![]() ![]() The meticulously designed levels are an absolute treat to explore making each session of the game feel like an Easter egg hunt with Matryoshka dolls. For instance, in the lighthouse level, you can inspect the refrigerator in the kitchen, clip through its door, examine all the foodstuffs inside it, pick out the head of cabbage, and further delve into that until you find a hungry caterpillar feasting within its core. I am Dead allows the player to no-clip through almost every little element of the level. After interacting with a brief story sequence informing you of what to find, you’ll have to search every nook and cranny of each level to find the desired memento.Įxploring each level feels like interacting with a dollhouse while possessing x-ray vision. Since Morris can’t really interact with living people like he used to–considering they have tangible, fleshy bodies and he doesn’t–you’ll have to use some unconventional methods. Summoning the wandering ghosts will have you gather five mementos related to them first. To call on these aforementioned spirits, you must play what essentially boils down to a three-dimensional interpretation of the classic I Spy books. Thus begins his search for wayward spirits in hopes to find a potential candidate and save the peaceful island from total evisceration. He’s assigned the role of seeking a new custodian by the spirit of his equally-dead dog Sparky to tend and mediate the now active volcano in his home-island of Shelmerston. In I am Dead you play as Morris Lupton, a jovial museum curator who takes his passing into the afterlife with surprising nonchalance. I Am Dead represents this idea more so than any other game I’ve played in recent memory. Little did I know this was a form of respecting the dead they were sharing the stories, the little anecdotes they had of the people no longer with them, a commemoration of what the dead left behind. I thought that death equated to sadness, that the loss of life should automatically evoke grief, but all these old folks seemed like they were catching up on a Sunday brunch. What pushed this idea in my head was the fact that all these memorials were less mourning the dead and more afternoon mingling, at least that was my impression as a child. ![]() A client of my grampa’s furniture store, my mom’s second cousin, an aunt’s step-mother–a trip to the funeral parlor elicited the same feeling as going to mandatory Sunday mass in that it was just another obligation. Being raised in a large Catholic family that was close to even those just tangentially related to us, we went to them more often than most. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |