The moment that crushed me most in That Dragon, Cancer comes when Ryan’s trapped in that hospital room with his young son, Joel, and the boy won’t stop crying.
It’s not simple, soft sobbing, either. It’s harsh. Sometimes violent weeping. And it won’t stop. All efforts to console the child seem to fail.
Nothing works. It won’t stop. And you feel – I felt – powerless. I kept imagining that was my son weeping, hacking, struggling and failing to keep down something simple like fruit juice. And I couldn’t do ANYTHING to help him.
It tore me up. No corridor-running, dark and deadly first-person shooter ever made me feel so claustrophobic, so trapped, so panicked.
I’ve never played a grief simulator before, and I’m not sure I could manage a second play-through, to be quite honest. Although TDC is blessedly surreal in its presentation, the emotions it touches upon – especially for someone who has prized their imagination and tendency toward empathy – are far too real.
Although the game’s raw story is utterly personal, about the challenges to sanity and religious faith that two very real, very human parents face with a child dying of cancer, it doesn’t just focus all the time on Joel. Take a few minutes to read the cards remembering the lost and to scan the photographs and works of art on the hospital walls. TDC’s a touching tribute to the victims of cancer – the living and the dead – and a creative call to action that proves games aren’t just fun, they’re not just art, they’re meaningful – sometimes therapeutic, sometimes cathartic, and sometimes emotionally harrowing.
As dark and draining as TDC might be, I loved that it also veers toward possibilities for hope and whimsy after the worst is over. It’s a depressing story, certainly, but it’s not without optimism.
I’ve had a byline in several newspapers. My name’s been in the credits of a post-apocalyptic MMORPG and a swamp noir murder mystery adventure game. I’ve backed my share of projects on Kickstarter. But I feel like my contribution to TDC may have been the most important and most valuable I’ve ever made and – even though I’ll likely only play it the one time – I’ve never been more proud to have my name listed in a project’s credits.
I, along with the rest of the Prologue Games team, wish the best to Ryan and Amy and their family and friends. Thanks for making it possible to share this experience.