Possessions (2019, Noodlecake, Apple Arcade) and Unpacking (2021, Witch Beam, Xbox Game Pass) share quite a few surface similarities. Each game is defined primarily by its colorful aesthetics. You rarely, if ever, see the subjects of the game’s story, just important items in their lives. Your main means of interactivity involve manipulating these objects into the “right” spaces. The stories take place over the span of years, decades, not days or months. Both games incorporate queerness into the narrative. But these surface similarities belie a marked difference in investment, a chasm in terms of narrative priorities.
Possessions is less of a game with a defined narrative and more an AR tech demo thing, showcasing how well the iPhone can work with forced perspective, requiring players to solve relatively simple puzzles in the vein of Superliminal while kind of half-heartedly showing us vignettes of a family of three as they move from the cramped confines of a one-bedroom apartment into progressively larger and nicer abodes. Eventually, the family lives in a manor packed full of weird tchotchkes, and as we’re busy putting spatiotemporally-sliced vases back together we’re seeing glimpses of unhappiness.
The father is some kind of mover-and-shaker in the entertainment industry – my guess is that he’s a writer for films – and basically from the moment we’re aware of his wife’s pregnancy he blows her off at nearly every opportunity in favor of his work. Whether he’s on the phone or typing away on his laptop, Dad never fails to take a chance to brusquely wave his wife and eventually newborn son away. This tension not only goes unresolved, it’s not even remarked upon by the game. You just solve your little puzzles and the game plays its little vignettes. They are functionally separate pieces of media that take place in the same namespace.
As the son gets older he gets more dissatisfied with his father’s neglect. By his teenage years he’s living in a Beverly Hills-esque estate, but the game goes out of its way to isolate the kid. He repeatedly tries to talk to his dad about something, only to be rebuked every single time. In one of the last levels of the game, he and another boy are shown kissing furtively, only for the game’s subject to get up and walk away, seemingly in a panic. It’s hard to tell when the 3D figures of these characters don’t actually move. Eventually, the kid writes his parents a letter, and seems to run away.
It might sound like I’m being sparing in my description of Possessions. I promise you, I’m not. There is approximately one hour of gameplay here, and about five total minutes of that time are devoted to “narrative.” If you’re wondering whether environmental storytelling is going to help fill in these gaps: no. Despite ostensibly being about the material culture of the people we are following, their items really only make sense in that they are items you would typically find in various appropriate parts of the house. A convection burner goes on the stove. A towel rack goes on the bathroom wall. A lamp goes on the nightstand. There’s no sentiment built up in any of these items, because ultimately they’re intangible. We never even see the mom, or dad, or son pick any of them up.
Unpacking, by contrast, asks the player to consider the placement of every item in every box, whether that item is a memento of good times long past, or a simple and unsentimental first aid kit. Two moves are at work here: By essentially rummaging through the stuff of an unseen character while also snooping around their various living spaces, we begin to infer things about who they are and what sorts of events are happening in their life; and we are also in a sense molding and shaping the character to ourselves based on the small choices we make in the actual unpacking process.
There are limits to how wacky one can get in Unpacking, as you can’t, for example, put all the pots and pans in the bathroom or fill the closet in the master bedroom with video game paraphernalia, but for the most part these invisible walls remain invisible through the three or so hours it takes to play the game.
In Unpacking, we follow the life of a children’s book illustrator from childhood on through early adulthood and eventually married life. Each level involves a significant time-skip, but this only adds to the charm; we get to see the possessions the unseen protagonist carries with them over the years, and which items eventually stop following them from place to place.
At one point, we watch as the protagonist moves in with someone who is clearly not right for them; we try to integrate their belongings in with the person they’re in a relationship with, but this other person has (deliberately?) not left much room in the spacious, upscale apartment for us to fit our lives into. It’s an uncomfortable moment to realize that this relationship is probably already toxic, and as we try to fit our stuff around their pristine cold brew coffee maker set, that they just left in the center of everything, we kind of hope this situation is temporary. The relief we feel is palpable when, some time later, the protagonist moves back in with their parents and eventually jumps into a tiny apartment of their own.
Eventually we see the protagonist become successful, move into a bigger space, get a partner who they make space for, and by the end, try for a kid. With each new indicator of success we also see how the lesson of that bad relationship has effected the protagonist: when her girlfriend moves in, she makes space; when they move to a new place, it’s big enough for all of their things to fit comfortably.
In both of these pieces of interactive media, the player witnesses lives being lived. In Possessions, we’re essentially asked to mind our own business. In Unpacking, we are allowed to come inside and get to know the people whose home we’re filling up with stuff. It’s interesting to see how these perspectives effect the feeling of immersion in the game, and what we’re asked to care about.