A Short Hike, created by Adam Robinson-Yu and available on PC, Nintendo Switch, PlayStation, and Xbox, is a game that tells its story through footsteps, detours, and moments of stillness. At first glance, it’s a lighthearted indie title about a bird named Claire who must hike to the top of Hawk Peak for cell service. But beneath its pixelated surface lies a deeply moving story about connection, curiosity, and slowing down. The target audience is gamers who are curious about narrative design, students of game studies, and anyone who may be skeptical of “walking simulators.” A Short Hike doesn’t just tell a story; it invites you to walk through one, and in doing so, makes you feel it in every step.
When I first launched the game, I thought I was just logging into a low-stakes exploration game. But as I meandered through Hawk Peak Provincial Park, trading shells for necklaces and golden feathers for the ability to climb, I began to realize something profound: in A Short Hike, walking doesn’t just support the story. It is the story.
This simple act of moving from place to place is how the game reveals its world, teaches its mechanics, and most importantly builds its emotional core. In the words of the Salon article “A Brief History of the Walking Simulator,” many traditional games revolve around failure, challenge, and speed. A Short Hike rejects that entirely. Instead, it joins the tradition of walking sims that prioritize atmosphere and narrative over combat, pushing back against the militaristic origins of video games and toward something more reflective, inclusive, and emotional.
As Claire, a young bird visiting her Aunt May on an island with no cell service, I started with a simple goal: climb to the top of Hawk Peak so I could make a phone call. That objective, though, unfolded into dozens of charming and unexpected side quests. I traded shovels on the beach so I could dig up chests with coins, traded those coins with park rangers to buy golden feathers, collected the golden feathers to gain climbing strength, joined a rock climbing club to learn how to use said strength, discovered how to glide using volcanic air vents, and then combined my climbing and gliding skills to make it to the top. These weren’t just mechanical upgrades—they were joyful discoveries that encouraged me to engage with the world and the characters around me; I had to befriend the guy who had the shovel I needed, the members of the rock climbing club, and other characters who gave me advice along the way.
What stood out most was how the game never rushed me. I explored at my own pace, stumbling upon hidden tunnels, maps with treasure clues, and strangers with their own quirky mini-stories. Even after I reached the summit and finally made that mysterious phone call, I kept playing for over an hour. The call was not dramatic but simple and heartfelt: Claire just wanted to tell her mom she loved her. That moment landed so powerfully because of everything that came before. The walking, the wandering, the helping, all of it built toward a quiet emotional crescendo that felt real and earned.
According to Henry Jenkins’ concept of “narrative architecture,” spaces themselves can be storytellers. In A Short Hike, the environment does more than serve as a backdrop; it holds secrets, characters, and tiny emotional beats embedded in trails, beaches, and cliffs. The mountain you must climb is not just an obstacle; it is a metaphorical and emotional journey. There is no rush to reach the summit. In fact, it’s the slow pace, the choice to stop and chat with a fellow hiker or dig up a hidden treasure, that gives the game its narrative texture.
A Short Hike is mainly an emergent narrative game, because the story unfolds through player exploration and choice. However, it is anchored by key embedded narrative moments that ensure emotional payoff and cohesion. The mechanics are introduced gently through exploration and social interaction. For instance, every golden feather you collect is both a mechanical upgrade and a story marker. Some of them you buy with money, but others you earn by doing a favor for a fellow hiker, winning a beach volleyball game, or gliding into the top of a lighthouse. This allows the player to learn new skills and refine their existing ones. There are no tutorials guiding you, just discovery through play. The game trusts you to learn by doing, to piece together your purpose by simply being present.
In contrast to games like Call of Duty, where progression is earned through violence and survival, A Short Hike builds its stakes through care. You want to get to the top of the peak—not because you need to win, but because Claire is anxious. Something is pulling her upward, which one can feel by the tone of her voice, which uses lots of “um”, “i guess”, and “…”. This hesitation denotes her feelings and pushes the player to keep hiking upward to uncover what the phone call is all about. And when you finally reach the summit, after helping strangers and climbing waterfalls and gliding across currents, you find out what it was: she just needed to call her mom (pictured below).
This moment lands not despite the walking—but because of it. The journey of quiet exploration mirrors the emotional arc of reconnection. The simple, pixelated world becomes one of the most emotionally potent landscapes I’ve ever traversed in a game.
The term “walking simulator” began as an insult, a way for so-called “hardcore” gamers to deride titles that didn’t conform to traditional gameplay loops. But as the Salon article argues, walking sims are often more innovative and inclusive than their critics admit. They allow players to experience narrative without requiring fast reflexes or deep technical skill. A Short Hike fits firmly in this lineage, inviting a broad range of players to participate in storytelling on their own terms.
And that storytelling is anything but passive. When you decide to take a detour, play beach volleyball, chat with a painter, or fish by the dock, you’re doing more than wasting time—you’re adding chapters to Claire’s story. Your path is never dictated, only suggested. The mountain waits, and you climb it however you choose.
Walking in A Short Hike tells the story by becoming the story. The slower you go, the richer the world becomes. The game’s genius lies not in its complexity, but in its generosity. By blending exploratory mechanics with emotional storytelling and narrative architecture, A Short Hike makes a powerful case for what games can be when they trust players to wander, wonder, and walk.
Ethics:
In most traditional games I’ve played (especially popular ones like Call of Duty or Assassin’s Creed) violence is the main language of storytelling. Progress is measured by defeating enemies, conquering territory, or surviving threats. Success is often linked to how skillfully you wield violence. By contrast, A Short Hike completely removes violence from its mechanics and narrative. There are no enemies to defeat, no dangers to avoid, and no battles to fight. Instead, the game focuses on kindness, exploration, and discovery. This absence of violence fundamentally reshapes how the story unfolds. Rather than overcoming external threats, Claire’s journey is about internal growth and connection with others. Tasks like finding golden feathers, trading shovels, or gliding across the ocean create a rhythm of peaceful achievement. A Short Hike still has challenges; we see the player vs. the world as they try to go up the mountain. They have to leverage their skills to defeat the mountain. But without violence, it shifts the player’s focus inward, emphasizing curiosity, patience, and emotional resonance. It proves that a game can be deeply compelling not because of what you destroy, but because of what you discover.
