Season: A Letter to the Future

Season: A Letter to the Future is not for the cynic. Or, perhaps, it is.

The opening hours of the game may be too densely packed with exposition that reads too flowery, too self-important. Its sweeping music and cleverly-timed panning shots of gorgeous pastel landscapes too manufactured.

Like anything asking for more introspection, Season could be approached as trite nonsense. More concerned with extolling the idea of meaning rather than the definition or example of one. For experienced players, Season may just be another indie game harping on the deeper exploration of loss or “what lies beyond.”

I am cynical, pessimistic. The world and time has chipped away at me enough where my armor for bullshit is moderately dense. The soapy armchair psychology of social media and the concept of finding beauty in the darkest places are not concepts I often embrace. My optimism comes cautiously and sarcasm shrouds me like rubber all too often–a flaw, I admit.

But I deeply enjoyed Season: A Letter to the Future.

While my cynical mind can roll its eye at a purported philosophical quote by Betsy’s 3-year-old that she decided to tweet, my heart was warmed by main character Estelle’s poetic musings on the sensory qualitites of the items in her home. The difference? Sincerity. I find it hard to believe that an infant was capable of deep, rational thought and has a mom fervently tweeting its every word. It all feels like reality television; where there may be genuine thoughts and emotions but its all processed through the swamp of drama.

Sincerity is one of Season‘s greatest virtues. But I understand why for some it may become suffocating.

Estelle is documenting what feels like the end of the world. In actuality, she is documenting the end of the season which, in this world that is much like ours, is not signified by the changing of the leaves or temperature. Here, a season is more of an era or chunk of time that has a kind of significance. For us 2020 would be the beginning of a season heralded by Covid. For Estelle, the most recent season was one of war.

Yet in the final days of this season, Estelle’s world feels both post-apocalyptic and at peace. Shortly into the game players will happen upon a hillside post office. Envelopes are swirling in the breeze and packages are left abandoned because there are no people to deliver and collect them. Further down the path are towering structures and small outposts that seem overgrown and left to time.

The impact of a season, it seems, is like a painter etching their new work onto a used canvas. Or covering up an old patchwork quilt with a mesh blanket. The echoes of prior seasons can be seen in this current one. People reference the old season with equal parts reverence, confusion, fear, and curiosity.

Comprehending the complexity behind what seasons actually mean in the game is a growing poetic device developer Scavengers Studio uses to form the core intrigue in the game. Is Estelle journeying to her eventual death? What transformative effect does the end of a season have on the people and the world? Who is peering into Estelle’s memories at the beginning of the game?

But Season is a game less concerned with the player’s investment in the unknowable future and more dedicated towards establishing a connection with the now. This is conducted through the game’s primary mechanic of taking pictures, recording audio, and scrapbooking. The primary “task” of the game and means of progression in Season is to use Estelle’s tools to capture a certain area and then move along.

Opening up Estelle’s journal, players will be able to see the number of photographs and audio recordings needed to complete a section and be nudged towards a new one. However, Scavengers was perhaps wise to not provide the player with hard direction, enabling a great sense of freedom over what both the player and Estelle deem important enough to preserve for future generations.

And this is perhaps where a cynical gamer may exploit the kindness and depth of Season. Really, a player could carelessly and rapidly take photographs of the ground or sky, fill the journal, and move on, blitzing through the narrative and meaning of Season.

What would be the point of that, though? At no point in Season did I feel like something in the world lacked significance. After all, this was the potential “end of the world” or at least the final gasps of the status quo. Estelle’s calling is to document her thoughts and feelings about “the end” along with how it looks and sounds and the thoughts and memories of the people who are still around to speak to. I heard a frog making noise near a body of water, I recorded its croaks and took a picture framing it against the blue expanse that was behind it. A field of cows were captured individually by the camera and as a herd so that some mysterious strangers could perhaps appreciate their unique patterns years from now.

The camera offers various filters and zoom options to assist players in further realizing their vision. Players can then place these images in the journal. From there quotes from Estelle or those she met, stickers and stamps, sketches of things seen on the journey, and even audio clips can be pasted on two pages. Again, players can haphazardly drop these elements down and progress, but why?

Journals in games often describe mechanics to the player or expound upon the narrative or lore. In Season, Estelle’s journey is both an extension of the player and the heart of the game. Would it not make sense for a person with such a meaningful goal to do their best?

A short hike into the game, Estelle arrives at Tieng Valley, a place in the world that risks being destroyed by the flood waters from a decaying dam. A large portion of the game is spent in Tieng Valley as it acts as an open area that players can visit key locations in, speaking to various citizens and perhaps unlocking more knowledge about the world and its seasons. The Valley offers varying viewpoints for players to become wrapped up in, exploring the mysticism of Season, the nihilistic approach some have to not the end of the season but the end of their individual way of life, and the meditation on memories.

So much of Season is beautiful. Though I understand those who would soak up its writing with disdain, it’s significantly deeper than just flowery exposition. Go ahead, roll your eyes. But I’ve often found that the human mind comes up with the most poignant thoughts and means of expression when faced with extreme loss or pained optimism. Between the lines of dialog both opulent and obtuse are wonderful musings on what “the end” means and how best to preserve and persevere.

Additionally, Season is a beautiful game to look at. Its cel-shaded gravitas is both stylish and substantive, making each location distinct and each landmark pop with authenticity. When Estelle first leaves her village, she bikes around a valley at a downward slope, the camera inching towards a dramatic vista that may make players gasp. A rainy night, a dilapidated underpass, a dirty dig site, it all looks absolutely wonderful and stylish.

Yet I admit that Season has a distinct lack of stuff to do. Using the adaptive triggers to further push past the resistance of the bike pedals is a great touch but it isn’t always easy to ride around and can get stuck on world geometry easily in particular zones. Documenting the world is painless and merely requires an artist touch from the player if they wish. But there are virtually no puzzles to speak of and few surprises that alter the constant pace the mechanics have already laid out.

And, of course, the game can simply be aimless. Losing direction is possible with in-game maps and directions providing the best sense of where to go. But players making sure to see and do everything may find themselves pacing or riding back and forth to ensure no stone is left unturned. There are moments of frustration I experienced knowing I was missing some discovery to put in my journal but missing exactly where it could be.

Season would be a lesser game if it allowed players to become wrapped up in all the extravagances of modern design. Though I’m being a bit facetious with that platitude, I appreciate the pared down nature of the game. Too many mechanics or guidance would perhaps focus the player too much or simply strip away the magic of discovery. But it was as I continued my strange obsession with Estelle’s mission that I realized I was inherently trying as hard as I could to take the best pictures, to preserve the nature of this season as best I could.

I began to think about the standard practice of social media to document absolutely every thought, feeling, sight, sound, or grain of relevance. When I studied abroad in Europe for a month, I watched several of my fellow students obsessively frame pictures of the Eiffel Tower or a German countryside or Italian sculpture. This was before Instagram and at a time where memory cards were spacious enough to fill with clutter. But in the few minutes it took them to get the perfect picture, what had they missed? Was there a moment that passed them by? Something the mind could preserve but not the lens?

Too often I would see something I thought looked cool, raise my camera up, and snap a quick photo. I didn’t care if it looked great because I knew a simple photo would help conjure a stronger, more complex memory. As time goes by, I’ve become less and less interested in documenting my life and memories for others, instead focusing on what matters most to me. In Season, I often thought about the duality of capturing what felt important in the now and what would be important when the now was a distant memory held by those who were long gone.

Perhaps that’s the true message behind Season, the pictures the player and Estelle took or the bike ride to the ultimate conclusion were not the important things. Instead, it was the collective memory of that journey, the flares of remembrance when months or years from now you scrolled past the game in your library and momentarily paused, reflecting on what had transpired.

Season: A Letter to the Future is an indescribable piece of poetry. A journey where the end goal is not as meaningful as the steps taken to get there. It is a strange game that may not resonate with a particular audience who find its flowery dialog and bare mechanics to be intolerable. But the layered complexity of its message guarantees that Season: A Letter to the Future has timeless value.