And now, Turandot by Victor Gijsbers. In the following reflections I’ll focus on the ideas in the game, and avoid any significant plot spoilers.
This is a philosophical game about falling in love with a princess and traversing her deadly dungeon, inspired by the opera by the same name. The protagonist, Calaf, is a womaniser who hopes for something deeper from life than endless orgies, but has yet to do anything about this nascent desire. The eponymous Turandot is a murderous princess who is also something of an existentialist, having decided to live an authentic life rather than allowing others to choose for her:
I decided to never again give away the power of choice. To take the reins in my own hands and shape my own life, custom be damned, tradition be damned, even ethics be damned. I am Turandot! And I will never submit.
The game makes wonderful use of some of Choicescript’s affordances, not least of all the greyed out text:
Along the way we get reflections on the nature of creative production, the possibility of justice and repentance. The prose is comic and about as anachronistic as the original orientalist fairytale opera was. It’s somewhat in the genre of the self-aware pornotopias like the Stiffy Makane games— in her own way the princess reveals herself to be as much of a pervert as Calaf. And like in any Stiffy Makane here are several droll allusions to text adventure standbys:
Turandot is also in the tradition of stories like The History of Rasselas which use a fairly flimsy exotic backdrop to explore questions of interest to the author. The main two questions it seems are:
- What does it mean to love someone you have only just met?
- Should you forgive yourself your own transgressions?
The first of these questions is worked out through the story. At first, it appears Calaf doesn’t know Turnadot at all and he is just as insincere as all her other suitors in professing his love. But you come to see that his initial appraisal of her character on first sight —including her sadness, cruelty and joy— was correct. He really did fall in love, a knowing love. But when this love is tested part way through the dungeon, Calaf embraces Turandot’s existential outlook, and makes an active choice to continue loving her.
The second question, about self-forgiveness, ties into the existentialist throughline. One cannot change the past, only change how one acts in the future, so the characters eventually come to accept their prior indiscretions, and those of one another. This is a comforting message for people who have seriously wronged others (though the work often ameliorates the harm caused by the characters), though perhaps less appealing for their victims.
Whatever one thinks of these conclusions philosophically, Turandot does a convincing job in bringing these principles and debates alive for the characters, with verve and humour such that it never feels didactic. Truly, more Socratic dialogues could do with a crocodile pit.