Stardew Valley’s primary storyline invites players to restore broken-down facilities around Pelican Town—such as the bus station, greenhouse, and mine carts—through tasks for the Community Center. The simulator game offers two routes to accomplish this: collect items of varying rarity in exchange for the mystical assistance of forest spirits; or, after allowing supermarket chain JojaMart to convert the Community Center into a warehouse, contribute payments to fund “Community Development Projects” by the corporation. Unbeknownst to the player (or quickly revealed through an internet search), both routes lead to the same vital repairs, which serve as checkpoints that enable players to advance in the game through map expansions, improved mobility and farming efficiency, and eventually access to the next chapter of stories on Ginger Island. However, the game makes clear that the two routes are not equal.
Through its story, gameplay experience, and rules, Stardew Valley constructs a tone that is overtly sympathetic to the plights of Pelican Town’s small businesses and dwindling tradition, while critical of the conglomerate power that seems to pose an existential threat. Through the opening cutscene, the player sees her character forsake her estranged life in a gray cubicle to inherit her grandfather’s farm and find “real connections with other people and nature” like he once did. Arriving in town, she meets villagers who are kind, vulnerable, nostalgic for the once-lively Community Center but at the ends of their ropes financially. Morris, who manages the local JojaMart branch, provides stark contrast: embodying the duplicitous PR language of his employer, he quotes legal codes while defending Joja’s transgressions and is frankly just unlikable. Entering JojaMart, the game’s characteristically vibrant colors drain from the screen and its soothing nondiegetic music vanishes, evoking a sense of hostility, alienness, and unbelonging. Even the restricted hours of local businesses like Pierre’s General Store, though frustrating at first, demonstrate their humanness when the player can see the owners roaming the town with goals and interests other than their livelihood.
From the world-building aspects alone, Stardew Valley seems to attempt a classic critique of capitalism and its threat to community and harmony of life; however, without operational logics that are committed to furthering this point, it may miss the mark. As someone who dutifully appealed to the Junimos bundle by bundle on her only playthrough, I was curious about experiences and choices made across the gaming community. In a YouTube comment section, I was not surprised to find that most, like me, committed to the Community Center route on the first playthrough because the alternative “felt bad”. More interestingly, most returners also reflected that in subsequent playthroughs they tend to choose the JojaMart route, with one user summarizing the common sentiment:
“I almost always go Joja because then I don’t have to stress over making sure I have what I need for the community center… My community center playthroughs always turn into focusing only on that, and it’s not as fun. But with Joja, all I need is money, and there are so many different ways to get that…”
The storyline forks into two routes, prompting different cutscenes on each, but ultimately rejoins in the larger plotline with little meaningful difference depending on the route one chose. In reality, gentrification can offer short-term benefits to the privileged at the expense of long-term consequences to the vulnerable; Stardew Valley uses cheeky humor to allude to the latter while materially only recreating the experience of the former. In Pelican Town, JojaMart’s expansion does not lead to environmental degradation, rising costs of living, or forced displacement of low-income or minority communities—at least as far as the player is concerned. Of course, it becomes much easier to laugh off the caricature of Morris upon realizing that the JojaMart route privileges you.
The “crossroads” is thus a false symbolic choice untethered to material consequences, bearing striking similarity to the performative activism of 21st century woke culture. Today, responsible consumerism peddles reusable water bottles and campaigns featuring diverse models to consumers disillusioned about the state of society and their environment. This practice grew popular because it feels good, looks good, and does not force consumers to interrogate the systems they have grown comfortable in, especially if they are part of the group that benefits disproportionately.
Stardew Valley’s gameplay experience over multiple playthroughs, as testified to by the gaming community, mimics the most insidious nature of performative activism in that it presents a high-visibility opportunity for change that is so inconsequential and yet so enticing that it dilutes and co-opts the discourse. And when the novelty and self-gratification of the performance inevitably wears off, participants return to furthering the very systems they critiqued, believing that they have done their part.
However, the onus is not necessarily on the players of Stardew Valley to make socially or environmentally conscious decisions at every turn of the game, regardless of context. Like all games, Stardew Valley constructs the stakes, goals, and limitations that players must interact with, through which they are compelled to confront the impacts of their choices and adapt; in this case, players were set up to ultimately prioritize profit-maximization, especially since it does not end up hurting anyone. Not all games attempt an overt critique of the world, however, and it is important that high-profile games (or other arts) like Stardew Valley engage responsibly with the discourse they enter into and understand the powerful platforms they have to challenge onlookers’ assumptions.
