Myst: The Best Horror Game Ever Made

It's 11:30 PM, and you're 11. You stayed up way too late watching TV, and your parents conked out on the couch before they sent you to bed. All the lights in the house are off, and the darkness is seeping in through the windows of your home, slowly oozing into the den. You start running.

There's something behind you.

You're sure of it.

If you stop, it'll catch you, and then...

You don't even want to think about it.

You reach the staircase— you're almost there. You rush up the steps, landing each step nimbly on the tips of your toes so that the rest of the lurking horrors don't hear you. So close now. You're at the end of the hallway, at the door to your room. You turn the light on and you're safe. Finally. The halogen bulbs and your trusty blanket have once again staved off the darkness.

But you know it's still out there, waiting for you, like it is every night.

And that's why Myst, while not intended as a horror game, is the best horror game ever made.

I played Myst 1 or 2 times as a kid. We owned the disc, and my friend Ben loved the game. I always watched him play, because I couldn't. It was too scary. The skies were sunny, the soundtrack was ambient and almost pleasant, and you're on a tropical island. What the fuck is scary about that?

The best horror films are the ones that never show the killer. The Conjuring does a great job of this. Horror, and the feeling of truly being scared, comes from being unsure. There's something out there, something terrible out there, somewhere, and it's dangerous. The threat of evil, of violence, even simply the threat of being scared, is often all it takes to instill a deep, stirring fear in the bottom of your gut.

I remember the first time I played Myst. I was taken in by the graphics, by the first person view— everything looked so beautiful. Exploring the island was relaxing and fun, even though I had no idea what to do. I couldn't solve the puzzles, but I didn't really care. I just liked looking at the pretty graphics.

Then I went into the library.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, Myst centers around a group of brothers that have been trapped in books. There's a red book and a blue book in the library, and the player is given the choice to free them. At this point, I was a little anxious— this is when the game introduces this magical force that's hard to understand. It's a bit creepy.

So you watch the FMV videos, and it's pretty obvious that the red dude is evil, and the blue dude isn't. So I went ahead and chose to free the blue dude.

Big fucking mistake.

Suddenly, I was trapped in the book. Forever. Forced to look at the man I just freed laughing over me, talking about wreaking havoc on the world.

That's when I lost it.

I had to restart the game, so I could quit on my own terms, not trapped in a book, but that was the last time I played Myst on my own. In an instant, the island was no longer friendly and beautiful. The puzzles were no longer things to pass over. Whenever I entered a new screen, I expected something to jump out and kill me. It became clear that there was a hostile force on this island, and the only way to survive, to keep from being locked away in a book for all eternity, to reach the safety of my bed and my blanket, would be to solve the puzzles.

But I couldn't do it.

And that's the scariest part. The puzzles are so hard. And you have hours upon hours to solve them. Nothing's going to jump out at you. The darkness is simply taunting you, teasing you with impossible tasks until you have to give up and quit. There's no running away— there's no leaving the island of Myst. Not until you find the green book.

I never found the green book. I never reached the safety of my bedroom and my halogen lamps, stuffed animals, and pillows.

I can still tell you exactly where the paper sleeve for Myst is. I see it when I visit home. When I was younger, I used to flip through CDs looking for the Wheel of Fortune game I loved to play, and I always dreaded seeing the Myst disc. It gave me a sick, scared, excited, and nervous feeling.

Because there's still something out there. Waiting for me. And when I'm home, I still run up the stairs at night to get to my bedroom.

"Let me get to the save spot, Mom!"

The voice of your mother reverberates into your hallway, muffled by its trip through the stairwell and around the half-opened door. "Dinner's ready!" But you already knew. You can smell the roast chicken and the broccoli with garlic she makes— it's the only way you'll eat broccoli— but you don't care.

You're exactly halfway through the first castle in Paper Mario. So you stay silent. "Did you hear me? Dinner's ready, kiddo!" "Just a minute, mom! I need to get to the save spot!" And when finally you get to that S block and race to the table, everyone has finished eating, the chicken is cold, and the broccoli is wilted and soggy.

I've played through multiple games on virtual consoles, adventure games, RPGs, action games, what have you. And there's always something missing. Yeah, I prefer cartridges— I like having something physical to remind me what I'm playing, but that's not it.

I'm nostalgic for that feeling of One More Level, of One More Battle, of knowing the save spot is just beyond that next miniboss, that your family's waiting for you at the dinner table, and that if you fail, you have to go all the way back to the start of the dungeon. That was, to be honest, a big part of my childhood. I used to do my homework right when I got home, play outside for an hour or so, then start playing N64 when it got dark, right before my parents started making dinner.

And it's why I'm not sure how much I'll enjoy Earthbound on the Wii U VC. It's why I don't really get a sense of wonder from Super Metroid. Yeah, they're brilliant games. And yes, I enjoy the hell out of playing them. But there's no urgency. Maybe it's because I'm on my own now, and I don't have my wonderful parents waiting for me at the table, or my little brother watching me play, telling me dinner can wait. That's probably a big part of it.

But there's something to be said for putting things at risk. In Super Metroid, as in all Wii U VC games (and as in emulators), you have the ability to create save states. You can save at any time. It's super convenient, and it's nice to be able to pick up right where you left off in Punch-Out!.

But if you game to be immersed in a world, to escape, or just to let your imagination run free, this convenience runs counter to that. There's always an out. Boss coming up? Save a second beforehand! Worried you'll make a mistake? Save, and you can always go back!

Autosave was a blessing when it was introduced. I loved it. I loved not having to confirm whether or not I wanted to overwrite my save data every single time I saved. I loved getting a game over in God of War and being able to pick up right where I left off.

But now I'm an "adult", supposedly. I have a job, and responsibilities. I should love the fact that I can save at any time, that people now don't have to keep multiple save files on RPGs just to make sure they get the best ending. Unless we're talking about Persona.

I don't love it.

I've noticed that, as in life, video games are all about the journey. I got really upset when I beat 2 of my favorite games ever— Tales of Symphonia and Sonic Adventure 2 Battle — I knew I'd never experience them for the first time again. And that was a melancholy feeling for me.

Slowing down is important, and the convenience of save states ruins that. I blast through screens in Super Metroid, not caring about my health bar because I know nothing's really at stake. Dinner's not getting cold. There's no threat of "oh man, I might just lose the last hour of gameplay" hanging over my head.

And as sucky as it is when you died, and you had to go back, you learned. And conversely, when you got to that save spot, you felt an amazing feeling of relief as your hearts all refilled. The ability to save whenever you want— it takes all of that away.

(And yes, I realize I could just not use the save state function. That's not the point. The fact that it's there removes the urgency, the risk from gaming. You always have that out.)

I know I'll enjoy Earthbound. I've never actually played through the whole thing, and I'm really looking forward to it. But there will be a piece missing. It won't feel entirely complete, or true. And no matter how good my cooking gets, I'll never be able to match my mom's garlic broccoli.

When Everyone Is A Gamer, Nobody Will Be (and why that's a good thing)

Have you ever called somebody a "hardcore gamer"? How about a "casual gamer"? An "EA gamer"? A "girl gamer", or "gamer girl"? We've all done it. We do it every day. And it's killing our culture.

Gaming is more mainstream than ever now. People know what Legend of Zelda is. People play Phoenix Wright on their phones. I rack up multiple Streetpass tags on my 3DS every day, from people of all walks of life. The big old wall that was erected in the 80's that separated the people who do and do not play video games has been almost completely dismantled, brick by brick. Even folks who don't play video games are able to talk about them with a certain amount of confidence— Mario is a part of the world's culture now.

All of these barriers have been broken. It's not high school anymore. Nobody will laugh derisively at you for playing Bayonetta. We're the cool kids now.

So why the hell do we continue to impose barriers on our own culture?

There's this nebulous idea of a "real gamer". Everybody reading this post most likely views themselves as one. For you, gaming is part of your life. Maybe you're part of the PC master race. Maybe you're a JRPG nut. Maybe you can beat any team in Madden on All-Madden mode with the Kansas City Chiefs. Everyone's definition of what makes a real gamer is different.

But then you get the people that play Peggle on their mobile phones calling themselves gamers. Suddenly we have to clarify— "Oh, no, you're not a gamer, you're a casual gamer"— as if we're members of some elite club you need to make an investment of hundreds of dollars to join.

But nothing, nothing in our lexicon is more damaging to our culture than the concept of the "girl gamer". Let me put it this way. Why not just call people who play video games and happen to be female "gamers"? Are we not letting them in our exclusive club of real gamers either? Branding a gamer that happens to be female a "girl gamer" instantly calls to mind stereotypes and questions of whether or not she's a "fake" gamer or not (by the way, by this post so far, you probably know how I feel on the whole "fake" gamer thing). But more importantly, it's an exclusionary term. Girl gamers, casual gamers, and fake gamers are not gamers, in the traditional sense. They're not a part of the club. They need another specific designation so that people won't be confused and think they are a member of our nerdy-boys only group.

This is all to say that since gaming has hit the mainstream, it's kind of become really cliquey. You'd think that given the way many of us were treated for our hobby in middle and high school, we'd be more inclusive. Hell, the term "gamer" itself is quickly losing meaning. My grandmother beats me consistently at Wii Bowling. I'd call her a gamer.

I think it's time to face the fact that everyone's a gamer now. Which means nobody is a gamer. We're just complex people with complex ideas and complex feelings towards video games. And yes, we probably like them more than my grandma does. She probably won't be playing Dragon's Crown anytime soon. But when we use terms like "gamer", we boil our culture down to its worst, most exclusionary elements.

The Problem with Saving the World

Summer is creeping to a close, and as the sun goes down, the humid, thick air is giving way to the cool crisp breezes of September. I love this time of year.

It's still hot enough to go swimming, to lie on the beach for hours, to gather your friends together for barbecues, but August nights seem to extend endlessly, the slightly bracing bursts of wind whirling around the greenery.

It's the perfect time to find a park, look up, and spend hours thinking. Just thinking about stuff.

And then, there's a moment where you're hit with a realization that feels like a ten-ton weight. Suddenly, you realize how full of wonder the world is. Each one of those stars, each one of those buildings, each one of those trees becomes striking in its beauty and their awe-inspiring massiveness, and you truly, deeply, feel lucky to be alive.

The wonder of the world clings to you, presses on your chest and restricts your breathing. You feel compelled by a force stronger than you've felt before to somehow live up to this world, this universe, this thing of immeasurable scale that we call "life". And it's an awesome, scary, pure and visceral feeling. A feeling of being simultaneously the smallest fucking speck in the entire universe, and also the most important thing that has ever existed.

I judge every single video game I play against this feeling.

This is the way a game is supposed to make you feel.

I remember the first time I was playing through Tales of Symphonia on the Gamecube. Graphics be damned, the first time I saw the Mana Tree, I felt that universal sense of scale, and the story that had been told thus far landed in a surprising way.

I am important.

What I do affects those around me, in a visceral way.

I can save the world.

I felt the same way walking the Star Road in Paper Mario, and during the epilogue of Bayonetta. There's a real sense of scale, of a world in which you can track your progress from level one, from whatever town you started in, to fighting for the fate of the world.

It's in the little things. I can point to Paper Mario Sticker Star as a game that did this completely wrong, and it's because of one small design choice. Sticker Star was an RPG that featured a stage-select. You never felt like you were traveling, and even when you backtracked to find the hidden stickers, you never felt like you were exploring. You were just playing through a level. What you're doing never felt important. And, hell, as much as I loved it, Dragon Age 2 fell victim to the same damn problem.

It makes me worried about Super Mario 3D World. It makes me worried about, hell, gaming in general.

If I never feel special in a video game, if I never have a true link with the world it takes place in, if I never feel like a part of something bigger than myself, why in the hell would I even want to save the world? It's just pixels on a screen. It doesn't exist.

We're all, like it or not, part of something much bigger than ourselves: a beautiful miasma of pain, joy, blood, shit, bone, sweat, love, and wonder. And while I realize it's impossible to create a game that mimics that, a similar sense of scale is not too much to ask. Nintendo is usually my go-to for that feeling. Mario Galaxy, Super Mario Sunshine, and countless other games earned my love by creating a huge world that I cared about.

Just being a hero is boring.

The exciting thing about being a hero is that you're saving something. That without your input, something horrible might happen, and you have a chance of preventing it.

Imagine, just for a second, that tomorrow, when you woke up, you are told that you're Earth's last hope— that a great evil is enveloping the land and that you're the only one who can do anything about it. Imagine going from city to city, battling monsters, learning, and getting stronger. Imagine you confront the evil head on, to finally eradicate it from Earth for good.

Imagine 7 billion people, each unique, with their own dreams, hopes, secrets, and fears, counting on you. Relying on you. Cheering you to succeed with every cell in each of their bodies.

That's how I want to feel when I beat a video game: like I'm the least important, and simultaneously the most vital thing in the world. Like I'm looking up at the stars on an August evening.

Growing Up

I remember, in incredible detail, the street I grew up on. I remember the driveway of the house directly across from us where we'd occasionally play basketball with our neighbors. I remember my brother jamming his pinky there after I threw him an errant pass. I remember sledding down the driveway of the house on our left. I remember going over to Eddie's house to play Jet Moto 2. I remember the dogwood tree that used to be on our lawn.

I remember the lullabies, the smells of the foods my parents used to cook for me, and the places in my neighborhood and house I would go when I was feeling down. I remember my world back then, with crystal clarity. And I miss it.

Last night, I stayed up until 2am playing an eighteen year old video game, and all of these memories came flooding back in full force, overwhelming me.

(WARNING, HEAVY SPOILERS FOR EARTHBOUND FOLLOW)

Playing through Earthbound, right up until the last couple of hours, I was really enjoying myself. The characters were colorful and memorable, the world made sense, and the overall story arc was gripping and intense in all the right places.

Then I got to the Fire Spring.

For those of you who don't know, the Fire Spring is the last dungeon you visit in Earthbound before you gear up for your last battle. After you beat the boss there, Ness collapses. You enter the world of Magicant, a realm that exists inside Ness's mind. You meet old friends and enemies, people you spoke with in Onett before you set out on your big adventure. You see your mom and your sister. You see the bully who pushed you around as a kid— who you know you're stronger than now. You come face to face with your courage, and use it to help you face the scary, dark desires that Ness has held in his heart, in one of the toughest battles in the entire game.

Afterwards, Ness sees a scene of himself as a baby, and flashes of all the locations he has called "home" across the whole game. Each of these locations gives you power, as a nostalgic tune plays from Ness's Sound Stone. And when Ness awakens, his friends are all gathered around him concerned, even after Ness has gained this great power.

It's no accident that right after you get this full picture of Ness's life, that his soul is ripped from his body and put into a robot.

Think about this for a second.

As a player, you have been fostering this uniquely human relationship with these characters in the game— Paula, Jeff, Poo, and all the others— and suddenly, your humanity is ripped from you for the greater good. I was horrified. The robots weren't even cute. The red cap lovingly draped over the Ness robot's head was the only distinguishing feature on any of them, a sad reminder of a world the player isn't ever sure Ness and his friends will return to.

After all, the final battle is coming up. Who is to say we're not just greeted with a cutscene telling of Giygas' defeat, calling us all heroes, and segueing into the credits, followed by "The End"? I sure as hell didn't know what to expect.

The lead up to the final battle is similarly un-human. Until you get to Giygas' lair, everything is gray, shiny, and soulless. It's stark and deeply unsettling. I remember really wanting to get out of there.

When you finally approach Giygas, his lair is, in contrast, overly human. The lair itself is biological—veiny strands crossing paths as you clank up to face this great universal evil. It's a collection of blood and flesh that undulates in a way that makes you wish for the soulless area that preceded it.

Then you fight him.

And anyone who has played the game knows how the fight goes. You're utterly powerless. Your only hope is to call on help from your friends. You do so, seeing snippets of friends, family, former rivals... they all get struck with anxiety thinking of the great adventure their loved ones are having, and start praying for your success. One by one, Paula's family, Jeff's best friend, Poo's kingdom, Ness's family, they all come together in support of the party.

But it's not enough.

And here's where the game really started hitting home.

The next time you call for help, the prayer gets swallowed by the darkness. Pray once more, however, and an unknown character lends his or her support. Little by little, it's revealed that the character is you. The one holding the controller. And just like that, you're included. You are a part of this world— not just any part, but an integral one. The thing is, it's not just a cheap 4th wall break here. Throughout the game, Ness is told that Giygas is threatening the universe. The entire universe. Including the player.

Upon your victory, the party's souls happily return to their bodies from the busted robots, and you receive letters from friends and family. You walk Paula home. Everyone seems happy, and everything is...normal. You look at photos with your mom. You talk to your sister, and your dad wishes you a happy early birthday. You visit your old clubhouse, and the only thing that has changed is that you're more mature, that you're older— maybe not in age, but in mind.

And as the credits rolled, that's all I could think about.

I'm 24 years old, but there's a large part of me that remembers all those elements of my childhood, that reaches out to them even as I know I can't return to that state of mind. It's a part of growing up, and everyone does it. That doesn't make it easy.

But now I'm thinking about what the message of the game is.

That old dogwood tree, that driveway you played basketball in, your favorite sledding hill, old friends, acquaintances, bullies, everyone you meet carries you with them.

Our adventure is Life.

Do you ever think of that friend from grade school that you haven't seen since? I do. His name is Pablo Ruiz. We were best friends. We used to play Donkey Kong Country, then he moved away. It was sad, and even though I haven't seen the guy in 15 years, I still remember hanging out. I wonder how he's doing.

The last name that appears in Earthbound's credits is the name of the player, as if to thank them for playing. But it made me realize how universal this game is— everything it's saying about Life-with-a-capital-L, family, love, and sacrifice. You can't stagnate even when things are comfortable. You are pushed on even as you feel unsure or unready. And those places you knew as a child, your own sanctuaries— even if they are destroyed, will always be with you reminding you where you have been and where you have yet to go.

We all have our own World.

Every Video Game Gets Worse the Second You Open it

My first "real" relationship ended terribly, and it was all my fault.

Sometimes, with girls I'm interested in, I fall for them before I even know who they are. What that means for me, is that although oftentimes I'm absolutely happy, smitten with the girl I'm dating, none of it is real. The girl I'm smitten with doesn't exist, she's only in my head.

Meanwhile, there's this wonderful, beautiful, smart, complex, and funny woman right next to me who is hurt that I don't see who she really is. I never really got to know her.

By the time it was all over, she hated me for seeing her as I wanted to see her, not who she truly was, and I hated myself for not truly listening to her and finding out who she was. I never gave myself the chance to truly be interested in her, and it ate at me inside.

In middle school, my friends would pore over this image. We had a friend with a subscription to EGM— he would bring it in and I remember getting a lump in my throat. I was so excited to go home and unlock them. Though I wasn't anywhere near good enough to rack up 20 KOs in cruel mode, one of my friends had a brother who did, and unlocked Sonic and Tails. She was going to give me her memory card so I could copy the data over.

Of course, it was all fake.

But that excitement of there being something in the game that I hadn't yet found, something big, beautiful, and fun— that stuck with me. Imagine playing Brawl having forgotten Sonic was in the game, and seeing him there for the first time.

This is largely something that doesn't exist anymore— not because of the internet, but because as soon as a game is open and is popped into the disc drive, it stops being the game you think it is, and simply becomes a game. Unlike my problems with my first girlfriend, this makes games worse.

Think about it. Right now, I have images dancing in my head of what Saints Row IV, what W101, and what the next Grand Theft Auto games all could be. They're ideas— not just ideas about the games, but ideas about how much I will enjoy them. I'm imagining impossible scenarios where I sit down and play a video game without stress, without any other responsibilities or plans, and without distractions— not to mention the fact that I'm imagining the perfect video game.

No matter how good a game is, no matter if it's Ocarina of Time, The Last of Us, or Halo 2— no game can measure up to its imagined quality. Now, that's not to say that games can't surprise me any more— they can, and do, and I love that.

But when you open a game— it's like Schrödinger's cat. It's no longer this messy glob of wonderful and chaotic gameplay elements in your head. It's just a game. And you play it.

And you're surrounded by real life- by friends you want to hang out with, by a job you need to go to, by dinner you have to cook, by your nagging conscience telling you you really need to go to the gym and do those dishes. In your head, no video game experience includes these distractions. It's perfect- a zen-like place where you play perfect games in the perfect atmosphere.

The only catch is, to get there, you can't play the game.

Hey Internet, Maybe Ebert Had A Point

Oh no, but feel free to go down in the comments and tell me how you know better than one of the greatest art critics of all time.

If you haven't yet, please read this. It's Roger Ebert's famous piece on video games, where he says they can never be art. You may remember it from that time a bunch of people on the internet got mad without reading the actual article.

Done? Good.

Let me preface this by saying that I, personally, have a very broad definition of the word "art". I believe that if you call it art, it's art. It's not necessarily good art, but it's art if it's displayed as such.

Mr. Ebert disagrees with me, and it's not because he's out of touch. If you read the article, it's clear that this is a man who tweeted daily, read the messages urging him to reconsider his opinion, and truly thought about what they were asking.

But the point remains, and Ebert said it best— "that depends on the definition of art".

Wikipedia defines art somewhat similarly to the way I do— under this definition, anything can be art, from food, to a particularly well-designed car, to a Vermeer painting: "Art is the process of deliberately arranging elements in a way that appeals to the senses or emotions."

Ebert disagrees.

One obvious difference between art and games is that you can win a game. It has rules, points, objectives, and an outcome. Santiago might cite a immersive game without points or rules, but I would say then it ceases to be a game and becomes a representation of a story, a novel, a play, dance, a film. Those are things you cannot win; you can only experience them.

Stop thinking as a gamer, and start thinking as a critically thinking individual. This makes a lot of sense. You can't "win" a painting, nor can you get a high score in a musical.

My notion is that it grows better the more it improves or alters nature through an passage through what we might call the artist's soul, or vision. Countless artists have drawn countless nudes. They are all working from nature. Some of there paintings are masterpieces, most are very bad indeed. How do we tell the difference? We know. It is a matter, yes, of taste.

Ebert points to Braid, to Flower, and to other "art" games with the air of a real art critic here, and, I would argue, convincingly makes the case that when stacked against the work of, say, Yeats, they don't stack up.

At the beginning of the essay, Ebert says games are not art yet. Maybe we'll get there. But think about it. How long did it take for us to get from cave paintings to the sculptures of the ancient Greeks? Thousands of years?

We're working with 40ish. We're not there yet.

And though I disagree, though I personally believe games are art, he makes a good point:

No one in or out of the field has ever been able to cite a game worthy of comparison with the great poets, filmmakers, novelists and poets.

*mic drop*