Grief doesn’t follow logic. It has no chapters. No end screen. It loops like a bad save file. Sometimes we outrun it. Sometimes we respawn inside it. And sometimes, strangely, it finds us in games.
Not just the ones where characters die. But the ones that sit with it.
There are games that don’t ask us to win. They ask us to stay. To witness. To carry the weight. To let go. Quiet titles. Unassuming ones. And suddenly, without warning, you’re sobbing over a pixelated sunrise.
🎮 That Dragon, Cancer
A father builds a game about losing his child
It sounds unthinkable. But it exists.
That Dragon, Cancer is not just a game. It’s a eulogy. A digital altar. A love letter from parents to their son Joel, who passed away from cancer at age five.
You can’t save him. There’s no secret ending. The game places you in their shoes. You wait. You watch. You hope. And then you break. Again and again.
The mechanics don’t reward you. There are no upgrades. Just scenes that dissolve into prayer, silence, surreal imagery and pain.
You are not playing to escape grief. You are being asked to hold it.
That Dragon, Cancer isn’t entertainment. It’s testimony.
🌊 Spiritfarer
A game about guiding souls to the afterlife
You play Stella. You inherit a boat. You welcome spirits aboard and help them let go.
You cook for them. You listen to their stories. You tend to their needs. And when the time comes, you take them to the Everdoor.
It never gets easier. No matter how many times you do it.
Each farewell is a little funeral. Not loud. Not grand. Just deeply human.
Spiritfarer shows that grief is not only about losing someone. It’s about remembering them well. Holding space for what they gave you. Saying goodbye with care.
🐎 Red Dead Redemption 2
Grief through slowness and memory
Arthur Morgan doesn’t die in a boss fight. He dies from illness. In the quiet. On a mountain. Surrounded by air and regret.
The game gives you time to feel it. You ride across fading lands. You reflect. You take photos. You write in a journal. The missions slow down. The pace becomes reflective. You know what’s coming. And the game lets you sit in it.
Red Dead Redemption 2 doesn’t offer redemption in the traditional sense. It offers mourning. It offers memory. It shows death not as spectacle but as closure.
It lingers.
🕯️ Between the lines. What these games are really doing
These are not games about dying.
They are games about grieving.
They ask you to stay in the aftermath. To feel the weight of absence. To remember. To honor.
They don’t rush you. They don’t save you. They accompany you.
Through rituals. Through silence. Through digital sunsets that feel more sincere than any cutscene.
They teach us that grief is not a problem to solve. It is a process to live.
✊ Why this matters now
We live in a culture of acceleration. Grief does not fit in the feed. It’s too slow. Too raw. Too unresolved.
But players are hungry for slowness. For stillness. For truth. Games like Before Your Eyes, Lake, Journey, Unpacking. These games feel like breath. Like softness. Like sacred space.
In a world that doesn’t teach us how to mourn, these games become teachers. They become mirrors. They become memory-keepers.
They show us that feeling deeply is not a flaw. It’s the whole point.
🪩 So what’s next?
We let games be slow.
We design stories that don’t resolve. We make room for stillness. We write mechanics that ask for reflection. Not speed.
We celebrate games that let us remember. Not just escape.
We stop asking players to be strong all the time. And start trusting that they are ready to feel.
We create not just for catharsis. But for care.
Not every game is about winning. Some are about healing. Some are about saying goodbye.
And maybe the next time a game makes you cry
you’ll understand
that you were never just playing
You were remembering
Warmly,
Claire
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