Games With Grey

Kona’s world-building is a major triumph, a major source of creativity – the decision to situate the narrative in frigid, isolated northern Quebec was bold indeed, and ultimately all the potentialities inherent to that location are seized upon and exploited to maximum effect. Here, snows and snowy wastes predominate, as do fierce winds, sharply reduced visibility. Many titles – see the ambitious open-world games of the present moment – similarly feature snows, snowy wastes, fierce winds, and lessened visibility. Fair enough. But a key distinction must be made: in those titles, the frigid, neigh inhospitable locations exist alongside locations starkly different – aesthetically and thematically. Snowy wastes are presented alongside scorching arid deserts, presented alongside dense, too dense foliage, blotting out the sun. This biome diversity might be reckoned a positive, though it often signals overreaching, confused development – the presentation is scattershot, almost erratic. Erraticness is completely rejected within Kona, in that one location and one location alone is present and prioritized – those vast snowy wastes. The end result here is a highly focused experience, one where a singular, cohesive vision has been achieved – the creativity observable here, the thematic consistency, is remarkable indeed. Remarkable also is the rejection of repetition. When only one environment type is explorable, tedium could potentially emerge. But here, such tedium is completely absent; engagement soars.

Kona’s environments are ultimately moody in nature – for all their graces and majesties, they are rarely inviting; environmental hostility abounds, the player character – exploring, ever exploring – forced to grapple with the harsh conditions, conditions which diminish his physical and mental wellbeing. In a crucial turn, these abundant atmospheric flourishes are complemented by much technical excellency – Kona’s budget may not have been lofty (the development studio being small), but those limitations are eventually transcended. Alongside this transcendence comes bolstered immersiveness, such immersiveness marking another major achievement. Rather than navigating the map and meeting with little opposition, nature constantly exerts its presence as Carl Faubert, the protagonist, navigates to and fro. The winds are fierce indeed, accompanied by intense audio effects, which further communicate those winds’ intensity; violent in their unsafe ferociousness, logic suggests shelter should be sought – outside excursions are dangerous and foolish indeed, and should be avoided at all costs – such excursions can result in destruction. But Carl, even while aware of this dangerousness and foolishness, rejects expectation, braves northern Quebec’s vast iciness, suggesting his determination, his desire to fulfill the job assigned him. Crucial to the game’s moodiness is the region’s neigh total emptiness – only one NPC remains within the settlement: an unnerving eeriness dominates. Much of this eeriness stems from the evidence of former population, former thriving – small shacks and other such shelters have a prominent presence; this tangible evidence heightens emotional engagement. An uninhabited snowy waste can act upon the player. But a formerly-inhabited snowy waste further acts upon the player, in that it prompts manifold different questions – principally, what befell these citizens? Was their fate tragic? Was death involved? Questions’ existence is vital to any effective narrative, and the technical and creative excellency observable within the world-building directly prompts questions – environments inform narrative; exploration is prioritized. Exploration’s emphasis has become commonplace, but the developers approach exploration in a novel fashion – they wholeheartedly embrace quiet, unmolested exploration, realizing that not every in-game moment must be brimming with action – they cherish a contemplative experience.

Central to this contemplativeness, to this player engagement, are the mentioned turns towards immersion, turns which exist in perfect abundance. Most obviously, the title never breaks from the first-person perspective – Carl’s perception and his alone is presented. This is a commonplace design decision, employed to allow player projection, to endear player to player character. But the developers heightened immersion in less commonplace ways – consider only exploration. In so many titles, exploration entails ample menuing – press the correspondent button and the map screen presents itself. While not an inherently flawed construction – world maps can be a major source of stylization – such screens ultimately deal immersion a sharp blow, removing the player from the experience. Kona rejects this approach, in that the map screen is a tangible construction; accessible at any moment, its usage does not dampen immersion. Intrusive menuing generally is minimized, even as inventory management inevitably brings with it some sub-menus. Still, immersiveness soars, and seeing a discoverable lantern bob to and fro in reaction to quickened movement further suggests motion, a motion first suggested by those blistering winds. Carl’s pickup truck is drivable, too, and he can be seen manipulating the truck’s controls as his speed and direction are altered; the developers champion attention to detail. This championing is absolutely essential, as it serves a distinguishing function – what other developers might neglect, Parabole include, emphasize. And so Carl rubs his hands in response to intense cold, and so Carl and wolf alike leave their tracks in the dense snow. This attention to detail greatly suggests developer passion, a passion observable all throughout; sincerity abounds.

The explorable environment is fairly large, though not of such a magnitude as to be overwhelming. Locomotion occurs both by foot and by truck, though that former mode of transportation is more frequently relied upon – many subsets of the map are unexplorable by truck, owing to impassable snows or other major obstacles: the truck is largely used when crossing vast distances, where its heightened speed is most appreciated. The environments are, again, beautiful, whether seen directly or through a truck’s window. The cabins all are meagre and unassuming in construction, many showing similar designs and design influences; collectively, they suggest humility and austerity, defined by their basicness. In these cabins’ internals, however, ample differentiation is present; environmental storytelling again soars. One explorable cabin might boast prominent religious iconography – crucifixes and the like, pointing towards the inhabitants’ religious and moralistic nature; the items developer their possessors. Reflecting this, the settlement’s doctor expectantly owns many medical implements, implements the voiced narrator comments upon, his words also bolstering the narrative. So while externally these designs are nearly identical in construction, internally diversity thrives; it is difficult to overpraise these further overtures at attention to detail. One cabin boasts a prominent distillery, another cabin is in terrible disrepair, pointing towards its owners’ troubles, be they socioeconomic or otherwise. But a few environments dominate the landscape: consider only the prominent general store, amongst the first discovered locations. As construction, it is quite sprawling, with manifold different aisles correspondent to the different objects being sold. The store doubles as a post-office, too, pointing towards its central situation within the community, their link to the outside world. With seemingly endless aisles, a makeshift post-office, and even a barebones garage, the place is startling in its largeness and its diversity. How was this location run before the settlement’s desertion? Was it indeed bustling, as speculation suggests? How fared the owners? Some of these answers are explained in discoverable documents – other questions are perpetually unanswered. This constant thirsting for answers and explanations only propels exploration, heightens its inherent joys. Simply moving about in Kona, engaging with the isolated cabins and braving the wastes, brings ample enjoyment. The link between player and NPC is constantly growing, even as these NPCs are almost wholly absent.

The narrative proper – the narrative delivered outside of these secondary channels of exploration and document reading – is vague indeed, not necessarily interpretable (which is a positive), but instead deliberately unexplained, unexplainable. Foundationally, it is a standard, safe construction to be sure – the player character, Carl Faubert, is summoned to the northern Quebec wastes by a Mr. Hamiton, a Chicago native and a magnate of sorts with seemingly endless pockets – and accordingly endless influences. Detecting opposition within the settlement’s longstanding inhabitants, he reaches out to Faubert. Faubert arises and matters promptly turn south – conflict erupts, as Hamilton’s presumably murdered body rests on the isolated general store’s cold floor. Questions inevitably arise here, and Faubert being a detective it follows an investigative air will predominate. Such overtures do indeed predominate – for a frustratingly brief span of time. As is so often the case in video game narratives, a certain derailment emerges. In this instance, with Kona, this derailment revolves around supernatural elements’ insertion – the human psychology defining a wearied detective, the intrigue accompanying a violent murder, are both thwarted and discarded, as otherworldliness thrives; the narrative loses its way and fast. This is a divisive admission, of course – some players may delight in this willed strangeness. Such willed strangeness is not inherently a negative, but the way it is presented here is flawed and jarring. Hamiton, being an outsider, was again despised by the town’s residents, those who viewed him as a greedy, ever-encroaching tyrant, a figure who solely desired to infringe upon them and their isolated society, so admired for its isolation. Here is believable and compelling human drama, as an outsider is forced to grapple with the new mores burgeoning within insiders. Very little of this is developed, the only development which does exist delivered in those crucial. discoverable documents scattered about the game world.  

But again: otherworldliness is emphasized, as Carl periodically engages with specters of sorts, witnesses the specters’ fates and final moments. While experiencing these moments, stylization abounds, the screen drained of much color; detachments from the base, normal aesthetics are intense indeed. But how precisely Carl can enter into these scattered memories is never explained. Indeed, this power’s existence serves an almost alienating function, explicitly distinguishing Carl from the common human – he is exceptional, elevated. As these sequences grow in frequency, their luster gradually erodes, frustrating when considering how central they do in time become. A major obstacle – in this precise instance a towering sheet of ice – blocks progression northward. The player needing to advance in that direction, it follows the ice wall must be destroyed. Fair enough. But the actual method of destruction is bizarre indeed, as Carl must almost “liberate” four distinct specters – Carl must enter into those boring, fragmented otherworldly sequences. Ultimately, the detective-like atmosphere vanishes, displaced by the gaily cryptic. Consider only the revelations present at the narrative’s conclusion, a moment which serves as lazy exposition dump – lazy and uninspired. The closing moments speak of murder and a desire to conceal that murder. Fair enough. Compellingly enough. But here Parabole inserted the mythological wendigo, a creature of folklore with fair power, fair menace. The wendigo’s inclusion does serve a grounding function – knowledge of that beast circulates widely within the Canadian wastes – but the strangeness must be reckoned a failure, especially when considering the wendigo’s presence only overshadows Hamilton’s emotionally affecting murder. The conclusion prompts further questions, many arising from the wendigo’s unknown fate; rather than vanquishing the beast, Carl retreats from it, boarding a small boat to leave the settlement (after a rather tense and frenetic chase sequence). Will the wendigo continue to exert its menace over the town? Will the beast return to its slumber, enabling the inhabitants to return, to reembrace what they had long known? Will Hamilton’s murder – a tyrant’s deposing – prompt a happier, safer existence? Questions abound – answers remain elusive. It is easy to dismiss the narrative for its radical tonal departure and subject of emphasis, but the relative vagueness does inspire some compelling contemplation, suggesting narrative successes; Kona’s narrative was rarely affecting emotionally, though still it remained cerebrally engaging. Narrative resonance was only bolstered, meanwhile, by the narrator’s excellent and earnest voice-acting, charming.

Kona’s core gameplay is rarely involved, though this basicness does not inevitably equate to boredom or lessened player engagement – the title can be very engaging. But a major flaw revolves around genre – Kona styles itself as a survival experience, one which also implements survival horror inclinations – limited inventory space has its inclusion, for instance. Foundationally, this is excellent. In practice, however, these two genres’ various tropes and mechanics only see halfhearted implementation – they suggest gameplay lifelessness; they seem included out of expectation. One crucial departure, though, one instance where these mechanics have been inserted flawlessly, is related to the temperature system. Whenever exposed to the elements, Carl’s temperature level drops, reflecting reality: those northern Quebec ice lands are oppressive and sapping indeed. If Carl is exposed for a fair span – if he does not enter into a structure or ignite a fire, death is a tangible possibility. This is of course very conventional though still very excellent – the temperature mechanics do not inspire tedium but instead create and preserve a very compelling tension. Bolstering this tension is how precisely fires are constructed. Three distinct components are necessary: chopped wood, matches, and another object known as a firestarter. These objects are fairly abundant, though inevitably scenarios emerge where one or more of these items are desired. The player must then decide when to expend their resources, when to construct this sustaining fire (which also serves as a save zone). In a very clever and very appreciated flourish, meanwhile, fires cannot be constructed anywhere – they can only be lit at scattered, predetermined locations. This design decision only encourages greater strategizing – can these wastes be crossed? What if there is no intermediary fire-pit as to enable further progression through the vast wastes? In this precise instance, then, survival tropes are expertly assimilated; gameplay becomes a source of excitement (though in a terribly flawed design decision, one discoverable object – which is needed for further narrative progression – destroys these concerns outright, in that, object in hand, temperature ceases to decrease).

The survival horror leanings are observable in the inventory screen. The player’s inventory is never expandable, and they must accordingly manage items carried – here is tired genre adherence, and the constrained inventory more often inspires frustration than excitement. A pair of firearms are discoverable, true, and ammunition for these objects is typically very scarce. As weapons, they are brutally effective, capable of dispatching the various wolves which serve as sole antagonist for much of the narrative. Holding ammunition is empowering indeed – some survival horror flourishes are well-implemented. Still, the developers did not go far enough, and seem almost divided. Consider melee weapons, for instance. Many survival titles feature weapon durability systems – use a weapon for a predetermined number of blows, and that weapon disintegrates, becomes unusable. Not so in Kona. Such systems are, again, rarely enjoyable – the durability system’s exclusion is far from a negative. But this exclusion again illustrates the development studio’s division, their complicated relationship with genre. But whichever genre is emphasized in any moment, a quiet contemplativeness is wonderfully championed throughout. And quietness is prioritized; even with the periodic combat encounters and survival flourishes, Kona often clings to the walking simulator genre tropes. This is not a slight by any means; the spectacular world design means even that most mundane of actions – moving to and fro – is rewarding. But such quietness is repelling for some, and those expecting constant, undisturbed action are ultimately left in the cold here. Subtle tension abounds, certainly, though loudness does not. But the engrossed player, the patient player, is rewarded indeed – an immense amount of secondary content exists here, much of it missable. If these problems are directly combatted, the player obtains the joys inherent to any given puzzle’s solving, but is also frequently rewarded in a more tangible manner – consider a snowmobile which greatly enhances maneuverability throughout. This object’s construction was elaborate indeed, involving part gathering, puzzle-solving and the like. But, again – here the effort was singularly rewarded, and knowledge of these rewards only incentivizes exploration, heightens its enjoyability – what location, what problem or quest, rests just over the snowy horizon? Exploration is a massive achievement.   

Complaints of gameplay repetition could certainly be lodged against Kona – the opening moments of the narrative are functionally identical to those at the conclusion. But the experience is a brief one, meaning the rather tired, unchanging nature present within these gameplay designs never intensifies. The length itself is perfect, though overall pacing is not – flaws exist. Consider one necessary quest, that revolving around the heavy coat’s acquisition. The object can only be won by providing its present owner with a drink caller caribou, which must be crafted in a distillery present in one of the surrounding cabins. Straightforward enough. Complications arise, though, when considering the drink’s individual components. One specific type of liquor is needed, and this object exists in only one instance in the entire game world; if the player doesn’t have knowledge as to the drink’s whereabouts, they can be left to wander about aimlessly – until consulting a walkthrough in impatience and frustration (as I ultimately did). Were the object more clearly presented in the environment, this frustration would only see minimization. Crypticness like this does have its place, and Kona generally does not hold the player’s hand. This is fine for the most part, and the faith with which Parabole regard their audience is impressive indeed. Surmounting an obstacle – showing that their faith was indeed deserved – is very rewarding, and the entire experience, brief as it is, is quite affecting. Many of these stirring sensations arise not from the narrative itself, but from the environments where the narrative is set: the vast Quebec wastes are masterfully – gracefully – captured here. The title fumbles in its gameplay systems, certainly, unsure of which genre to embrace, which genre to reject, but this a minor blemish, flawed gameplay compensated for by spectacular world-design. And a final asset is the game’s swelling heart – the developer’s swelling passion is observable; consider only the narrator’s great earnestness. The precise content of his speech may be lacking in profoundness, but his heartfelt delivery creates profoundness. Very much a slow-burn, ultimately Kona transcends the negatives necessarily attached to slowness.