The Contradiction Underlying The Witness

"The Witness is a game all about perspectives." – Joseph Anderson

I love The Witness. Typically, this sentence would be followed by "I also hate The Witness," and while I certainly do see merit in the critiques of its flaws, unfortunately, I do not share the same sentiment. I love The Witness, period. However, for the longest time, I had spent wondering why people were so conflicted about The Witness. I have seen countless reviews, thoughts, and opinions online, coming from people so clearly torn on this game and how they feel about it. At first, I chalked it up to "gameplay good, narrative bad," as is the dichotomy in many things with mixed reception, and it held up for a while — the puzzles were creative, enticing; the narrative was pointless, pretentious, with no payoff. But something kept tugging on my mind about this shoddy explanation I had pieced for myself. It felt off. The puzzles weren't always creative or enticing, for in some cases they felt haphazard or obscure. Likewise, the narrative wasn't actually that awful, and I found it piquing my interest, especially with the audio logs in later areas. Something else underneath The Witness must have been spoiled, plaguing, contradictory, that which would've led to its contemptuous reception. Something I couldn't have spotted — until I saw it from another perspective.

I only gained an inkling of what this issue was when I watched my friend attempt to solve the puzzles in the Monastery and get stuck for an hour at the puzzle on the pillar, unknowing of the true solution. Tantalizingly, she got close three separate times, and even once explicitly said, "Maybe the solution has to do with the branches. Like, if I looked at the puzzle through the branches, it'd make a path somehow." She was right. The correct path was, indeed, formed by the branches. Three times she almost stood at the exact spot and looked at the exact angle to see that she was correct, but instead of trying to align herself properly, she stopped, looked elsewhere for an answer, exclaiming, "Nah, this game wouldn't be that crazy."

I had gone into the Monastery having extensively learned of the importance of environmental clues as I had finished the forest, the orchard, and the desert prior. As a result, I understood what I had to do in the Monastery fairly quickly. On the other hand, my friend had not finished as much of the game as I have at that point. So what made the difference? Was it her lack of experience? Was it our differences in instinct? In intellect? Or did I luck out, having stood at just the right position and angle to see the solution for myself? Keeping this instance in mind, I looked at other people's playthroughs of The Witness and noticed much of the same pattern of people getting stuck at something, the only difference being that that something is different for everyone. I was completely dumbfounded by the greenhouse's color puzzles, while artists (my friend being one) got them right away. Meanwhile, quite a few people got stuck in the jungle puzzles, a few found difficulty in the desert puzzles, and some even misunderstood the orchard puzzles. In comparison, these puzzles were relatively automatic to me. So what made the difference? Were they inexperienced? Did they lack the instinct? Were they "stupid"? Did they just not "get it"? These are some of the smartest people I know; neither acuity nor innate talent made the difference. Perspective did.

"That's no better a solution than any of the others, is it?" – James Burke

To be all about perspectives is to humor multiple points of view, and this is a trait seen all over The Witness. From the game's cryptic, long-winding, and often opposing audio logs and videos which all share tangential yet parallel viewpoints, to the game's nonlinear design giving it a sense of freedom, to set pieces that form different images from various angles: The Witness appoints credibility to all ways of interpretation. Through its narrative density, The Witness takes pride in and waves around its "neutrality"; there is no right or wrong. After all, you are but an observer of your world, you are its witness, and here it lays before you its variety. 

The Witness seems to believe that a change in perspective means a change in eyes; however, it fails to account for the change in mind. Differences in knowledge, experiences, and even upbringings can vastly change your journey through (and your thoughts about) The Witness, and amid its beliefs of having multiple ways to view a problem, I can't help feeling that often there is only one correct way to look at said problem. The Witness asks you to take a step back, breathe, take your time, and use your eyes to "see", to observe all that is around you, to know that whatever it is you are after, it is always right in front of you. In a phrase, The Witness is about "your perspective". Yet paradoxically, The Witness seems to also want its players to take the exact position and angle necessary to solve its various puzzles. And I don't just mean locomotively, I mean mentally as well. The game seems to funnel people into thinking in the way it wants them to think, and to solve the puzzles in the way it wants them to solve. After all, there are many dimensions to any given puzzle in The Witness: some may be more on connecting the dots, while others may test your skill on building shapes, and though some puzzles are more open-ended than others, there's a certain noticeable rigidity to it all. In this sense, The Witness is more about "its perspective", one that you have to keep up with.

I've watched three of my friends play The Witness from its beginning, and while the game certainly is open-world, there's this unshakeable notion of there being "one correct path" through the game. Ever since that incident with the branches, I kept asking, would my friend have gotten stuck had she taken a different path? Had she learned the importance of environmental clues a bit more? Is it a failure of the game's design, or her failure for not following the thought process the game wanted her to take?

Experiences and upbringing play a part in the equation too. There is an audio puzzle mechanic in The Witness that requires differentiating tones from one another. A comment in a review of the game surmised that tone-deaf individuals have more difficulty with the puzzle mechanic compared to, say, those who speak tonal languages. Likewise, colorblind folks will have plenty of difficulty with the game's light reflection puzzles compared to those with normal vision. Are their perspectives invalid, then? One must understand that if The Witness wants to give the impression of being a game "all about perspectives" (given how it carries itself and its narrative), then accounting for these differences in experiences is no mere accessibility, it is the game coming through on its premise. But in its pursuit of "uncompromising art", it ironically switches up on its premise by disallowing these different perspectives to flourish in its harsh design. In The Witness, the truth is both abstract and stubbornly forced. 

 

 "Stop looking for what you want... and you will find more than you could ever want." – Gangaji

 

The Witness is a puzzle game, and I'm discreetly aware that puzzles must have right or wrong answers. I am not arguing against the concept of right or wrong. I am, however, pointing out the dichotomy between this game's message and its execution. The Witness wants to teach the player the lesson of seeing things in different ways, in new ways, but it only ever ends up teaching the player how to see things the required way. It's probably why environmental puzzles (puzzles that aren't on panels but are based on images formed by the environment) are not required. Otherwise, this issue would be as blatant as day.

I rarely got stuck in The Witness, and the few times I have felt like a miscommunication of a gimmick. One time, I got stuck in the Monastery. The second puzzle had broken branches meant to dictate the walls of the maze, and I was stuck here for days until I looked down and saw the fallen branches on the ground, after which I immediately picked up on their meaning. It's not like I couldn't figure out the gimmick, nor did I "not get it", I simply wasn't seeing what I was supposed to see. And that's the most dangerous trait of The Witness. It bargains you to see what it wants, and when you don't see what it wants, suddenly you find yourself falling behind, trying desperately to catch up with the game's ever-heaving progression. The Witness presents a contradictory outlook, one that says: you are always correct, until you are not.

I don't know. Maybe I'm rambling. Maybe none of this makes any sense from anyone else's perspective but mine, and maybe I'm ironically falling under the same contradiction I state by righteously believing my perspective to be correct and that of any others as wrong.

My point is, I love The Witness, period. And in the years to come, I'd probably look back at it with awe and fervor. But as it stands, I can't shake away the feeling of something not quite adding up. A stinging question remains ever on my mind. Do I love this game because it truly was of indisputable quality, or do I love it because I happened to look at it from the right place, at the right time?

In Stars and Time Broke My Heart and Grew It Back... Again... and Again... and Again...

Sometimes, I get bored and I pick out an interesting looking game to pass the time. Most of my selections don't end up sticking with me for long, likely due to a general lack of interest, but sometimes, I find diamonds in the rough, needles in the haystack. In Stars and Time was one of those lucky finds — a real goodie bag that had in it a fine, black-and-white silk robe, a wizard hat, a frozen clock, a star, an orrery, and a long-lasting scar which now penetrates my soul.

In Stars and Time had already been recommended to me by a friend or two before then, but I had decided to play it on a whim just a few weeks ago, and even as I write this, I still cannot forget it. In my 20 hours of playtime, I had grown to genuinely love this ensemble of fictional characters, all of whom were written with so much care and attention-to-detail it's almost impossible not to be engulfed in the story with them. Odile was the first character I truly admired: she's the quick-witted, mature, yet often emotionally reserved friend. She doesn't open herself up very often, but she's always willing to listen and help others, even if she doesn't explicitly show it. Isabeau starts off as the obvious "big dumb hunky" guy trope, but is slowly revealed throughout the journey to be a lot smarter than he seems, and... the romance route with him... is... haunting, to say the least. On the other hand, Mirabelle is an amazingly written anxiety-ridden aro/ace character, who starts with extreme faith in her religion before slowly questioning a faith that directly contradicts her identity. Lastly, Bonnie is the character always mentioned last, always the one appointed to by the final breath of anyone talking about this game, the sidiest of side characters, which sucks because I think Bonbon's a beaming example of ISAT's compelling writing. I did not like Bonnie at first, because they didn't like me! They were so mean and rude. But you know who made me bawl the most during ISAT's final hours? Bonnie. There's just something about a kid who doesn't quite fully understand the world being thrusted into the most traumatic 48 hours of their life that really, really, really hurts me. Call it a motherly instinct, but sometimes I just want to grab Bonnie and squish them and protect them for my life.

I mentioned the ensemble first because they're what defined the game for me — a point I'm sure Siffrin, the main character, would agree with. I've talked to some friends after having gone through the rollercoaster that is ISAT, and they brought up one of my now main praises for its writing, and that is its shockingly good ability at being in tune with the player's feelings. Half the words the characters say feel like they're almost directed at me.

To be clear, the plot of ISAT is that Siffrin is stuck looping in time, repeating the same two days again and again and again. He retains all information between chronological threads, but his friends do not. He then spends the whole game attempting to escape the endless time loops. That's the plot. However, the story of ISAT is the story of Siffrin. It is the story of a person so bereaved of identity, so begotten by ill fate, so tired of the repetition and impermanence of it all, that they'd fall unto the preys of depression and self-sabotage. Getting stuck repeating the same day truly is a sentence worse than death; at least death works as a punctuation, while a life of endlessness has only suffering. Mind you, I have played plenty other games that ventured down this sort of existential dread, but nothing anywhere close to the emotional depth ISAT had explored. By the end, I had imagined myself wearing Siffrin's boots and snazzy hat, thought of the scenario where I wasn't able to escape myself, and knew that, if I had been in Siff's scenario and failed, I'd have never gotten up too. I'd have never said a word. I'd have killed my brain of meaning. 

So, if that premise sounds enticing to you, please give In Stars and Time a shot. You will love it, I can assure you. It's an incredible, unforgettable narrative. It's also incredibly fucked up. I say this because everything written beyond here will have major spoilers, so if you're even slightly interested in trying the game, be warned.

The Game Design of ISAT

I said earlier that In Stars and Time is shockingly good at being in tune with the player's feelings, but that's a bit of a magic trick, isn't it? In truth, part of its masterful ability in identifying with the player's emotions is its careful harboring of those very emotions themselves; in other words, its narrative has a way of manipulating how you feel, and part of that lies in its unorthodox game design. If you pitched ISAT to a game publishing company without the context of its story, it genuinely sounds like the worst video game ever made. An RPG battle system so simplified it almost feels like a parody, a very small world with a castle consisting of identically designed rooms, and a central mechanic of just doing shit over and over? Without context, that has to sound boring and tedious. The best part? It is.

Why would I not feel empathy for Siffrin slowly going insane as they do the same things repeatedly? I did that shit too! I backtracked through the same corridors dozens of times! I've read and dozed through the same hundreds of dialogue! I've fought the same goddamned enemies, only for their XP not to be carried over! I've memorized the rooms, pressed all the switches, grabbed all the keys; dozens of times, in fact! Of course I'd share the same pain! When there are times Siffrin finds a shortcut and immediately takes it, I don't question them; I'd have taken the same shortcut too. Even all the way in Act 5, when Siffrin has lost all reason and emotional intelligence, when they've started pushing everybody away just looking for a way out, I could understand them. Even if I was scared shitless.

It's a delicate balance, really. Obviously you cannot expect players to repeat a section dozens of times for the hell of it. Things do have to change in between loops, otherwise players would be left bored and confused, but they cannot change too much or too quickly as to derail from the intended experience. It's a fantastic, albeit unorthodox way of using the medium. In Stars and Time couldn't have been made as anything but a video game, because you just wouldn't be able to viscerally feel the same existential dread and boring drag Siffrin does. A friend of mine dropped the game a few hours in because he didn't want to repeat anything, which is an understandable reaction to a natural downside of the game's design. There will be people turned off by its repetitiveness, so I commend it for even taking its concept this uncompromisingly far.

Okay, enough about the game design of ISAT. The one quality of it I loved most was its writing and narrative. Particularly, it has two themes that touched my soul and wrapped it with a gentle hug, which are its themes of unpatched wounds and being loved despite your imperfections.

Unpatched Wounds

You think talking about your problems and being upfront is hard? In Stars and Time is a glowing example of what happens when you don't.

It felt suffocating seeing Siffrin self-destruct in Act 5, and overhearing all of their friends—or what they had considered family members (I never unequipped Memory of Family)—outcast them for their behavior. It reminded me of Undertale's genocide route, where the main character had become uncontrollable and detached from not only player control, but simple reason. Except, this time, Siffrin wasn't doing anything as drastic and unrealistic as killing the characters you've come to know and love, but the all-too-familiar act of burning bridges with them after a long, bad day. It's something you could see yourself doing had you been in Siffrin's position, and it's terrifying.

Loop and Siffrin show amazing contrast in how they handle their situations and the result of their actions. ISAT's Siffrin built up the courage to have a conversation with the people he cares about, leading to his release from his chronic shackles. Meanwhile, Loop (who is prequel Siffrin) is gone from the Favor Tree by the end of the game. They've ran away again, unable to accept the fact that they're stuck, not receiving the ending they wanted, alone and in a body not theirs. It's reflective of how they acted in the prequel, too: cold, and surrendered. Siffrin, too, almost fell for the same emotional trappings as his prequel counterpart, and was only saved due to having a reliable support group.

Personally, I am the kind of person who wears their heart on their sleeve, and as a hat, and as a watch on my wrists, and as my sandals. My heart is my companion and is with me everywhere I go. I don't hide from my emotions. Over time, I've lost any excuse for even doing so since every time I'd try to hide, I'd be found with more unpatched wounds. In Stars and Time teaches you its moral the hard way: by giving you the consequences of running, staying silent, being distant. Why reject a sharp needle when the sickness will kill you from within? Go and talk. Connect with the people you trust and tell them everything. Speak from the heart. It may be painful for a bit, but the truth is as they say: often, the only way out is through.

Being Loved Despite Your Imperfections

When I played In Stars and Time, I finished its family sidequest which involves completing one loop helping your friends as much as you can, until Siffrin (and you) consider them family. It's a deeply resonating word, "family", especially when applied to people not directly related to you by blood. Family, as it turns out, is more about connection rather than genetics.

Personal anecdote: shortly after I finished ISAT, I broke down to my friends during midnight, questioning my worth and whether or not I belonged to be where I am, or if I deserved anything I had ever received (you know, the usual things you lament about at 12 in the morning). My friends, as if they were the Avengers assembling for battle, as though directed by a shared responsibility, all somehow went online at the same time and reassured me of my place in this world. Very often do we take the love and care of others for granted, especially when they're such a constant part of our lives, to the point where we no longer stop to think about how much they've already given. When you buy someone a gift, take the time out your day to talk to someone, give someone a hug when they're down, think about someone, notice someone, you are giving a chunk of yourself to that someone, a bit of your flesh or your soul or your being. So when someone does it to you, cherish it and carve that feeling into your heart. Because, in that moment, you are loved. That's a quote from the game. And, tomorrow, they'll still love you. That's a quote from my friend.

The Subtleties in Narrative

One of the more heartbreaking and devastating details of In Stars and Time is in the subtleties of its writing. Devil's in the details, as they say. They're fairly small, but they add up to so much meaning, and they make you ask so many questions along the way. Subtleties like Siffrin calling everyone friends until Odile calls him "only an ally" and suddenly they're labeled as allies in text, or the changes in Siffrin's portrait as he gets more and more depressed, or how the save text goes from "you close your eyes" to "you close your singular eye" after it gets pointed out and Siffrin gets all flustered, or how the names of objects are learned and remembered but sometimes forgotten with enough time and must be re-learned again, or how memories through some loops will literally be skipped and must be remembered and sometimes forgotten. "Devil's in the details" is a fascinatingly accurate descriptor, for this game's writing is devilishly cruel.

Not to mention, Loop! Damn near everything about Loop bears with them a heart-crushing detail that leaves room to deeper interpretation, like how their left eye is miscolored because Siffrin doesn't have a left eye, or how they burst out laughing when Sif guesses that they're the same person (mind you, in a very similar way to how Sif laughs to Isa during his "romance" quest), or how Loop initially suggested that they go by "we/us" pronouns, or how they're literally called Loop, indicating that prequel Siffrin named themselves after the very thing keeping them imprisoned. Loop is essentially Siffrin if they had done all the "wrong things" instead, and their demeanor and character makes so much sense under that light. So deeply disturbing, but also woefully tragic.

This game came at me at a harsh point in my life, at a point when I was questioning my worth and my self. It stood there, pointed a mirror at my face, and told me "this is what you look like, and you look fucking stupid," before gently patting me on the head and bumping into me round the kitchen corners, reminding me that I didn't need to be worth anything to be loved. I just needed to be true. I just needed to be.

Honestly, I cried too much at this. I cried to all those things in the last bend and more. I cried when Bonnie hugged Sif, knowing that they're safe and protected by one another. I cried when Isa confessed. I cried when Odile somehow used Time Craft via which I do not know. I cried when Mira said Sif wouldn't be left behind, knowing full well that I'm always, always scared of my friends leaving me behind. I cried when Loop wasn't under the Favor Tree, because I know the crushing guilt and bittersweet of when a friend does leave. All those descriptions of burnt sugar and stomachs being pulled didn't make sense until I felt them, and now I know.

All of this from a game I started playing randomly, out of boredom. I mean, it's cool — I'm not complaining. I just didn't expect it to change my life.

P.S. There are so many, and I mean SO MANY other narrative threads and themes I could've addressed here, but I focused on the ones that touched me personally. There are other notable points here, too, like Siffrin and their traits of autism, Bonnie's refreshing maturity and intelligence for a child, or like themes of lost identities and pasts, and many more like that. 

P.P.S. This game also contains many flaws, but this was never meant to be a review, more like a letter of appreciation. Some flaws include colors and Sif's origin going largely unexplained, the time looping mechanic being somewhat unintuitive and hard to keep track of, etc.