Tiny Room Stories: Town Mystery is a game developed by Kiary Studios. I downloaded it from the App Store and played it on my iPhone; beyond iOS, it is also compatible with Android, Nintendo Switch, Windows, and MacOS. This is a point-and-click game with escape room mechanisms, narrated in chapters, each of which sees the player, a private detective, investigate the town of Redcliff after the sudden disappearance of its residents. This game is apparently intended for players aged 4 years or older, but given the complexity of the game’s spatial demands and its mystery narrative, I believe it would be best suited for players 8 years or above.
The narrative of this game follows a chapter structure. Each chapter sets the scene whilst summarizing the happenings of the previous chapter, connecting the two together.
The bulk of the plot, however, is object- and action-driven: when the player discovers or uses an object, or when they perform an action, the protagonist’s avatar pops up at the bottom of the screen to provide commentary that drives the player’s understanding of the actively unfolding story. For example, discovery of the protagonist’s father’s gun weaves a sinister, foreboding feeling into the narrative, hinting at the possibility of danger or illicit activity.
To facilitate the use of these objects, there is a sort of object bank on the right of the screen in which all collected objects appear, as well as an area in the top right corner where notes and explicit clues are stored. Players also have the option of clicking the question icon in the top left to watch an ad and obtain another clue, which can also be used to stimulate object collection and player action. Ultimately, these objects, actions, and comments drive the development of the story. For example, when clicking on a couch in the first chapter, the narrator discovers a panel on the back that they must open. In order to cut open the panel, they must procure the knife from the kitchen, which, when used, reveals a book in the couch lining. This book is one of the missing books that must be placed back on the shelf, in the configuration described in another clue the player must find on the laptop, which is accessible only with a passcode they must also find. When the books are properly arranged, the door to a locked room opens.
In this sense, this is a game that contains multiple layers, with clues hidden within clues within clues. Each clue tells two stories, one embedded within the other: the story of what happened before the detective arrived, and the story of the detective’s active investigation. Keeping track of these elements in their separate timelines is a demand of the game that makes it engaging—discovering what fits where, like a key into a lock, is crucial to evoking that sense of surmountable challenge that makes games fun. However, the seamlessness with which these action-driving objects are woven into the commentary means that anyout-of-place additions, such as the ad one must watch to obtain a clue, or the self-promotion included amongst other clues on the computer interface (e.g. a link to the design studio’s social media), can seriously disrupt the flow of the narrative. There were times when accidentally clicking on these items distracted me from the rest of the game.
The embedding of various narrative elements within rooms and furniture means that players must navigate between rooms, up and down stories, and in and out of thebuilding (e.g. a shed, a house, a bank) that each chapter is structured around. Although the player is not literally trapped in these buildings—in fact, they must enter the building themselves to start the chapter, and can come and go freely during gameplay—they must “escape” or graduate each chapter by resolving its respective conflict (e.g. operating the gate controls from within the shed, discovering a mysterious key in the house, etc.). The architectural space plays a crucial role in maintaining that balance between agency and resolution of the prescribed conflict, or as Henry Jenkins puts it, between “flexibility of interactivity and the coherence of a pre-authored narrative” (Jenkins 11). Specifically, the player is allowed to “spin” each room so that they can see it from a different perspective, revealing doors and various objects of interest. As they click on these items, some remain fixed—the protagonist will comment, “there’s nothing of interest here”—while others, despite being minimally important to the plot, will move according to the player’s will—drawers the player opens will stay open unless they close them, lights they turn on will remain on unless they turn them off. Locked doors, windows, and devices (e.g. computers, TVs) serve as constraints for movement that the player must overcome, whilst items of furniture and smaller objects tend to conceal clues (e.g. a book hidden under a pile of laundry).
Although I was unable to find any videos of players with disabilities engaging with this game, I tried to assess its accessibility. I found that there was an option to set the “graphics” setting to low, medium, or high; however, toggling these options did not make a noticeable difference in color, contrast, or size of visual elements. The zoom settings were pre-set—I could “zoom in” on an item when I tapped it, but that zoom was not variable, and perhaps therefore insufficient. Moreover, I could not detect any significant audio, despite the availability of settings options for sound and music; it seemed that commentary could not be read aloud. I imagine that perhaps navigating this game on a larger screen (e.g. a Mac or PC) might make it slightly, but only marginally, more accessible to low-vision players. I am curious about the question of representation—this is a game that requires a lot of physical ability. The protagonist must climb ladders and stairs, jump through windows, and move furniture. In a narrative so reliant on these abilities, does it matter that there is little representation of accessibility (e.g. a lack of wheelchair ramps)? Sometimes, we get caught up in the optics of representation—but in a game like this, I wonder if maintaining the physical demands of the game ensures a sort of verity of experience and believability of fiction. I’d love to know what physically disabled players think.
