A rebellion of video games that rages against the machine.
The proliferation of generative AI in creative spaces is an existential struggle for artists, writers, and movie makers, their life’s works sucked into the vapid, plagiaristic stew of a machine that regurgitates an amalgamation of what already exists and calls it “art.” Perhaps worse are the people behind the constructs who mistake the ability to type prompts for the skill that goes into an actual creative endeavor. Even beyond the lack of skill, creativity, and awareness that permeates the field of generative AI, the work AI creates lacks the human touch. A heartbeat. A soul.
But humanity is present in Journey, a game devoid of humans. Instead, you assume the role of a nameless Traveler clad in an ornate red-and-brown robe. You start as a small blip in the vast, rolling dunes as you discover the history of your Traveler while moving from biome to biome… A desert here. A set of underground ruins there. All with the goal of reaching the snowy mountain’s summit at the end.
The nameless nature of the protagonist allows you to project yourself into the role. No words are spoken. There are no weapons with which to wage combat. It is only the Traveler, the world they inhabit, and a backing score by Austin Wintory. Wintory has described the score as a “symphonic poem” that dynamically interweaves itself with every motion taken, every discovery made, and every encounter traversed.
Journey was something unique, a sign of director Jenova Chen’s self-described “rebellion” around the idea of what video games were, instead pushing video games forward into what they could be: a form of artistic expression aimed at evoking an emotional response. Journey allows one Traveler to meet with another random Traveler at any time and wander through its world together. Their only form of in-game communication is a ping that can mean anything from “Hello” to “Follow me”.
I knew I was completely in Journey’s grip when I came across the Underground, a substantial departure from the sprawling dunes that made up the world’s identity up to this point. This segment eschews the vibrance of the desert for something more dreary and foreboding. I stumbled during the stealth section and took a hit from a roving patrol of war machines. It was the first and only hit I took on my run. “That tore my scarf,” I said out loud. There was no way to heal the damage. No way to restore what was lost. I simply had to press forward, my companion at my side.
When I reached the final mountain path, the emotional weight I felt matched the Traveler’s physical struggles. Tears filled my eyes as the light faded from my Traveler, who finally succumbed to the cold and the trials of our journey before a group of white-robed Travelers found me. After a few moments, I was given strength to not just stand, but to fly to the mountain’s peak.
With a sudden burst of strength, I soared through the air from the depths of hopelessness into a literal Elysium, my travels ending with a dance through waterfalls and the snowy summit of the mountain. As the credits roll, a shooting star runs through the game’s locales, following the path I traveled along the way, and at the very end, the names of any and all companions you met are displayed. On my screen, only one name was shown. By the end, there was no notion of difficulty. No combat mechanics to learn. Even connecting with another player was free from the intrusively cold nature of menu navigation. It was personal. My journey was mine, and mine alone.
What is Journey? An allegorical take on life and death. An examination of the monumental struggles people experience with depression and anxiety. A treatise on the fear of loss and the strength to “let go.” A clear-eyed look at the terror of loneliness and the remedy of companionship. Could an algorithm make that? Could the plagiarism machine craft an experience like Journey, one conceived as an “act of rebellion” against the other art of its age? No. AI could never.
