Journey is the first game that came to mind when I played Song of the Sea. It’s hard not to. The designers follow the same lineage, the control mechanisms follow a similar aesthetic, and the desert world is literally right there for you to grind on. The surfing. The soundtrack. The beautiful world you want to explore and be in. It's all there.
But what’s not there is also ever present, following you around. I couldn’t help but compare the game to Sky: Children of Light, the mobile sequel to Journey released in 2017. Journey, the 2012 game was a beautiful meditation on the relationship between people online and how opinionated interactions could change our relationship to other players. The fact that Sword of the Sea is a game about surfing your own enclosed world, separated out from any other human interaction feels almost oppressive. It also feels like the other end of the spectrum from Sky: Children of Light. One (Sky) is a game on mobile, with microtransactions, events, and monetization. The other is a short, sweet, beautiful game about surfing alone. I suppose, on some level those are the two default modes online now. Most internet experiences are defined by monetization, spectacle, and trends.
Is all we're left with is our own walled gardens where we can find peace, but only if other people aren't involved? The story message of Sword of the Sea is admirable. You're a surfer trying to restore a desert world to it's full water-filled glory. (Themes of Dune? Or maybe that's just because I rewatched the movie recently). You do this by exploring the sand dunes and completing a variety of tasks. The layout of the space also felt like Sable. But the emptiness there, peppered with spots of interaction and dialog felt more intentional, like an explicit question about the loneliness and freedom of adolescence and the journey to adulthood.
None of this is a critique of Sword of the Sea or its designers. I don't think it's on any single designer or company to "solve" that problem. It more feels like a constraint of the moment. It’s hard enough to release any game and be successful, much less a game that asks new things of its players.1 The outcome feels quite indicative of where we're at as a society.
It feels like the possibility of what designs can be explored are constrained by the realities of monetization and online communities. In comparison, the first time I played Journey I remember being struck by a sense of awe of the possibilities that online interactions could be designed. I didn't necessarily agree with Jenova Chen's opinion that arms had to be removed in order for positivity to ensue, but I was ENTHRALLED by the idea that this was an opinion someone could render into a game.
It’s what attracted me to design and board game design in general as well. The idea that you could play with design ideas and ideas about constraining how people relate to one another. It’s part of what’s so interesting about GHQ. Even if the game isn’t particularly excellent, it has fascinating opinions about what mechanics say about relationships.
Over a decade later, even if the territory exists it feels much more relegated to the edges of design discourse. The grooves of online interaction feel well worn and hard to escape from, not dissimilar from the halfpipes in Sword of the Sea that I struggle to land tricks on.
Hitting moves in Sword of the Sea feels great. And the reward, watching an area of the world burst forth with life as a result of your puzzle solving is a great little tickle. The level of craft and care that’s gone into every moment is incredible. You almost feel like you’re flying through the area when you come zipping out of an area you just filled with water and sea life.
Sword of the Sea has truly immaculate vibes. But the fact that this is the place to get those vibes is occasionally quite tough. It's good for a chill few hours. But the loneliness of the experience never really left me.
There are notable exceptions like UFO 50, but in some ways those are exceptions that prove the rule. Those desires have cultivated very specific communities that love and buoy those types of experiences. And they are cloistered in their own way.