Moss

Compromise seems to be an intrinsic facet of the PlayStation VR’s library. In most cases, the virtual reality experience has either been grafted onto an existing game or considered an optional component of a brand new one. Original experiences can often mirror an extended technology demonstration, absent of the vision and wherewithal of a traditional product. Few of these limitations affect a game’s ability to be good, but they all cast a prejudicial shadow. It’s easier for an immature medium to find strength through expedited experimentation.

Moss, the first game from the experienced team at Polyarc, is one of the few PlayStation VR titles to live comfortably inside of its skin. Its treatment of virtual reality identifies the medium’s (and, specifically, PlayStation VR’s) limitations and recasts them into unique advantages. Moss’ gentle operation—de facto levels are limited to a single screen and rarely challenge personal comfort—stands in contrast to games that either push limitations too hard or feel lost inside of their own illusions. In Moss, perceived boundaries are erased and it is allowed to operate like, of all things, a normal videogame.

The player assumes dual roles as a mouse, Quill, and an enigmatic Reader. Quill operates as a standard platform character, playfully leaping in the air, slashing with a tiny sword, and vaulting up stones with fluid animation that, frankly, looks better than any mouse vault animation should. As the god-like Reader, the player can push the DualShock 4 across all three axes and manipulate special objects in the field. Progression is spread across large, visually dense screens that look like dioramas but function like puzzles. The harmony between the player’s dual roles and the environment’s call to action is the premise that drives Moss forward.

A curious framing device propels Moss’ narrative forward. You’re also literally the reader, occupying a giant library and paging through an old book. Turning pages sets the table for Moss’ backstory, placing Quill as the unlikely recipient of a magic stone that bonds her to the Reader. After Quill’s uncle hurriedly sets out on an adventure, Quill is compelled by a fairy-like Starling to track him down. This sets Moss in motion, sweeping Quill across a tranquil forest, a gloomy dungeon, and an abandoned castle.

Moss draws its influence from a collection of 80’s children’s animated features. Its aesthetic works as a combination of Don Bluth first two films, The Secret of NIMH and An American Tale. There was a certain intense darkness to Bluth’s work in the 80’s. His films weren’t afraid to explore the perils of grief or the panic of isolation. The hell sequence in All Dogs go to Heaven or Little Foot’s mother dying in The Land Before Time created a profound impact on my young mind, forging images and feelings that, thirty years later, I’m still reluctant to abandon. Contrary to the confectionery dreck of children’s programming I absorbed everywhere else, Bluth’s films spread emotion across the entire spectrum.

Inside Moss’ medieval fantasy are artifacts of fallen humanity. Battle helmets and rusty swords are a flashback to An American Tale’s prologue and the pocket violence on display when Quill takes damage strikes at her own mortality. Little of Moss feels gratuitous and most of its subtext stays in the background. Moments of danger come without warning and implicit history is behind every corner. It’s impossible to play Moss without considering the fallout that drove its world into existence and the menace lurking in the shadows.

Every screen in Moss is an order-of-operations puzzle. Quill can jump over platforms, cut away vines, and shimmy across specially marked ledges. The Reader can pull chains to open doors, rotate platforms to grant special access, and pull out rocks to create bridges. Early puzzles in Moss are visually simple but later challenges demand a more thoughtful, and sometimes experimental, approach. Every puzzle feels clever, though the limitations of Moss‘ environments and absence of complex verbs prevents them from being too tough.

Opposition complicates Quill’s objectives. Three different bug-like enemies take the form of a melee-focused beetle, a projectile friendly crab, and an exploding green, uh, thing. As the Reader, you’re free to grab and paralyze one at a time and allow Quill to pound them out of existence. You can also take over the projectile crab and hurl fireballs at your opposition (or into puzzle solutions). Whether you’re guiding beetles on and off elevator switches or detonating exploders against anything in the immediate area, Moss’ brief (three or so hours) runtime isn’t left wanting for variety.

Conflict is the only instance where Moss feels a bit cramped. As the Reader, pin-point grabbing an enemy and directing them places is error-prone and awkward. Firing projectiles is often ineffective at point-blank range. Restoring Quill’s health, performed by grabbing a hold of her for a few moments, is nearly impossible when surrounded by enemies. Part of this is Moss’ intended challenge—multitasking is on the short list of skills it would like the player to prove—but the PlayStation VR’s fussiness creates an artificial layer of difficulty. While not insurmountable, it feels like an area in need of more attention.

It’s to Moss’ credit that its use of virtual reality is held on a tight leash. Craning your head over walls to reveal one of Moss’ handfuls of collectibles feels like holding up a diorama and exploring the work its creator placed into the periphery. Certain environmental reveals are predicated on misdirection, which is a tough trick to pull when the player’s attention could be anywhere. A brief sequence with a deer, in particular, left a huge smile across my face. Another involving a reflection left me in awe. Moss isn’t a loud showcase of technology, but rather a measured display of its natural power.  This is what virtual reality games could feel like if developers accepted the medium as a proven platform.

If only Moss weren’t over so soon. The brevity of the adventure runs a parallel line next to the progression of its mechanics, but the world is left begging to tell more of its stories. Moss seems to acknowledge this, closing the Reader’s book with the implication that it’s the first of many tales. It’s unknown whether this either an indication of Polyarc’s future intentions or simply an invitation to wonder over Moss’ larger world. In any case, more would be welcomed with open arms.

A tiny mouse is an unassuming heroine, dioramas are inconspicuous puzzle boxes, and virtual reality often prefers exhilaration to gratification. Moss erases these assumptions and projects its bold ambition across a gorgeous procession of puzzles and platforming. In a medium consumed by flash and artificiality, Moss presents a mature and genuine alternative.