Near the end of Journey, the two travellers are moving through the snowy mountains, slowly losing strength as the mountain comes closer. The landscape that once felt open and full of mystery suddenly becomes harsh and almost impossible to move through. The travellers begin to freeze, stumble, and slowly collapse. In this moment, the game made mortality feel unavoidable. However, what stuck with me most was not just the fear of the ending, but the fact that I was not alone when it happened. From my reading of Journey, the game suggests that connection does not always require identity, language, or even a shared background. Instead, it presents a form of connection built through shared presence and care in the face of uncertainty. Meaning persists in the face of mortality not because the journey lasts forever, but because someone else briefly shares it with you.
As humans, we often connect through shared identities. People from similar cultural backgrounds, lived experiences, or communities feel a sense of connection because they recognize parts of themselves in each other. However, I do think that connection can, and has time and time again, happened without identity. Playing Journey showed me that some of the most powerful forms of human connection can happen without knowing who someone is at all. By placing two nameless and seemingly identityless travelers in a barren and vast world, Journey strips connection down to something a lot simpler. In the absence of names, language, or common ground, the game makes connection depend almost entirely on
In the beginning, I was rather confused as to what the goal of the game was. Was it to solve puzzles? Was it to reach the end? Was there an end? Was it to find something hidden by the game designer? As I continued playing Journey, it became more and more obvious that the goal was exploration and unraveling the stories that lay in the landscapes I explored. Unlike some of the other games I’ve played, there was no narration, which meant there was no one perspective of the story imposed onto me. Instead, I moved through different different landscapes, followed symbols, and explored the ruins of a city I did not know. In some ways, this lack of explanation made the world feel both open and lonely. While I was not being told what to feel, there was an expectation by the game that I pay attention and continue to explore.
Along the way, I met another traveller, who accompanied me for most of my journey. I didn’t really know who they were; there was no way for us to communicate through words, and I knew nothing about their name, background, or lived experience. However, I did know that we were a team and that we shared the mission of exploration. Since I could not know anything about them outside the game, I had to understand them only through their actions. I had to pay attention to whether they waited, guided me, or stayed close. I noticed that when one of us moved ahead, the other would catch up, and when we reached a new area, we paused together before continuing. These small actions slowly built a sense of trust, and as a result, Journey showed me that anonymity is not just a limitation. In some ways, it makes the connection feel more direct because the other traveller cannot be reduced to a label.
Image 1: I spent the initial minutes of Journey exploring the vast landscape alone.
Looking at Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, I see a similar image of a figure facing a vast unknown. The way the wanderer looks into the distance, rather bravely but still aware of all the unknowns that lay in front of him, resembles the cloaked traveller in Journey. Both the painting and the game center the experience of standing before something much larger and much more daunting than oneself. However, I couldn’t help but notice an important difference. Friedrich’s wanderer appears alone, with his back turned to us, as he looks out at the fog and faces the unknown. On the other hand, while Journey begins with a similar sense of isolation, it makes that image more nuanced by allowing another traveller to appear beside the initial traveller. The game does not entirely erase the vastness or uncertainty of the world, but instead, it shows how companionship changes the feeling of that uncertainty. The unknown is still frightening, and may always be, but it feels much better to know you’re not navigating it alone.
Image 2: After meeting another traveller, I felt less alone and more motivated to continue, despite knowing very little about them.
Listening to the snippet on “Googling Strangers” from John Green’s The Anthropocene Reviewed, I understood that there is power in knowing. At the same time, there is also fear in knowing. The unknown scares us because we simply do not know what lies ahead, and yet despite this fear, the unknown also draws us closer and pulls us to explore. Green describes briefly meeting a pediatric burn survivor and later wondering what happened to him, even though part of him is afraid to know the answer. Similarly, in Journey, I felt some intimidation in what lay beyond what I could see. I wanted to keep moving forward, but I also felt nervous about what I might discover. Green’s story shows that a stranger can stay with us even when their full identity remains incomplete. Despite only meeting this individual briefly and not knowing what happened to him after, Green mentions thinking about him every single day. In some ways, not knowing is part of what keeps the connection alive. Similarly, in Journey, not knowing who the other traveller is doesn’t make them meaningless, it places more emphasis on understanding who they are. Taking a step back, Journey suggests that connection does not always come from knowing someone fully, sometimes it comes from briefly traveling through an experience with them and realizing that even a nameless stranger can change the way the journey feels.
