Beachstickball? That sounds really stupid. You really should be looking for a golden feather or more coins. But you’re intrigued. You glide down to the court to learn the rules. It sounds easy, but you miss the first shot, ending the game—your urge to win kicks in instantly. Your initial goal is just 10 hits, and it takes a while, but eventually you get there. While you are celebrating, your partner unexpectedly offers you a golden feather. You completely forgot you were looking for it. And then he says he thinks you can get to 20, easily. You know you got the feather — there’s no point. But you realize you aren’t in a rush. Can you really finish A Short Hike without knowing whether you can reach 20?
When you finally reach Hawk Peak, the icons for golden feathers and the compass fade away. You sit under hues of purple, pink, and blue, eyes closed, taking in the moment. Then mom calls, startling you — the whole reason you’re up here. She didn’t want you to worry about the surgery. She’s proud of you for climbing the peak and says you won’t need her much longer. You reassure her: you’ll always need her. And somewhere between the beachstickball court and the top of Hawk Peak, you stopped being afraid of that.
Melissa Kagen argues that wandering games offer escapism through worlds where exploration carries no economic consequence — no rent, no deadlines, no cost for stepping off the path. Eastshade is her case study: a game where you paint landscapes at your own pace, unburdened by precarity. A Short Hike operates on the same fantasy — but the precarity it removes isn’t economic. It’s emotional.
You enter the game with a simple objective — reach the peak. You come across others along the way, errands to run, people to spend time with, but you refocus until you hit the wall and realize you need more golden feathers. You aren’t ready yet. The game holds a stop sign to your face — you were supposed to find the seashells, join the climbing club, and feel it’s okay to enjoy the present. That realization is even clearer when you reach Hawk Peak and the HUD fades — no golden feather icons, no compass — just the peak and the moment. The game gives you almost a minute of nothing but wind and silence before your mom calls. A Short Hike doesn’t just slow you down. It teaches you that slowness was never the danger.
When mom says you are leaving the nest, something resists. You feel the push toward independence, and you push back. You spent the whole hike worried about rushing to the peak, but you never could have gotten here alone. You needed the golden feathers from others — from Ranger May to even the tough bird near the mountaintop — and the Rubber Flower to make it high enough to reach the peak. Every step of the way was made possible by the support of others. You aren’t weak for needing them. You are being honest with yourself. You might be on this peak alone, but you share it with everyone who helped you get here. That’s why you’ll always need your mom, no matter how far you go.
A Short Hike gives you a deadline and then quietly teaches you to forget it. But the urgency isn’t really about cellphone reception. You, as the player, slowly realize it’s deeper — it’s the unknown that comes next. You spend the game running from the idea that needing others and taking your time makes you ill-prepared for tomorrow, that living just for today is a danger. But when you live in a world plagued by anxiety of what’s to come — bills due at the end of the month, work deadlines approaching, and even the slow realization that childhood ends — you forget to breathe and enjoy what’s in front of you — the food on the table, the video games with friends, the calls to mom. There isn’t danger in looking away from the horizon to see the field of flowers below you and the people behind you. You didn’t need to know if you could get to 20. You just needed to play. It’s a short hike — walk, don’t run.
