Dear Future is a multiplayer wandering game where you photograph a cryptic city using an inherited camera. Working collectively with every other player in the world, you must document the ruined land of your predecessors and lift an ancient curse. Tread across a procedurally-generated world of pseudoclassical architecture and take photographs in it, saving a single one to pass down to future players. After your first session ends, the next player will inherit the camera and continue from where you left off. What will you leave for those that come after you? Use the camera tools to create striking and creative photographs. Restore paths to open hidden areas to future players. Leave messages to help future players delve deeper into the city. Uncover hidden truths as you drift the depths together over generations.
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Dear Future, developed by the straightforwardly named Dear Future Production committee, is in short an interactable internet archive in which you take photos of ones own surroundings and leave notes for the future players to come and see, and if you choose to perceive this game as simply that there would be no way in which to deny this shorthanded take upon it. However, to look further into the games meaning and its portrayal is to recognize it as more than that, and instead, as I perceive it to be, as a time capsule and a microcosm of the internet and life itself.
The game itself takes less than half an hour to complete, tutorial lasting about 5-7 minutes to get you into the swing of things and then your limited time upon its barren lands begins its 12 minute cycle, giving you just enough time to walk around and explore but always less time than you wish you had. The world itself is a dark and abandoned land overshadowed by a pillar off in the distance, overlooking the long forgotten hot pot of the city and its cultures, surrounded with messages from its own residents from a time long past.
In modern day internet archives are no unknown resource, many sites and online places have set themselves to these roles in order to preserve what is and was in order to to develop the future and continue to reserve the knowledge of life. To give a bigger scale in terms of the universe itself in 1977 Voyager 1 was launched into space, along with it a disk named the Golden Record, a message to the universe and to any life that may be out there that we were here; messages written to these otherworldly beings giving a friendly greeting, from one life in this world to another. Dear Future I believe is to be not only a microcosm of life in itself, but especially an archive and preservation of life to say that we were here, to give thanks and a pat on the back to simply 'being'. This preservation of life isn't just a focus point within its gameplay but its main message, I believe, to anyone and everyone that happens to stumble upon it. Just as videos, reviews, and websites like Backloggd are logs and messages of your life and your activities, constantly stating your place upon this world and your likings within it, this game in itself is a message of life and our place within it.
Whenever conversations of games pop up, mainly in a mainstream sense, the value of replayability is always brought up as if to assume anything you can infinitely replay instantly means it's better than another. I myself can agree with this sentiment to a certain degree, however some games I believe that this focus upon needing to go back again can simply ruin the experience. I highly doubt I'll ever replay Dear Future (or Before Your Eyes, another game I have this same feel towards), and that's perfectly okay, it's better than okay, it's better that way.
I would highly recommend this game towards anyone with time to spare.
There is no set goal for you, only a promise of an end to come and what you wish to do with your time.
The game itself takes less than half an hour to complete, tutorial lasting about 5-7 minutes to get you into the swing of things and then your limited time upon its barren lands begins its 12 minute cycle, giving you just enough time to walk around and explore but always less time than you wish you had. The world itself is a dark and abandoned land overshadowed by a pillar off in the distance, overlooking the long forgotten hot pot of the city and its cultures, surrounded with messages from its own residents from a time long past.
In modern day internet archives are no unknown resource, many sites and online places have set themselves to these roles in order to preserve what is and was in order to to develop the future and continue to reserve the knowledge of life. To give a bigger scale in terms of the universe itself in 1977 Voyager 1 was launched into space, along with it a disk named the Golden Record, a message to the universe and to any life that may be out there that we were here; messages written to these otherworldly beings giving a friendly greeting, from one life in this world to another. Dear Future I believe is to be not only a microcosm of life in itself, but especially an archive and preservation of life to say that we were here, to give thanks and a pat on the back to simply 'being'. This preservation of life isn't just a focus point within its gameplay but its main message, I believe, to anyone and everyone that happens to stumble upon it. Just as videos, reviews, and websites like Backloggd are logs and messages of your life and your activities, constantly stating your place upon this world and your likings within it, this game in itself is a message of life and our place within it.
Whenever conversations of games pop up, mainly in a mainstream sense, the value of replayability is always brought up as if to assume anything you can infinitely replay instantly means it's better than another. I myself can agree with this sentiment to a certain degree, however some games I believe that this focus upon needing to go back again can simply ruin the experience. I highly doubt I'll ever replay Dear Future (or Before Your Eyes, another game I have this same feel towards), and that's perfectly okay, it's better than okay, it's better that way.
I would highly recommend this game towards anyone with time to spare.
There is no set goal for you, only a promise of an end to come and what you wish to do with your time.
The real tragedy of this game is that it wasn't ambitious enough.
This seems like a really great concept. A timed photo shoot in an abandoned, decayed, weird sci-fi city? Sign me up. The problem is that it completely stumbles over its own feet in the execution of that idea.
The biggest struggle is that there's just not a lot to see. This is a very large world, and was somehow surprisingly empty. Because the game uses the same assets over and over, any time you find something really interesting in the world, if you walk a few feet, you're guaranteed to see the same thing repeated twenty times over. I remember coming upon a strange, Greek temple on a shoreline, and thought, "wow, what an interesting design," only to see the same temple copy-pasted 3 more times past the next building. It's because of this reuse of assets, and very minimal amounts of unique variety, that makes this a bother. Very rarely does the world offer interesting vistas, and even then, it's a chore to find them.
There's also the fact of the mechanics. Again, a timed photo adventure seems really appealing. Get in, get out, and only take what you find important. The problem is that the mechanics are a deliberate wrench in your fun. First, why is there a sprint button? I'm already limited by the time of day, so why should I be further limited by my ability to navigate the world? Perhaps the idea was to force people to choose paths, and come up with unique experiences. But when everything looks the same, and there's only a smattering of narrative bubbles, that you're not guaranteed to see, this mechanic isn't serving its intended purpose. The time also doesn't stop when you're taking pictures. The game seems to relish in you playing with your lenses, exposure, and grain. But you're not really given the time to explore the artistic process, because you're on the clock like a wage-slave.
Then there's the narrative. It's steeped in mystery, which is kind of cool. But again, because a player can wander any direction their heart desires, the odds of them finding a collection of good narrative bubbles is low, and this is exacerbated by the size of the world, which is large. The note feature helps, allowing you to place Dark Souls style notes on the ground for other players to find. But again, it's hard to find something creative to say with a note when the world is just the same buildings ad infinitum. And, if you choose to write a note, that's precious in-game minutes spent forming the perfect sentence and not taking photos.
It's best to compare this game to other photo games. Umurangi succeeds by giving you infinite time, a clear objective, but allowing for artistic freedom. Pokémon Snap gives you limited time, a clear objective, and reduces artistic freedom for the sake of gameplay. Dear Future, by contrast, gives you limited time, no objectives, and restricts artistic freedom through its mechanics. And that's just a shame, because there are the bones of a really interesting game here. But the bones are scattered on the ground like the assets in this world. Maybe you can find beauty in those bones. But I did not.
This seems like a really great concept. A timed photo shoot in an abandoned, decayed, weird sci-fi city? Sign me up. The problem is that it completely stumbles over its own feet in the execution of that idea.
The biggest struggle is that there's just not a lot to see. This is a very large world, and was somehow surprisingly empty. Because the game uses the same assets over and over, any time you find something really interesting in the world, if you walk a few feet, you're guaranteed to see the same thing repeated twenty times over. I remember coming upon a strange, Greek temple on a shoreline, and thought, "wow, what an interesting design," only to see the same temple copy-pasted 3 more times past the next building. It's because of this reuse of assets, and very minimal amounts of unique variety, that makes this a bother. Very rarely does the world offer interesting vistas, and even then, it's a chore to find them.
There's also the fact of the mechanics. Again, a timed photo adventure seems really appealing. Get in, get out, and only take what you find important. The problem is that the mechanics are a deliberate wrench in your fun. First, why is there a sprint button? I'm already limited by the time of day, so why should I be further limited by my ability to navigate the world? Perhaps the idea was to force people to choose paths, and come up with unique experiences. But when everything looks the same, and there's only a smattering of narrative bubbles, that you're not guaranteed to see, this mechanic isn't serving its intended purpose. The time also doesn't stop when you're taking pictures. The game seems to relish in you playing with your lenses, exposure, and grain. But you're not really given the time to explore the artistic process, because you're on the clock like a wage-slave.
Then there's the narrative. It's steeped in mystery, which is kind of cool. But again, because a player can wander any direction their heart desires, the odds of them finding a collection of good narrative bubbles is low, and this is exacerbated by the size of the world, which is large. The note feature helps, allowing you to place Dark Souls style notes on the ground for other players to find. But again, it's hard to find something creative to say with a note when the world is just the same buildings ad infinitum. And, if you choose to write a note, that's precious in-game minutes spent forming the perfect sentence and not taking photos.
It's best to compare this game to other photo games. Umurangi succeeds by giving you infinite time, a clear objective, but allowing for artistic freedom. Pokémon Snap gives you limited time, a clear objective, and reduces artistic freedom for the sake of gameplay. Dear Future, by contrast, gives you limited time, no objectives, and restricts artistic freedom through its mechanics. And that's just a shame, because there are the bones of a really interesting game here. But the bones are scattered on the ground like the assets in this world. Maybe you can find beauty in those bones. But I did not.
"We fall to hunger, thirst, and exposure as we beg for scraps to a sovereign who promises a better life.
Are the great works of great figures measured by that which they trample?"
Are the great works of great figures measured by that which they trample?"
I be taking photographs in this hoe
Near ground zero at Hiroshima is a peace museum, housed in what was once Fukuromachi Elementary School. One concrete wall of the school remained standing after the bombing, charred black from flame. Hibakusha etched messages on the wall, searching for missing friends and family and letting others know they were alive. Set up as one of nineteen aid stations within 500 metres of the detonation, it was a locus for the injured and their networks.
"Please Yuko, tell me where you are, from your mom"
The messages were documented by the Ministry of Education in October 1945, but repairs to the school obfuscated these messages from spring 1946 until 1999. Deteriorating architecture served as an opportunity to see if the messages remained after all this time. Behind plaster and blackboards, the messages indeed remained. For some, it brought closure as an assurance from five decades prior that a relative had lived, fallen ill, or died. The school was reopened as a museum in 2002, the remnants of the past subsumed into the architecture itself, a stark abutment of a grim reality within halls that otherwise seem ordinary. A temporary measure to reach out to others is now made permanent, a concrete symbol of the collective memory of Hiroshima.
The late Jean-Luc Vilmouth unveiled his "Café Little Boy" at the group exhibition "Hiroshima Art Document 2002," held in the Hiroshima Branch of the former Bank of Japan, one of the only buildings untouched by the bombing. Three walls of a room were coated in green chalkboard paint, as were small stools and tables. The space is interrupted by photographs of Little Boy's damage on one wall, and a single unmarred analogue clock on another. Coloured chalk litters the floor, and the five visitors permitted inside at a time are encouraged to leave messages, scrawling over or erasing others if needed. After a short time, they are to leave, and the cycle continues.
Vilmouth's work, now part of the Contemporary collection of the Centre Pompidou, creates a participatory narrative wherein collective memory is continually rewritten, added to, and taken away. Without any degree of permanence, many (including myself) take to writing their innermost secrets on the surfaces, certain that they will disappear. Even if they remain forever, they become anonymised by virtue of how much information there is. Like Fukuromachi's wall, there is no expectation for this history to persist beyond that brief interaction.
Dear Future takes this construction of collective memory and digitises it. The participant is given a camera and has twenty minutes to explore a procedurally-generated world in the wake of collapse. Buildings seem shelled, literal Greco-Roman ruins litter the landscape, scant remnants of the human struggle to survive remain in the form of mattresses and vehicles. A journal documents the rise and fall and revival of an autarchy. Errant ghosts share their brief thoughts when photographed. When the sun sets, the game ends.
SELECT A MEMORY TO PASS ON
ALL OTHER MEMORIES WILL BE LOST TO TIME
Only one of the participant's photographs is allowed to persist. Future participants have access to this (and others') single image, otherwise the entirety of one's participation has no record. All traces are permanently erased. A participant can aid the reconstruction of a wider narrative by imparting a meaningful visual text, or a participant can leave behind an aesthetically pleasing image. A participant can even leave behind a shitty picture of a garbage pile. This is an anonymous act. It gives the participant no benefit to be helpful to others, nor a penalty for refusing progress.
The participant does have one other tool in their arsenal to pass on their heritage. They can leave a note at a location, constructed from pre-defined parts.
They, and the photographs, tell us not of the whereabouts of the participants, those who chronicle the past in the present for the future.
They bring a closure, an assurance that we were once here.
"Please Yuko, tell me where you are, from your mom"
The messages were documented by the Ministry of Education in October 1945, but repairs to the school obfuscated these messages from spring 1946 until 1999. Deteriorating architecture served as an opportunity to see if the messages remained after all this time. Behind plaster and blackboards, the messages indeed remained. For some, it brought closure as an assurance from five decades prior that a relative had lived, fallen ill, or died. The school was reopened as a museum in 2002, the remnants of the past subsumed into the architecture itself, a stark abutment of a grim reality within halls that otherwise seem ordinary. A temporary measure to reach out to others is now made permanent, a concrete symbol of the collective memory of Hiroshima.
The late Jean-Luc Vilmouth unveiled his "Café Little Boy" at the group exhibition "Hiroshima Art Document 2002," held in the Hiroshima Branch of the former Bank of Japan, one of the only buildings untouched by the bombing. Three walls of a room were coated in green chalkboard paint, as were small stools and tables. The space is interrupted by photographs of Little Boy's damage on one wall, and a single unmarred analogue clock on another. Coloured chalk litters the floor, and the five visitors permitted inside at a time are encouraged to leave messages, scrawling over or erasing others if needed. After a short time, they are to leave, and the cycle continues.
Vilmouth's work, now part of the Contemporary collection of the Centre Pompidou, creates a participatory narrative wherein collective memory is continually rewritten, added to, and taken away. Without any degree of permanence, many (including myself) take to writing their innermost secrets on the surfaces, certain that they will disappear. Even if they remain forever, they become anonymised by virtue of how much information there is. Like Fukuromachi's wall, there is no expectation for this history to persist beyond that brief interaction.
Dear Future takes this construction of collective memory and digitises it. The participant is given a camera and has twenty minutes to explore a procedurally-generated world in the wake of collapse. Buildings seem shelled, literal Greco-Roman ruins litter the landscape, scant remnants of the human struggle to survive remain in the form of mattresses and vehicles. A journal documents the rise and fall and revival of an autarchy. Errant ghosts share their brief thoughts when photographed. When the sun sets, the game ends.
SELECT A MEMORY TO PASS ON
ALL OTHER MEMORIES WILL BE LOST TO TIME
Only one of the participant's photographs is allowed to persist. Future participants have access to this (and others') single image, otherwise the entirety of one's participation has no record. All traces are permanently erased. A participant can aid the reconstruction of a wider narrative by imparting a meaningful visual text, or a participant can leave behind an aesthetically pleasing image. A participant can even leave behind a shitty picture of a garbage pile. This is an anonymous act. It gives the participant no benefit to be helpful to others, nor a penalty for refusing progress.
The participant does have one other tool in their arsenal to pass on their heritage. They can leave a note at a location, constructed from pre-defined parts.
They, and the photographs, tell us not of the whereabouts of the participants, those who chronicle the past in the present for the future.
They bring a closure, an assurance that we were once here.
gran idea