On some shitty fundamental level, I probably believe that in order for something to be interesting as a "game" it requires a form of choice. I don't care about whether they have fail states, or whether your interaction with the world is limited--I just need that interaction to be driven by my curiosity, my skill, whatever it may be. Those are choices that I find engaging.
Playing Ihatovo Monogatari really helped put that into perspective for me. I've struggled with, and continue to struggle with, visual novels--not in the sense that I "don't think they're games" because who cares about that and hopefully most people have grown out of that level of bizarre gate-keeping, but in the sense that my interaction with many of them is pretty strictly driven by whether I feel compelled to read more text--occasionally with making choices so I can read how that text branches. When well-written I'm sure the genre is great, but they don't particularly excite me because it just makes me feel guilty about not reading books or watching films instead. They may have accompanying visuals and sounds that resonate and enhance, but for me they don't really have what makes games special.
Games like Ihatovo Monogatari are different because, as inconsequential as it may seem on the surface, having a physical avatar exploring a space to largely the same mechanical ends as a visual novel makes all the difference in the world to me. The game wouldn't be special without its pleasant world-building, characters and story, but those things are allowed to sing because I'm truly inhabiting the world as I explore it.
There are specific triggers needed to proceed--and that's where most of my problems with the game showed up, namely in the snow village chapter--but they're easier to forgive when your stumbling gives you the opportunity to soak in scenes; to see if that dog you passed earlier has something to say; to check in on the woman who sings outside her home; to stop by the theater to see if it's playing something new, or anything at all; to experience a new work from the local poet; and so much more. The synopsis for this game mentions "the opportunity to play the role of a temporary school teacher"--something I apparently missed out on, which is okay. [Or it's referring to a largely off-screen role in one of the chapters, perhaps.] As simple as the verbs are that you're equipped with in dealing with this small town and its outskirts, they feel more powerful because they were perfect enough for me to express my own engagement.
And it's a world that earns that engagement. The story--an elaborate and lovely tribute to real-life novelist and poet Kenji Miyazawa--is filled with bittersweet parables about the nature of humanity, communication and place. The vast majority of chapters are standalone snippets where the [at least I'm pretty sure] unnamed protagonist, motivated by his search for seven of Miyazawa's journals, stumbles into resolving and witnessing conflicts in the region. It's all accompanied by charming art, including beautiful cutscenes that tend to conclude chapters. [Props to the English fan translation as well; I don't know if it's a fantastic localization, but I do know it communicated well enough for me to get a lot out of it.]
The aforementioned triggers are the only kicker, and unfortunately there were times I found them to be frustrating enough to hurt what really works here. In those moments the expectation the game sets for you to walk back and forth between these triggers doesn't feel like an opportunity but instead like an inorganic roadblock. The vast majority of this confusion can be avoided since the town provides, depending on how you wish to look at it, two to four reliable "hint" hubs that can nudge you in the right direction. But sometimes even knowing the key players in a developing story, even with the assistance of these hubs, isn't enough, leading to wandering around and hoping you talk to the right character that reveals, oh, they just had this important item stowed away and sure you can have it, or even actions as simple as leaving the area.
So the awkward remnants of games past are here, but I still couldn't be happier about getting around to it, and it makes me feel incredibly grateful to fan communities that devote their time towards making these sorts of experiences more accessible. It seems fairly celebrated here on Backloggd which is great, but it's still very much an unsung moment from this period in gaming and I'm thrilled to have experienced it myself.
Playing Ihatovo Monogatari really helped put that into perspective for me. I've struggled with, and continue to struggle with, visual novels--not in the sense that I "don't think they're games" because who cares about that and hopefully most people have grown out of that level of bizarre gate-keeping, but in the sense that my interaction with many of them is pretty strictly driven by whether I feel compelled to read more text--occasionally with making choices so I can read how that text branches. When well-written I'm sure the genre is great, but they don't particularly excite me because it just makes me feel guilty about not reading books or watching films instead. They may have accompanying visuals and sounds that resonate and enhance, but for me they don't really have what makes games special.
Games like Ihatovo Monogatari are different because, as inconsequential as it may seem on the surface, having a physical avatar exploring a space to largely the same mechanical ends as a visual novel makes all the difference in the world to me. The game wouldn't be special without its pleasant world-building, characters and story, but those things are allowed to sing because I'm truly inhabiting the world as I explore it.
There are specific triggers needed to proceed--and that's where most of my problems with the game showed up, namely in the snow village chapter--but they're easier to forgive when your stumbling gives you the opportunity to soak in scenes; to see if that dog you passed earlier has something to say; to check in on the woman who sings outside her home; to stop by the theater to see if it's playing something new, or anything at all; to experience a new work from the local poet; and so much more. The synopsis for this game mentions "the opportunity to play the role of a temporary school teacher"--something I apparently missed out on, which is okay. [Or it's referring to a largely off-screen role in one of the chapters, perhaps.] As simple as the verbs are that you're equipped with in dealing with this small town and its outskirts, they feel more powerful because they were perfect enough for me to express my own engagement.
And it's a world that earns that engagement. The story--an elaborate and lovely tribute to real-life novelist and poet Kenji Miyazawa--is filled with bittersweet parables about the nature of humanity, communication and place. The vast majority of chapters are standalone snippets where the [at least I'm pretty sure] unnamed protagonist, motivated by his search for seven of Miyazawa's journals, stumbles into resolving and witnessing conflicts in the region. It's all accompanied by charming art, including beautiful cutscenes that tend to conclude chapters. [Props to the English fan translation as well; I don't know if it's a fantastic localization, but I do know it communicated well enough for me to get a lot out of it.]
The aforementioned triggers are the only kicker, and unfortunately there were times I found them to be frustrating enough to hurt what really works here. In those moments the expectation the game sets for you to walk back and forth between these triggers doesn't feel like an opportunity but instead like an inorganic roadblock. The vast majority of this confusion can be avoided since the town provides, depending on how you wish to look at it, two to four reliable "hint" hubs that can nudge you in the right direction. But sometimes even knowing the key players in a developing story, even with the assistance of these hubs, isn't enough, leading to wandering around and hoping you talk to the right character that reveals, oh, they just had this important item stowed away and sure you can have it, or even actions as simple as leaving the area.
So the awkward remnants of games past are here, but I still couldn't be happier about getting around to it, and it makes me feel incredibly grateful to fan communities that devote their time towards making these sorts of experiences more accessible. It seems fairly celebrated here on Backloggd which is great, but it's still very much an unsung moment from this period in gaming and I'm thrilled to have experienced it myself.