The game I played was What Remains of Edith Finch, a narrative exploration game developed by Giant Sparrow. Oh my goodness- what a gem! I played this game on my switch to “switch” it up from playing with my phone, though the game is also available on PC, consoles (like PlayStation and Xbox), and mobile. Playing handheld on the undeniably impacted my experience, with a bigger screen (compared to mobile) and portable controls, I found myself physically closer to the game world. The tactile movement of the thumbsticks felt better suited for the exploration-heavy gameplay, and the high graphics of my console were very appreciated to be able to take so many details within every room.
The target audience for Edith Finch seems geared toward players who are drawn to story-driven, atmospheric experiences, particularly those willing to reflect on themes like family, memory, and loss. It’s accessible to casual gamers because there are no difficult mechanics to master, yet rich enough to reward players who are attentive to detail. Right from the start, the game invites players into a slow, deliberate journey as I noticed that there’s no way to sprint and no checklist of objectives. The experience is intentionally framed around careful observation and emotional immersion, asking players not to just play or speedrun tasks, but to listen.
When I first stepped into the Finch house, the first time I noticed was how the game is dripping with detail, I feel as if I could play 3 more times and still discover something new. As I moved through the cluttered, detailed rooms, the simple act of exploration is how the game tells its story. In Edith Finch, walking isn’t just the main mechanic, it’s the core of the experience. There are no combat sequences, no fail states, no pressing objectives other than to witness, piece together, and understand.
What makes walking so powerful here is how it mirrors the experience of memory. The house itself is an exhibit of frozen moments, each room sealed off like a time capsule to former inhabitants. By exploring each one, players aren’t just uncovering plot points, we are living them. For instance, when I crawled through the hidden passages to get to Molly’s bedroom, I didn’t need a narrator to immediately explain who she was. The design of the room of animal toys and an unfinished meal gave me hints as to who she was before I could even access her vignette. As said in the “Narrative Architecture” reading, movement through space becomes movement through time, which Edith Finch does a phenomenal job at.
Each family member’s story is told through a new interactive experience, sometimes whimsical, sometimes harrowing. Walking in this sense becomes transformative. For example, in Lewis’s story, players experience his disassociation through a mechanic where you simultaneously navigate a dull fish-cutting job and a vivid fantasy world. This layered control scheme forces players to feel the disconnect Lewis experiences, using walking as a bridge between reality and imagination. It’s not just a story told to you, it’s a story you inhabit and become a part of. When each story is told, it’s also fascinating how the game considers the point of view of the player (me!) takes on. Sometimes I was reading a comic book, often I was viewing the world from the eyes of the character, living what they experienced in a way we would not be able to as any other persona.
From a design perspective, the developers lean heavily into formal elements building space and narrative. They use affective mechanics to focus on provoking emotion and storytelling rather than winning or losing, as in traditional games. Tying this back MDA, Edith Finch is a case of narrative-driven dynamics creating a strong aesthetic experience as, instead of chasing traditional objectives, player instead try to discover an understanding of the world they were placed in. The mechanics are also incredibly intentional, such as with the game’s slow, deliberate walking pace, encouraging players to dwell in the story rather than rush through it. However, it’s not completely forced- you can choose to get through each room as quickly as the game allows you, or you can slow down and take in the *hundreds* of details in every room. All to say, in Edith Finch, walking isn’t just how players move through the world, it is how the story unfolds. Every step leads the player to reveal new memories, perspectives, and personalities, making the simple act of movement in this game completely inseparable from the act of storytelling. The tone of the game would be completely different if, say, the goal was to collect as many objects as possible rather than keeping the history preserved.
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When it comes to ethics, I loved how Edith Finch challenges the common idea within games that death in games must be something to fight against or avoid. Unlike many of the games I’m used to and discussed in section (where death comes in the form of enemies or boss battles and is an indicator of failure/loss), this game treats death with a refreshing kind of reverence. Each vignette is, at its core, a story about how a family member died, but also snippets about how they lived. Violence exists, but it’s shown to be internal and natural. There’s no gun to dodge, no monster to fight, only a feeling of inevitability. It was so bittersweet, as you knew how each one would end. To me, the absence of violence makes the deaths feel heavier and more personal (and, despite how cartoonish some deaths were, more real).
Another ethical challenge I thought was interesting that the game showcases is the concept of ownership of stories and generational trauma. Throughout, there’s a conflict the narrator describes in their snippets of speech between preserving family history and respecting those who wanted their past kept private (i.e., with Edith’s mother locking away the bedrooms of deceased family to protect Edith from the curse). By breaking into these rooms and reliving each story, the game presents the dilemma about whether we have the right to share or excavate painful histories without consent. In real life, telling family stories can be an act of healing or harm, depending on who gets to control the narrative. The game doesn’t offer a clear answer, but it thoughtfully engages with this dilemma, suggesting that understanding where we come from can be a crucial part of finding our place in the world. Still, it reminds players that remembering and retelling family trauma isn’t a neutral act, as it can carry emotional consequences for both the teller and those whose stories are told.
Separately, if I could think of one method for improvement, it would be to give the player a few more moments of agency. The linear storytelling of the game reinforces this heavy feeling of inevitability, so I can see how this suggestion might overshadow that, but this might be in the form of letting the player’s choices affect which memories they learn about first. It may be interesting to let players build their own understanding of the family history in a more non-linear way, which could symbolize how real family stories are often messy and scattered. I can see how this freedom could deepen a sense of personal discovery, as you’re making each player’s emotional journey through the game even more unique and resonant.
