What Remains of Edith Finch, created by Ian Dallas of Giant Sparrow, is a walking sim where players must explore The Finch House to piece together the tragic history of the Finch family. Playing on an iPad rather than a console meant there was no physical controller separating me from my actions, making me feel that much more responsible for them. Given its mature themes of death, family dysfunction, and generational trauma, the game is best suited for young adults and above. In particular, if you enjoy that feeling after a good book or movie where you’re left mouth ajar contemplating your own life because of what you just witnessed, this game is for you.
In What Remains of Edith Finch, walking serves as a narrative device that transforms players from consumers into active participants in the storytelling. Through this mechanic, players are made to feel like accomplices of the Finch Family’s fate. This creates a powerful psychological dynamic where players desperately attempt to prevent what they know is inevitable, teaching them acceptance and what it means to be caught in a story you cannot control.
By granting players the agency to walk and move themselves, yet forcing them to physically re-enact uncomfortable, tragic moments to progress, the game repeatedly constructs and shatters an illusion of control.
For instance, when I was initially transported into Calvin’s body, I was delighted to see an additional joystick appear on the bottom right of my screen— the game was going to let me swing Calvin. Like Edith, I too remembered being young and wanting to swing as high as I possibly could, so I made Calvin swing higher and higher, until I saw the following screens:
Oh my god. I don’t want to see him fly.
I said out loud. I stopped swinging him. In fact, I frantically used the joysticks to slow him down and bring him to as close of a halt as possible. There was no more dialogue. The music’s strings and percussion intensified. I removed my fingers from the screen, but Calvin’s legs continued to dangle. I couldn’t make him come to a complete stop, and that’s when I realized—
Oh no, I have to [swing him]. What the f*ck. I didn’t want to f*cking swing him, but I f*cking have to. Thats ridiculous! I don’t- I dont want to do this. Oh my god.
When things go wrong in real life, we often ask ourselves what we could have done differently. What if Calvin’s mom had come outside to call them in for dinner? What if Sam had waited for his brother? What if Sam hadn’t told Calvin it was impossible to go around? (see screenshots below)
Sometimes, we ask these questions to avoid accepting uncomfortable truths. What Remains of Edith Finch makes the brilliant design choice to employ this enacted narrative to teach me and its players that regardless of our actions, Calvin was destined to fly. Rather than simply having me read the letter and also wonder “what if,” it created what Jenkins calls a “micronarrative,” placing me directly in that situation. Through my own frustrated attempts to prevent the inevitable, I could see, feel, and understand the true meaning of fate. This deep understanding could never have come from passive observation alone, exemplifying what Koster describes as games teaching us patterns through direct experience. This is why the resulting emotional impact is so strong— it emerges from what games do uniquely well.
By having players explore the Finch house as Edith, the game intertwines Edith’s personal journey of discovery and reflection with the player’s own experience. This shared act of walking and remembering creates space for players to sit with the emotional weight of each tragedy, making acceptance a central part of the narrative experience.
After Edith and I learn of Calvin’s passing, we look down at the cloth with his name and life dates: “1950-1961”.
He was elevennn…
I said with guilt. I was still reeling in from what I had done. Edith and I walk down, our eyes meet the photograph of the twins.
What the f*ckkkk. That’s so sad.
This is the first time I see Calvin’s face. At this point I am grieving. Finally, I turn to the door. I look down, I look up, I look down and up again, down and up, and then I lock eyes with the dates.
Oh my goddddd. Noo. Oh my god, he’s-
I go silent. I see Calvin’s last height was recorded in 1961; Sam’s last height was recorded in 1968. I do the math in my head— Sam continued marking his height until he was 18, the last time he was in their room. I stood at the door for 41 seconds. I could never imagine doing this in another game, especially when one of the goals is to “complete” it. I was sad, but Edith’s perspective and freedom to walk around— or rather, freedom to stand still— gave me the time and space I needed. Moreover, this freedom to stand still transformed my motivations. At first, I was driven by the compelling mechanic of filling in Edith’s family tree book. This is similar to other games, like Overcooked and Super Mario 3D world, where engaging “collection” dynamics are created that make me eager to advance rapidly.
Yet the jarring contrast between being forced to enact Calvin’s death and then having the freedom to simply stand through Edith created a new, more powerful dynamic. This dichotomy of mechanics— forced action versus complete freedom of inaction— fundamentally changed how I engaged with the game. The dynamic shifted from “complete all stories quickly” to “take time to process and reflect.” Being allowed to stand motionless with Edith, especially after being compelled to participate in something so tragic, gave me permission to prioritize emotional processing over progression. This design choice demonstrates how mechanical contrasts can reshape player motivation and behavior in profound ways.
Thanks to Edith, I learned: Calvin was loved. Sam loved Calvin. Sam does not remember the loss of Calvin. Sam remembers Calvin’s determination and courage. What Remains of Edith Finch makes another masterful design choice to balance the enacted and embedded narratives, using environmental storytelling to help me and players peacefully accept the same fate we just angrily went through with. As I observed the traces of Sam and Calvin’s relationship, I underwent a journey to acceptance that aligns with Jenkin’s description of how players test and reformulate their understanding of narrative space. I had reformulated my sorrow to a more positive understanding.
While the game helps us resolve Calvin’s story, it doesn’t offer the same closure for all characters. Specifically, Molly’s story left me unsettled through its violent elements. After being locked in her room without food, Molly starves to death. Before her death, players experience what, at minimum, is her imagination. She transforms into an owl, devouring a mother and baby rabbit. Then, she becomes a shark, savagely hunting seals. As I played through Molly’s story, I felt deeply uncomfortable; however, this discomfort seemed intentional. The violent elements make Molly’s experience visceral and immediate, rendering her hunger and fear palpable. Without these violent scenes, Molly’s story would lose its emotional impact. Her hunger might have seemed distant or theoretical, potentially reducing her tale to simple childhood fantasy rather than the haunting, ambiguous tragedy that establishes the game’s dark tone.
A distinction between normalized and unsettling violence became particularly clear for me when comparing Molly’s story to games played in section like Honey Heist. In Honey Heist, players enact bears performing violent acts without feeling morally conflicted because such behavior aligns with our understanding of bear nature. Initially, I thought this emotional distance occurs because players are inhabiting a non-human character rather than playing “themselves.” Nonetheless, my experience with Molly’s story challenges this assumption. Despite Molly literally transforming into predatory animals, the violence remains deeply unsettling because we never stop experiencing it through her human, child perspective. Her constant narration— expressing her hunger, describing the process of consuming prey— keeps us anchored in her human consciousness. This creates a profound disconnect between the normalized violence of animal behavior and our expectations of childhood innocence. The game refuses to let us rationalize the violence as merely animal nature, instead forcing us to confront it through the lens of a desperate child. Altogether, the role of violence in Molly’s story forces us to confront the true violence of child neglect and its outcomes.
