Unique and witty greeting from Duhop, person reading!
Today, I want to talk about a fundamental question that I took far too long to ask myself, and even longer to find an answer for.
What is the point of Alex’s Journey to the Grave?
If it’s supposed to be a realistic depiction of clinical mental health issues, why do Alex and Alex have such clear and valid reasons for the anguish that they suffer?
I think it would be easy to assume that the depression in the game is meant to be a depiction of the type that is clearly justified by tragedy or circumstance. Relating to it in that way is still completely valid and intended, but that’s not actually the primary goal.
Alex’s Journey to The Grave is an exaggerated reflection of my own mental health struggles as a teen, and those mental health struggles were not clearly “justified” by anything. From the start, I’ve always intended to relate to those who have experienced the same.
I know that depression without clear reason can be a strong catalyst for self-hatred, and I believe that seeing characters depressed only when they have a good reason for it has the potential to amplify that further.
So then why did I write about abuse?
Why did I write about betrayal and rejection?
Why did I write about illness?
Why did I write about tragedy?
Why did I write about tragedy?
…
Why else would anyone care?
How else would I make compelling the hidden psychology behind their so very internal afflictions?
Two broken people fall in love, and slowly help each other piece their minds back together through supportive actions, deep conversations, and lots of self-reflection (or fail in the process).
Yes, all of that does happen within the story of Alex’s Journey to the Grave. But what if that was it? What if every single conflict in the story came up and was resolved through internal thoughts and conversations?
Maybe there is some way to make that interesting, but I don’t think it’d ever be even close to as compelling as the real thing has grown. It’d be a nightmare-level challenge for me to make entertaining, and fiction, no matter its purpose, must be entertaining to succeed.
The game is not meant to be relatable only to those with such specific personal experiences, anyway. In an ideal world, I want the emotions held within to come across clearly even to those who have never felt a lick of true depression in their lifetime, and I want the light at the end of the tunnel to shine on even the most deeply buried hearts.
When you pour your very soul into the heart of a creative project, sometimes your subconscious leaks out in ways that you may not initially—if ever—recognize.
Recently, I finally realized why what I’ve done so far has worked. Why I feel satisfied with the story, despite the conflict I’ve spent half of this devlog explaining to you thus far.
It’s simple, really; the events of the game do not mirror my reality. They are the incarnations of my anxiety, my solitude, and my hope.
In this case, my anxiety.
The game’s tragedy brings to life, in an exaggerated way, the greatest of the fears that kept me down at my lowest. The fears that smothered me into inaction, that forced me to hide and internalize my darkest emotions to the point that I could no longer even be sure I was feeling them, despite the physical and mental toll they continued to take on me.
I won’t go any further into the specifics of the symbolism—they’re up for your interpretation when you give the game a try. But in the event that you still find yourself curious…
