We wake to a locust swarm seeped in obsession with comfy appearances, bleeding proclamations of cozy; it has become a host unto itself, demanding – with a daring whimper – "wholesome" be recognized a genre all its own. Stardew Valley is the definitive progenitor, the blueprint for an indefinite trend of farming systems plaguing a veritable hellscape of uninspired clones which boast everything shy of a reason to be considered separable from their generational twins.

Yet it stands now as a Babel to its contemporaries, decorated for flawlessly executing what its replicas crumble as they attempt – but in this same life were it also once the David who slew Goliath. It proudly stands above too the weakly gasping Harvest Moon franchise, and remains unreachable by its indie successors. It lays itself bare with no secrets or tricks, and still it has drawn victory with the two hands of the single developer who had woven it. How can it remain so comfortably the definitive farming game?

It may well be as inexplicable as the Valley having a heart and soul all its own. Stardew Valley is a cozy community, but the answer dwells in the darkness it harbors; just as palpable and cold in its honesty. It lurks in the subtext between warmth and indifference. You can touch your light to it, earnest in effort to mend it, but it may not ever heal. Yet the attempt is not wasted; it is something to be grateful for. Simply to be there for them – simply to care, to just nod your head and console them – is sometimes the best you can do for someone. The people of the Valley exist, not as binary and pixels but as those around us. They walk with us in our daily lives, able to be touched in these same ways.

Stardew Valley has become my second home, and its residents my family, even if only for this fleeting moment. Though I move on, the lessons from others I learned will linger.

You feel an unwavering connection to the valley itself..