About the Game
One Night, Hot Springs is a narrative-driven visual novel created by npckc, an independent Japanese game developer. The game is available on Steam, among other platforms, and follows a branching story structure with up to seven different endings based on player choices. It’s especially suited for players interested in narrative games, feminist and queer media, or those looking to engage with inclusive, emotionally rich storytelling.
In the game, players take on the role of Haru, a transgender woman invited by her friend to spend a night at a traditional Japanese hot spring. What follows is a quiet but emotionally intense experience shaped by Haru’s decisions, interactions with friends, and the constraints of public gendered spaces.
This game is a strong example of what Shira Chess describes in Play Like a Feminist—a kind of play that prioritizes reflection, care, emotional awareness, and the challenging of norms. The game does not focus on action or competition but instead centers the emotional labor of simply trying to belong in a world not designed for you. It encourages players to slow down and sit with discomfort, to feel the tension Haru feels and reflect on how systems, friends, and even small design choices impact marginalized identities.
Chess argues that feminist games invite us to play differently—to reflect and replay—and One Night, Hot Springs beautifully supports that. I played the game twice, each time taking a different approach.
First Playthrough
In my first run, I approached Haru’s situation cautiously. I felt Haru’s anxiety in every interaction:
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Googling “what do girls do at hot springs?” and finding only heteronormative advice like “go with your girlfriend.”
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Hesitating when the check-in form required selecting “male” or “female”, and then being called “Mr.” by the clerk.
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Worrying whether the supposedly “unisex” yukata would actually fit her.
These moments were small but deeply discomforting. They illustrated how public spaces, even seemingly neutral ones, are not designed with people like Haru in mind. I chose to have Haru avoid the women’s bath and later the family bath, too. I was trying to respect her discomfort, but I ended up withdrawing her entirely from the experience. When Erika later asked if she wanted to talk, the game didn’t even offer a response option, it simply moved on. I received a “bad ending.”
From a design perspective, this moment was powerful but kind of troubling. The game simulated what it feels like to pull away from others for safety and then lose the chance to reconnect, but it also risks reinforcing the idea that those who don’t push through discomfort will be left behind. This creates a tension: while it reflects reality for many marginalized people, it may also replicate real-world emotional punishments without offering structural care in response.
Second Playthrough
On my second run, I decided to make different choices. I had Haru try to reserve the family bath—a small act of courage that dramatically changed the emotional tone. This time, she had the chance to enjoy the spring, laugh with friends, and even say something that stuck with me: “The world is kinder than I thought.”
This line reframed my understanding of the other characters’ reactions better. Yes, people were trying to be kind: the front desk clerk didn’t know how to navigate gender but tried to be polite; Erika, while sometimes tactless, showed deep care; Manami offered quiet validation. And yet, this design choice revealed a deeper ethical question: why must the marginalized character be the one to be brave first?
From a feminist game design perspective, I find this framing risky. It subtly implies that kindness is conditional on the minority character’s effort, that trans people, for example, must always take the emotional first step. This isn’t the social norm we want to model. As Chess notes, feminist design should aim to make systems that affirm by default, not through earned resilience.
Additional Analysis and Ethical Reflections
One strength of the game lies in its character design. Haru looks like a normal young woman, with no exaggerated traits, no stereotypical “trans cues.” That visual neutrality is a feminist choice in itself, avoiding common pitfalls in media representation.
The game also includes subtle layers of other social commentary: for example, Erika ordering a beer for Manami without asking, while Haru is the one who checks in respectfully. There are nods to same-gender marriage and respect for vegetarianism, all suggesting that different forms of identity and inclusion can coexist and intersect.
Using the MDA framework, One Night, Hot Springs builds its emotional impact through simple but effective design choices. The mechanics, centered on choice-based branching, allow players to explore different emotional and social paths depending on how Haru responds to each situation. The dynamics arise from the tension between fear and connection, as well as silence and speech, placing the player in the midst of Haru’s internal negotiations about safety, visibility, and trust. These interactions lead to an aesthetic experience defined not by conflict or triumph, but by introspection, care, and quiet reflection, aligning closely with feminist values of empathy and emotional nuance.
Overall, I think this is an intimate game that illustrates how play can help us engage with systems of power, identity, and care. It encourages replay and reflection, not as a game mechanic, but as a feminist practice. That said, its core narrative design might unintentionally reinforce the idea that marginalized people must act first to access support—a message worth rethinking for future inclusive game design.
