How can I review a game like this? Can I write without confessing, endlessly confessing, an acknowledgement of the fundamental lack? A performance beyond the screen, a perforation between lives. I divulge to a blank ear; the inscrutability of the reception to the confessional performance destroys the art of speaking, annihilating the relationship I have to the audience I spill guts to. I exsanguinate myself in front of a crowd, and yet at the same time the crowd spills over and beyond themselves; a closeness only available via anonymity.
I love the sticker they send, the initials they sign off, the attempt to re-assure for the sake of reassurance. A beautiful moment, self-contained, the care for someone who cannot be realised, a love which precedes specificity.
The game upsets notions of amor-ity, an attempt to recenter agape, perhaps. Does it fail by the unacknowledged double-ness of all interaction, the razorblade that accompanies a revelation? Maybe. But it also attempts to illicit a compassion that is so often denied, something that would've failed in any larger project, in any less of a pinhole-d design.
Do I confess to someone? Or do I confess only to myself? Who else can love like a stranger?