an obstruction to a human’s natural stride. An alternative seems unwieldy because we have had the rules beaten into our heads for most of our lives, but what if a change in approach was actually for the better?
This brings us to where we started; control. thatgamecompany is no stranger to alternative methods of input as both flOw and Flower relied exclusively on SIXAXIS tilting for movement. Journey concedes the left analog stick for traversal, but assigns the camera to tilting the SIXAXIS. But why? It would seem incredibly easy for the development team to bind camera control to the right stick, as 99% of the games out there are quick to do, but a conscious omission had to have a visible foundation. After a bit of thought, I considered my co-op experience in Portal 2. I played up to the second level with a friend, but we had to stop there because she couldn’t get her brain around manipulating two analog sticks at the same time. She wanted to play more, but control schemes endowed in the brains of seasoned players were not compatible with relative newcomers. In Journey, the barrier was recognized and removed, and what might seem like foolish exclusion to one person might actually be a welcome mat to someone else.
My next action and immediate compulsion was to explore. Sand shifted in a slightly surreal but entirely convincing manner and after some walking gave way to a field of marked stones in the desert. Graves? Memorials? In Journey, speculation was an invitation, as the game did not seem interested in explicitly stating much of anything. Pieces are in place, but they’re left for the player to interpret. Later, before I slid down to a massive canyon, I would discover a tomb of sorts with symbols I recognized from supposed gravestones lining the walls. I lit them up by getting near them, and a brief instance took place where more emphasis was placed on the symbols, but it was impossible to determine why.
As I crossed a few hills more mechanics were revealed. Bits of a scarf would attach to my scarf and grant me a rather generous jump. It was a single-use mechanic, and I would have to find other floating bits of scarf to receive another jump. These scarf pieces also acted as a guide of sorts, as they lead me down a canyon. There, I found some moderately hard-to-reach areas that contained glowing white scarf pieces that extended my scarf’s length and, with it, the duration of my jump. Eventually I used these tools to summit a plateau, which I used to cross a chasm, which revealed a most impressive scene. A glowing white figure, like a larger version of me, appeared, and impressed a bit of a design to my cloak before vanishing and revealing a path to the next part of the level.
I went through a cave, hopped out onto the sand and took in the sights and sounds before me. Giant scarves were blowing in the wind ahead and surrounded by the architectural remains of a forgotten culture. Hearing the wind played a moderate role in creating a sense of isolation, but it was greatly intensified by the lurid hum that composed the background music. The audio and visual experience was beautifully minimalistic but almost perfect in establishing one’s sense of place in that world.
And suddenly, someone else was there. Scampering over a dune was a person just like me. No name, no text, no voice chat – the only means of communication was a bell of sorts issued by pressing the circle button. Again, what seems like an ostentatious need to go against the grain is actually an omission fashioned to generate a very specific emotion in the player. I didn’t know who he or she was, but our purpose was the same and, unless they had played through it before, our divergent experience was now going to be a shared adventure. Together we managed to use our “call” ability to free those giant scarves which then combined with the ruins and made a path to the exit. We didn’t leave; we both recognized there was plenty to do besides bee-line toward an end. We explored sand waterfalls, made the best of our jump to reach high points with more glowey scarf extensions, and generally acted like playing children as we jumped over each other and skated on the dunes of sand.
I don’t think a shared fondness for play was an accident. Meeting this person and subconsciously being aware that I would never know who they were or interact with them again reminded me of childhood. My parents would take me to a near-by park and I would inevitably wind up going down slides or destroying lightning bugs with a kid I would never see again. Together we shared a sense of purpose and a discreet yet recognized mission. A week later I would do the same thing, with minor variation, with some other random kid until my mother decided it was time to go. I imagine Journey is intended to function along similar lines. You’re supposed to be with someone like you, and the game facilitates this through its delicate construction. Plus, if it doesn’t seem to be working out there’s zero restriction on keeping up; you can both go your separate ways.
We reach the summit of the ruins and a scene almost identical to the last played out. A glowing light figure emerged, stared at both of us, and bestowed us each with another layer to the designs on our cloak. The further path was opened, and both of us proceeded through.
The next area was wildly different. An endless sea of sand populated the landscape, with a modest rock collection yielding the only clue. A kite-like scarf emerged and danced in the wind, and we both proceeded to chase after it. What followed was another playful expression of discovery; each of us took turns jumping over dunes and skating in the sand, which is where I discovered that issuing a call in proximity of the other player refilled the symbols on his scarf and restored his or her jump ability. We continued to chase kite after kite until we stumbled upon a dark, ominous set of ruins ripe for vertical accent. Unfortunately the beta ended there, and with it my relationship with my new friend.
It was a bit sad, but also highly indicative of the promised offered by the end product. I am sure Journey will be a fine game if played solo, but sharing the experience with someone else, especially someone you have no means of “knowing” creates an unexplored sentiment in interactive entertainment. You don’t and can’t know who you’re with, but you recognize what you want to do. The mechanics and actions will be shared but the rest will be left up to speculations; bits of the setting could be constructed into a personal narrative unique to the player, all of which is a really interesting concept in the realm of videogames.
In the end, Journey openly explained almost nothing and was increasingly better for it. Journey looks to be a game about discovery and about creating a series of abstracts for the player to decipher. I’ll be surprised if there is ever even a line of text in the game, or if it bothers to cater to the American institution of explaining every last detail. Journey’s allure is its relative ambiguity, and its risk is trusting the player to appreciate and enjoy it. Sign me up, because I can’t wait to see what else is out there.
We had additional coverage of Journey at E3. Chris played it and wrote about it and while Steve filmed Chris I had an impromptu interview (more of a conversation, really) with Thatgamecompany’s Kellee Santiago. Video/conversation: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3
