Octodad: Imposter Syndrome in Suburbia

 

 No one suspects a thing.

I have a weakness for Developer Young Horses now, having played both Bugsnax and Octodad in the same summer.

As is often the case in humorous media, a simple premise (like an octopus occupying the role of a husband and father) doubles as a social commentary. I walked away from Octodad thinking about how we are all imposters in our own bodies, struggling to enact social and familial roles.

Octodad doesn't propose a solution for this struggle, but wow, it sure does showcase the struggle. The titular Octodad flails and slips through the grocery store. He tips over every furniture item in the living room. He shatters glass and stomps on flowers. His ineptitude exists at the very core of this game, with an intentionally obtuse control scheme and a wacky physics engine. Playing as Octodad is just as frustrating as it is delightful.

While Octodad's ineptitude is played for laughs, there are also moments of solemnity. He communicates through burbles, gestures, and expressions, transitioning from inconsolable panic to fatherly tenderness. Perhaps the most touching of his many moods is yearning. His wide, haunted eyes express more than dialogue ever could. Through glances both long and fleeting, we realize just how much Octodad treasures his fragile role.

Given the complexity of social desires and insecurities in Bugsnax, I have a hard time believing that Young Horses did not consider similar complexities when making Octodad. Octodad is trying to "pass" as human, and pass he does-- often with flying colors. In some sequences, his humanity manifests through clothing. Octodad successfully fills the role of "man" by wearing a suit and tie. Without these gendered signifiers, however, people see him as an octopus. While Octodad aspires for idyllic human cisgender heteronormativity, he exists outside of that system, so he must contend with the looming anxiety of  being discovered or outed. I wouldn't go so far to say that Octodad explicitly critiques gender roles, nuclear family units, or conformism, but I do think it successfully portrays imposter syndrome. How do we assert our belonging within a system that was not expressly constructed for us?

This question felt most pertinent in an explanatory flashback. During this flashback, we see Octodad dredge himself out of the water and onto a fishing boat. He slips behind crates to avoid being seen. In the ensuing stealth sequence, a shipmate swabbing the deck announces: "I hate octopuses." This small, offhand comment heightens Octodad's struggle. Despite unwarranted hate, Octodad carries forward with loving determination. "Love triumphs over all" is perhaps a simple and derivative conclusion for such a rich conundrum, but in the end, it is a genuinely heartwarming one.

Sky: Children of the Light

above and beyond its predecessor (literally)

In the summer of 2017, I visited my brother in Montana. I remember frequenting farmer's markets, hiking, and drinking huckleberry beer as ominous fires crept down the mountainside. One smoky night, I played Journey on the PS3. I skated down sand dunes alongside another cloaked figure whose scarf billowed in a wondrous swirl. Somewhere along the way, I lost track of my companion and continued on in solitude.

Journey is poignant but understated. It chooses its moments of reverie sparingly, from a rapturous sunlit corridor to an expanse of rolling hills. There is something barren about this game despite its splendor. It fills me with dutiful loneliness.

I was initially skeptical that Journey's spiritual successor, Sky: Children of the Light, could recapture that atmosphere. It retains some elements from its predecessor. Namely, skating through glimmering stretches of sand. It also retains a level of anonymity. Other players appear as ghosts -- just colorless contours. When you proffer a candle towards these ghosts, however, they gush with detail. Suddenly, you can see the color of their cloak, the style of their hair. These cosmetics differentiate experienced players from novices, much like the iconic scarf in Journey.

There are more players too. Sky: Children of the Light is an MMO, albeit an unconventional one. Players gather in central hubs, sit on benches, emote, and perform music. There are candles arranged in semi-circles and paper boats drifting in ponds, each inscribed with a heartfelt note. I have seen Chinese, Japanese, French, Russian (?), and English messages-- a testament to this game's global appeal. I have also chatted with other players briefly, exchanging warm greetings and names, though I will admit these exchanges shatter the wordless poignancy of Sky. The tenderest moments here are nonverbal. A proffered candle, an outstretched hand, a gleeful honk.

The main difference between Journey and Sky is flight. Flying is breathtaking. Plunging through plump, fluffy clouds, wings outstretched, contrails dragging from fingertips, it's hard not to feel a sense of wonderment. It helps that Sky is beautiful -- beatific, even. I often found myself pausing to admire sunlight glancing over gently textured prairie grass, the smooth, austere shadows along a tree trunk, or the sound of footsteps crinkling over ice.

Put simply, playing Sky is like wandering through a dream. Level designs adhere to dream logic, suffused with fog and light, punctuated by passageways, caves, and corridors. You are rewarded for exploring, be it with an in-game currency or a new friend.

Beyond the 4-5 hour story, Sky encourages you to linger. Light can be gathered daily for cosmetics and seasonal items. Players collect the in-game "currency" of candles and hearts, which can be used to acquire new capes, instruments, hairstyles, and masks. Herein lies a potential conflict: micro-transactions. Sky: Children of the Light originated as a mobile game, so it retains those roots even in the Switch port. You can buy candles, hearts, a starter pack, and an "adventure pass." Altogether, these purchases make progression easier, but they also create tension with the game's central premise.

It is difficult to reconcile an intimate, wordless game with endless purchasable content, but I would argue that Sky mostly succeeds. My interactions have been only positive. In my hours playing, I have yet to witness social posturing or excessive pay-to-play features. The community in this game is generous, supportive, and companionable. For instance, during my first play-through a veteran helped me and another moth through the Eye of Eden. I found myself smiling as we navigated the desolate landscape, kept company by one another. After clearing difficult stretches, the veteran would celebrate with confetti. When the going got rough, all three of us would hold hands, persisting as one.

I don't think it would be a stretch to say that Sky struck a spiritual chord with me. Amidst such an isolating time, I find myself charmed and awed by this world -- especially its players. I have held hands with strangers and spiraled with them through brilliant galaxies. Sky incentivizes universal human connection. It is a unifying, dazzling game that will hold a special place in my life.