Attached is the transcript for my playthrough of Dark and Deep.
transcript of dark and deep.pdf (220.2 KB)
Whenever I finish reading a good novel, there’s a span of about a day or so, where I’m kind of left in a daze. It’s as if I haven’t quite yet adjusted to it being over, and pulling myself out of the immersion takes a little bit- before I can focus back in on the mundane day to day, sifting through all of the big emotions it stirred up, picking apart the membrane of memory in the name of clarity.
That’s how I’m feeling at the moment, having just wrapped up Dark and Deep- a bit fuzzy, slightly stunned and stupid- and wiping away blotchy tears, because this game is the first in the competition (and likely to be the last) where I actually sat down and cried like a baby in front of my laptop while playing it.
Relationships are the most interesting part about stories, for me- not necessarily romantic ones, though, I do love a good lovestory. This game is centered around them- and with a priest struggling with losing his faith, a pettable horse, and terrible men, this story was all but tailor made to appeal to my tastes- it’s even set in winter.
It’s the details that really make this game so fantastic- delicately picking off the moss and lichen, rubbing the gravestones clean: being able to pray, for yourself, for the world, for Mrs. Lajway. Petting the horse. Guiltily examining the boxes- hastily closing them, because you’re not supposed to be rummaging around- you can’t just take things, you’re supposed to be here in the capacity of a good man! How she still keeps the afghan she made, colours faded and worn- the same one she was snuggling up by the fire with the night that the dead man came walking. The ache he feels, staring at the empty thatch- how he fucks everything up, how he seems incapable of holding it all together.
How he refuses to touch things, because of a lifetime of training to keep his hands to himself, behind his back- how differently it paints him in comparison to her late husband, who raised his hand in anger- to her lover they killed and buried in the basement, who went to cover her mouth. How she remarks that he’s the last man she’ll ever spend the night with. How he feels a sham in his vestments, but feels like merely a man in his everyday clothes. How she keeps the saw in the barn, still rusted and worn down with the blood it was slathered in. How she can’t bring herself to visit the graves- they’re grown over, almost eaten up by the woods.
I wish we could have put the buttons back into the box. I wish we could have picked up the box and set it properly onto the table. I wish we could have stoked the fire a little warmer- even if she didn’t see the point in heating half a corpse. I know it wouldn’t have mattered in the grand scheme of things- but I think it’d have mattered to me, playing as the priest.
There is so much loss in this story. It’s painful, and I wept, and you absolutely need to play it to experience it for yourself. Amanda’s writing is as beautiful as it ever is- and her portrayal of troubled, complex relationships is as strong as always. Run, don’t walk.