Deltarune's Pointed Case for the Environment

What’s the point? The point is a prompt that every other modern video game of moderate-to-high complexity or fidelity uses. The point tells me: I can interact with this. I can do something here. Unlike all the other things that just need to be there. Unless there’s a point, how can I tell what I can and can’t do across all those detailed backgrounds that appear as if they’re alive but ultimately are static?

It wasn’t always the point. It used to be (and still sometimes is, thanks to timeless fashion of games like Deltarune) that I discovered, sometimes by accident, that I can do something unexpected. The whole structure of the environment wasn’t laid out in front of me: I needed to experiment with it, I had to throw verbs at it and see what sticks. Of course, the verbs would need to be consistent for that, it could all get on my nerves and lead to compulsive behaviors: pixel-hunting, excessively clicking one button on every object I collide with, trying out every menu option, so on.

However, it made me happy when I found something. It felt like it was my discovery, not the game pointing out: “Look, this is fun and you should take a look”. I felt like I made the call, even if I never was in control, the designer was. But what are games if not exercises in abusing controls to force a preferable outcome, anyway? They’re by definition controlled environments where I pretend I have some kind of power, and this by itself is so uncomfortable that I’m not sure I also want to be told exactly what I should do.

Across playing easily the best chapter of Deltarune so far, full of Spoiler #1, Spoiler #2, and, of course, Spoiler #3, I still marvel at those little moments when the game reacts unexpectedly to my very expected input. Whether it’s a hidden tile I can walk on, a small object I didn’t think would produce a whimsical description, or a wall that isn’t really a wall, it’s a reminder that absolute clarity and absolute understanding are absolutely lifeless.