Once again I'm thrown into a fictional summer that's just long enough that I miss it when it ends, but not so long that I ever wished it ended sooner.

Boku no Natsuyasumi's main success was being a game that could make you cry without a single tragedy: the heartrending part of that game was saying goodbye. Throughout the entire game one's own nostalgic recollections of childhood come to overlap with the game itself, and by the end of it events that happened maybe two hours ago, feel like part of some precious memory. It's a trick that really only works once, so I was a bit worried about the sequels lacking impact.

As it turns out, there was no need to worry; being able to observe how my own memories started to work against me as the story went on made up for whatever was lost, although I don't think I lost anything. Sure, the first game's ending left more of an impression on me, but I think Two as a whole will probably stick with me longer. For me, being completely aware of what the story was trying to do, removed any doubt on whether it earned its emotional moments or not, and let me appreciate the subtler moments of the game more.

Now to get to Three in 2025...




















Simon not smoking weed is a plot hole.

To be honest, I didn't exactly come in with my arms wide open. The fears of a formally continuist sequel of something that was very expressive because its own peculiar use of its forms increased shortly after starting. A setting to choose how long you want the day to be, collectibles around the map, a character that tells you where to see the events of each day, afraid of giving you back freedom in a larger world, overall details that seem treated with less care and a feeling of experiencing the same but worse. It's a shame that every time the game tries to awkwardly recall the intentions of its predecessor, it pales considerably (one clear instance: the previously essential narrator is now dispensable in the few arbitrary moments it appears).

Luckily, it takes just a few days to see that the direction taken is right. The facts that the protagonist's father never appears, that the plot of the future sibling remains in the background, or that the reminiscing aspect of the tale is anecdotic are no coincidence. The form, weighed down by losing part of its meaning, becomes a perfect vehicle to explore a more passive exploration of the surrounding drama.

Here Boku does not so much embody a reflexive portrait of childhood and growth, as he is more a supporting device for the rest of the cast. Accordingly, the most dramatically charged plots revolve less around Boku's family and more around the neighbors and visitors. These take advantage of the kid's innocent and outsider approach to deal with a common yet always specific issue: yearn. Yearn because of the distance between mother and daughter, between father and son, between lovers, between Earth and outer space, between past and present and future, between the world of humans and the one that is not ours, between life and what lies beyond. And the fears that all of these yearnings may never be answered.

That most of the conflicts end up in an open ended bittersweet quiet note resonates with the setting of the small coastal village. A place to get away from and to be taken away from the world. The ever-present sound of the waves, which inevitably move these desires in the tide just as the moon changes phase in the last shot of each day.

It’s not that Boku's appearance solves all these yearnings, but his mere interest in observing the world around him and serving as a confessional escape mechanism at least alleviates the pain. The game takes a passive stance where listening to one another is the greatest act of kindness, where what little evil appears to exist in the world has nothing but a noble and melancholic origin. Who knows what the future may hold, what to do but to hope for the best and reach for our hands within the tide.