[I] doesn’t exist – An Existential, Text-Based Adventure – PAX East 2023 Preview

I’ve had to think for quite a while to decide what I want to say about [I] doesn’t exist. Specifically, I’ve been trying to see if my initial excitement about the game was warranted. Essentially, since a week and a half ago at PAX East, I’ve been trying to convince myself that the game wasn’t as special as it felt like, in that secret room at DreadXP’s booth. Well, pretty soon I realized that, by asking myself whether my memory and experience of the game was authentic, I was playing right into the hands of the game itself. That’s right; we’re getting meta with this one.

This is going to start weird (so does [I] doesn’t exist), but bear with me.

A lot of my job is spent writing articles on a tight deadline, whether they be reviews, think pieces, or previews (like this one). Because I am a very opinion-focused writer, I always use those articles to make an argument of some kind. A thesis statement. But, the nature of the deadlines means that I often have to outline an article quickly, and then write up my thoughts in a single draft, which I’ll later edit for grammar and style, but which I will not have the luxury of rewriting. There is simply not always time for structural edits.

What this means is that I’m convincing myself of a thesis statement as I’m writing an article. And the words that you end up reading are as close to a stream-of-consciousness as you’re going to get. “Here’s my thought process about this thing, and here is where it leads me. I’ll throw in some references to demonstrate I know what I’m talking about and maybe a quote so that it seems like the developer agrees with me.”

But, honestly? What I do is, in a way, nonsense. I talk around an issue, following my mind on whatever tangents it goes on, until I’ve built up enough of a case to present my conclusion, which is often just as quickly made up. I could just as easily have followed a different track through my mind, though, to come to a different conclusion entirely. I like to think I make compelling, well-reasoned arguments. But, truthfully, sometimes I think my platform on this site just makes what I say look legitimate, when in reality I’m just another person with opinions online. I just happen to get paid for it.

Let’s connect the dots here: [I] doesn’t exist is about that feeling, which some might refer to as “Imposter Syndrome.” The game sees you “take control” of a character, Nail. On the top half of the screen is absolutely stylish, unsettling pixel art. A beautifully rendered 2d landscape in amber hues. Objects all around, you use the bottom half of the screen exactly as you would in a traditional text-adventure game. “Go here”, “look at this,” “lick lock.” Things like that. The animations of Nail moving around and interacting with these objects is impressive, proving once again that pixel-art is far from the “lazy” way off doing things. The game looks great.

And as you walk around, slowly uncovering the different objects and puzzles, picking up little pieces and learning more and more, it soon becomes apparent that something is wrong. Nail trips suspiciously, and the screen distorts for just a moment. Pieces of dialog seem odd, unusual for the genre. Solutions and puzzles seem arbitrary and fake, even more so than is typical in the genre. Why is there a screwdriver impaled in a block of ice? Why is there a full-functioning shower — complete with door and tiling — in the middle of the woods? Those familiar with Daniel Mullins’s games, namely Pony Island and Inscryption, will recognize the eeriness from his games. For the uninitiated, expect to feel, perpetually, like something is wrong and there is more to it than what you understand.

And then, eventually, you come across a door in the woods, and open it. You tell Nail to go through. And, instead… Nail rejects that, and slips down to the ground, ending up in fetal position, crying. Nail doesn’t want to go through the door. “Not again,” he says.

Some games would stop there, let that be the transition into horror that so many “twists” lead into. Next thing you know, a demonic monster comes and chases you. But, in a stroke of brilliance, the game runs with it. The horror in this horror-adjacent game is not some external threat, not even one that’s actually a metaphor for something more personal. No, the horror here is revealed in what happens next. Nail delivers a tragic scree about their lack of self-confidence, about their worthlessness. It is a depressive, sad thing.

And then, sinisterly, you are given directions on how to change it.

The other aspect of my job, in addition to writing out screeds that I hope will make sense when they are done, is editing the work of others. I’m often the final barrier to entry between a finished guide or review and publication. And, when I edit my coworker’s articles, I find myself changing things, inevitably. Not just grammar or technical bits, but the style. I make sure phrases land, arguments flow, and ideas are clear. And, in doing so, I sometimes change what is said, altering it to, hopefully, help the author communicate what they are trying to say even better.

Sitting at the computer, staring at the text on screen, I was told, essentially, to do the same with Nail. I’m only able to remove words — maybe negative ones like “not” in “not worth anything.” But the feeling is the same. I am given the power to alter what Nail says, but for what? Am I the expert on Nail? So much so that I know better than them, about their writing? And, of course, it feels like the screen is staring back at me, taunting. “Yeah? You’re so great? Alright, fix Nail, then. See what happens.”

And I do. I change the statement, and Nail comments on it. They are upset that I would change it, but are thankful for the positive change. And it’s right about there that it clicked for me, the third aspect of this whole experience. The first is imposter syndrome, the feeling of being recognized for being better than you are. The second is control; within games, who is in control of everything? What does it mean to control another’s words? And lastly, synchronizing those two ideas, there is the mental health angle: why do we talk badly about ourselves, and what can we do about it?

I do not want to spoil what follows, even though I only played to the end of Act One, because I think, like the Beginner’s Guide, it is important to experience it yourself. The next segment is probably the most interesting, impactful version of the “ask the player questions about themselves” scene I’ve come across in a game yet. And all without leaving the realm of a text-adventure, even if it stretches what that means some. You will switch perspectives, you will be taken for a loop, and things will change, but always you’ll be met with responses you can answer via text.

And now we come to the part of this article where I try, desperately in this case, to bring all of what I said above into a meaningful conclusion. This game, in a brief 30-minute demo, had me thinking about whether my work means anything, about the nature of having control of one’s words, and about why I put myself down for those kinds of thoughts. It is, despite its sinister and bizarre “something is wrong” atmosphere, a clearly personal game, with an obviously relatable message about mental health and, specifically, the way we talk about ourselves (though it isn’t yet clear where that message will land).

All I know is that I want to play on. This game has jumped straight to the top of my wishlist. It is mystifying, and asks questions in a way that I haven’t seen before. It is deeply meta, but not in a cheap way that so many games are. Instead, it seeks to use that rubble that was the fourth-wall to explore something important and meaningful.

Daniel Mullins, creator of Inscryption and Pony Island, is one of the few game developers who I consider to a true genius, and I get the same feeling playing [I] doesn’t exist as I do playing those games. The genre is different, the subject matter is different, but there is a brilliance to the subversion here that makes me hungry to know more, to see what it has to say. If LUAL games can maintain that trajectory through the entire game, it will inevitably be a hit.

If I ever get the chance, I’ll have to ask them about imposter syndrome.

If you are anything like me, and you love to see how unsettling and strange ideas can help us understand ourselves, this game should be on your wishlist on Steam. [I] doesn’t exist, is a modern, text-based existential crisis (textistential crisis?), and I can’t wait to play more.