I am lulled awake in my cabin by an unmistakable cocktail of soft synths that fill my ears; it is fall. I know that it is fall today on my farm in Stardew Valley not because I remember where I left off, but because after binging this game for countless days and nights in the last year, the seasonal soundtrack has become wired like core memories in my brain. Fall is bright, rhythmic, churning, and yet infused with the laziness of a hot cup of pumpkin spice latte. I (via my avatar) approach the door leading out into a world that I already know is caramel-toned, and embellished by the occasional flutter of golden-brown leaves. My senses relax and I feel at home; I fall into routine.
I am already plucking my small patch of ripened parsnips when a nagging thought breaks through the haze: I need copper ores…to make copper bars. I pause in my tracks as I finally remember where I left off on my last log—I had just started exploring the mines on this new single-player playthrough, and it is my first time ever doing so alone. I recall how my partner, when we used to play the multiplayer mode together, always beelined for the mines at the break of dawn to make the most out of the in-game day’s playable time, so frantically I follow suit.
In my hurry, I realized that I don’t actually know the fastest way to get to the mines. Until now, I had completely relied on others to access resources in the mines and specialized instead in other elements of the game. I go too fast and I hit dead end after dead end, getting trapped between bushes and bodies of water. I look at the time—it’s already 9AM.
A long-forgotten frustration creeps into my mind, clashing dizzyingly with the same soundtrack that misled me. At last I arrive. I need to clear 5 levels before the end of today or I lose all of my progress, so hastily I take the elevator down.
A hollow, ominous hum rumbles in my ears as level 5 fades from black; I get the sense that I am small in a very large cave. I miss the music; I don’t want to know how cavernous and endless this desolation extends beyond my screen. The sounds of water drops jump out of the soundscape irregularly, sounding too close for comfort and yet not reflective of any on screen movement. The health bar has materialized next to my energy bar, an abrupt reminder of the fragility of my mortality. My fight-or-flight sets in, and I want to leave as soon as possible.
I fumble as I mistakenly equip a hoe instead of a pickaxe, which is much more relevant for mining. Meanwhile, my eyes dart back and forth around the screen, wary of threats that may emerge from the unknown in my moment of vulnerability. Despite my best knowledge that the monsters in the mines at level 5 produce limited damage and move slowly, and the fact that I will always regenerate, I feel intense anxiety. As I venture away gingerly, I think about the detached, transactional attitude with which my partner always viewed lives in video games. When he got to lower, more demanding levels of the mines, he would decide strategically to be killed (run out of health) on purpose instead of trying to make it home alive, because it was what advancement in the game required. He wouldn’t bat an eyelash as he watched the life drain out of himself again and again, meanwhile my heart skips a beat every time my character flashes red, suffering the loss of one health point from hits of the most innocuous slime monsters.
It’s 12PM and I still haven’t found the doorway to level 6. I sigh and restart the day.
