THIS MAN IS AN ISLAND
As strange as it may sound, a strictly linear story exploration game like Dear Esther benefits greatly from multiple playthroughs. For this review, I played through it three times. The first run felt like preparation—a theory lesson before practice. It established the framework, introduced the themes, and gently nudged my emotions in a particular direction.
Armed with that foundation, the second playthrough allowed me to begin assigning meaning. Interaction is extremely simple: you traverse a small, rocky island, following winding, occasionally branching paths toward a radio tower on the horizon. Along the way, you attempt to trigger as many narration fragments as possible.
You explore abandoned bothies, pass scattered landmarks, descend into caves and tunnels, and eventually reach a candlelit beach. The voiceover rarely makes immediate sense. On its own, the text feels opaque and fragmented. Meaning only begins to emerge once you factor in what is seen, heard, and felt on the island itself.
For my third playthrough, I enabled the developer commentary. It confirmed some of my interpretations while adding new layers—missed visual details, symbolic cues, and tonal nuances. In a narrative this fractured, every line feels deliberate. Every fragment matters.
The voice acting conveys deep regret, sorrow, and psychological torment. Visually, the game leans heavily on environmental symbolism: blue-painted chemical formulas, electronic schematics scrawled across cave walls, and surreal architectural remnants. Together, they suggest a mind unraveling under the weight of guilt and loss—a narrator desperate to reach someone who is no longer there.
Like The Chinese Room’s later works (Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture and Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs), the writing borders on impenetrable, even pretentious. But Dear Esther is short—one to two hours per playthrough—and geographically confined, which quietly encourages repetition. Confusion becomes an invitation rather than a wall.
Set on a Hebridean island off the coast of Scotland, the narrative references several residents in various states of distress—people seemingly in need of rescue, yet unwilling or unable to accept it. The sound design is crucial here: mournful music collides with crashing waves to establish a somber, depressive tone. The island is beautiful, but unmistakably abandoned. Buildings decay, gardens overgrow, shipwrecks rust unreported, and shipping containers rot where they washed ashore decades ago.
John Donne famously wrote that “no man is an island,” but Dear Esther quietly suggests the opposite.
At one point—during a haze of drug-induced confusion—the game implies that the island itself may metaphorically represent a person. A man lies in a hospital bed, possibly treated for kidney stones, possibly seeking forgiveness for a traumatic event he believes himself responsible for. If the island is that person, then its inhabitants may represent fractured aspects of his psyche at different points in life. The final chapters strongly suggest that the entire journey unfolds within a dream.
I am convinced that a stark, emotionally powerful story lies buried beneath the surface of Dear Esther. It can resonate deeply with players willing to abandon preconceived notions of what a “game” should be—those prepared to lower their defenses and meet the work more than halfway. For them, the ending may land with devastating force.
But the game demands an extraordinary amount of interpretive labor. There is no gameplay in any traditional sense. Your theories are never tested, challenged, confirmed, or denied. When the credits roll, you are left alone with your conclusions, requiring turning to online analyses for validation or context. Some elements—voiceovers, object placement—allegedly change between playthroughs. Even the opening narration differs each time.
It is a hard bargain.
Most people do not have infinite time, patience, or emotional bandwidth after work and daily obligations. Investing effort into an experience that may ultimately offer no personal return is a risk many are unwilling to take.
First and foremost, Dear Esther is an emotional experience. That is what it offers, and all it offers. For aspiring storytellers, it can also function as an intriguing exercise in atmospheric, fragment-based narrative design. Piecing together its meaning may illuminate something about storytelling craft itself—and perhaps inspire stories of your own.
If it fails to accomplish either, there is very little left beyond striking imagery—most notably the bioluminescent caves of the third chapter—and an evocative soundtrack. Simply put: if you have already decided that story exploration games are not for you, Dear Esther will not change your mind. But if you remain undecided, it is worth a try. It asks for little time, and if its narration lingers in your thoughts afterward, you may have stumbled upon something you did not realize you needed.
As for me, I never fully boarded its emotional journey—but I was never bored. Like music, Dear Esther prioritizes mood over meaning, allowing words to gain significance only once the right emotional state is achieved. The lack of gameplay is a deliberate choice in service of that goal. For me, it didn’t quite work—but who am I to say it won’t work for someone else?
As I finish writing this, I notice the final screenshot I chose: a cave exit, weary and sad-eyed. Dear Esther is one of those rare games that can take longer to analyze than to complete. I’ll settle on a slightly above-average rating—perhaps the most backhanded compliment one can give such an ambitious project.
It was the original walking simulator.
I like it less than I wish I did—but more than most of the games it inspired.
Comments
Post a Comment