What Remains of Edith Finch is Questions.

It wasn’t until a few months after first playing What Remains of Edith Finch that I understood the source of my infatuation. I assumed my love related most strongly to the game’s narrative focus, and perhaps that’s still true, but then the question becomes “why is the narrative focus so alluring?” Because I’m a writer? Maybe. Because I’m a human and narrative is central to my sense of belonging? Maybe. But it’s a video game. Why is narrative so important? Why don’t I care instead about the game’s mechanics? Or the game’s sense of progression? Or the sense of accomplishment that a player is meant to feel when playing a video game?

That few-months-post-play epiphany hit me hard. The source of my love lies with the game’s ability to ask interesting questions (see the seven questions above).

Any form of narrative entertainment (examples: novel, story, movie) should aim to interest a reader by posing questions alongside the promise of answering them. A question without a path toward an answer is abstract, non-objective, and simply exploratory…in a word: dull. The questions don’t need to be answered by the product, but the audience must be properly motivated to search for an answer.

True, some audiences will be more willing to search for an answer and will be less dependent on the author to provide direct guidance. This is the balance authors must maintain. Do I give too many answers and risk insulting the reader’s intelligence? Or do I hold back answers and risk being inaccessible? Do I write a Goosebumps book or do I write “Infinite Jest?”

Video games, given their traditional reluctant embrace of narrative, haven’t often been forced to prioritize such interesting questions. Rather, the questions video games have been charged with posing are superficial questions of curiosity and puzzle solving more than narrative fulfillment. What happens when I push this button? How do I defeat that boss? Can I walk off this cliff? What happens when I move to the left when the game wants me to move to the right? It’s no wonder then that John Carmack once dismissed story in video games: “Story in a game is like a story in a porn movie. It’s expected to be there, but it’s not that important.”

To be fair, games have come a long way since John Carmack’s famous dismissal, and he himself has even walked back a bit on his statement: “This old quote still pops up, but I caveat it today — there are undeniably lots of games where the story is the entire point, and they can be done well.  I do still hold that the most important games have been all about the play, not the story.”

And is caveat is reasonable. It’s probably true that when we examine the history of video games, the evolutionary landmarks of importance most certainly reference mechanics more than narrative. Mario was originally called Jumpman, not Can Only Afford One Set of Overalls Because of Alimony Payments from a Messy Divorce Man.

What I think has happened is that game developers have learned that strong narrative provides a strong motivation for players. Games do not need narrative. But they are often better off with it. As games get longer and demand more time from players, a developer can lean heavily on mechanics or aesthetics or simple curiosity to keep a player interested, or a developer can lean heavy on narrative to keep a player interested, or a developer can mix these elements to keep the player interested. No matter the concoction, the developer’s job is to keep a player interested.

What’s important, I think, is that often players don’t explicitly verbalize the questions they have. I’ll step back into a novel example (heh) first, as novels are objectively narrative focused.

The first line of Chapter 1 of Moby Dick is simply:

“Call me Ishmael” ^[1]I know this isn’t the first line of the book. The book begins with two introductory sections that could easily be ignored, and I think most people do

Three words and three times as many questions:

1. Why should we call you that name? Did you change your name? If so, why did you change or name?
2. Why is it so important that you announce your name immediately? Are you famous for something? Are you trying to be famous for something?
3. Who is Ishmael talking to? The reader? Am I being set up for an oration of a grand adventure?

These questions will seed a good narrative as long as the narrative delivers on the promise of answers. This balance of posing questions then teasing the reader with an answer then posing more questions, then more teases is what creates a narrative, and as long as this cycle is handled by a skilled writer, the reader will exhaust the entire novel and leave satisfied.

A question is a byproduct of interest and so becomes the impetus to investment. Humans love solving problems. Therefore, a question posed is an invitation to adventure.

So, back to What Remains of Edith Finch (finally, I know). From the very beginning of the game, I’m asking questions as a result of my interest. One of the first examples of this question > tease > question cycle is when you (as Edith) look to the ground to see a missing person’s poster. From the distance, you cannot read the words or make our the portrait, but you recognize the ubiquity of the poster design.

Who is missing? Why are they missing? Why is the poster on the ground?

So you step close enough to read the words.

This person has been missing for years (answer to: “Why is the poster on the ground?” It’s old). Is this person related to me? Was he ever found?

Then Edith’s spoken commentary notes that the person is her brother. So you venture further and quickly learn that a lot the Finch family is gone (dead). As the player, you are encouraged that you may learn the circumstances of Milton’s disappearance, so you continue.

This cycle happens over and over throughout the game. And the biggest question of all, is there a Finch family curse, never fully gets answered, but the player is satisfied because this tension is exactly the point of the game.

Damn, What Remains of Edith Finch is good.