What Celeste Taught Me About Storytelling

I love story-heavy games; being faced with moral decisions and ambiguous storylines always makes them feel rich and in-depth. If a game makes me cry at the end of the story, all the better, as I love being forced to choose between two evils and weighing the consequences of siding with either.

Even in games without moral ambiguity, I love heart-wrenching stories. Finishing God of War (2018) continues to bring chills to my spine, and it remains my favourite game of all time. And it's not like this hasn't been the case ever since I started gaming; only early on in my years of playing The Legend of Zelda and Mario games did I really not care for the story, though that's because I didn't know they existed in gaming.

I believe the game that got me addicted to crying was actually Telltale's The Walking Dead, which had me sobbing like an infant whose sweets had been stolen. As I finished The Walking Dead, I was introduced to a slew of games and swiftly lost interest in the "gameplay first" formula that I'd been following throughout my years. Suddenly, saving the princess didn't matter because it wasn't a difficult enough choice to make, and running around grabbing stars just didn't feel rewarding; I knew I'd win regardless. What became so enticing about these games is that I couldn't know if, in the end, the hero won or not, I couldn't tell you whether the journey would finish on a "happily ever after" note that didn't include a caveat, and that became what I searched for in games. 

I guess it's a natural process of growing up, even if that "growing up" is metaphorical on how I discovered games later on in life and, like a kid, I slowly learned how to enjoy more "adult" titles until those I loved before were too simple. So my craze persisted; I continued looking for increasingly darker games, hoping they'd assure me the hero would die in the end and there was nothing I could do about it. The more torn and destroyed I felt at the end, the better. Seemingly, there was no stopping this, as I continued to do so for years to come, even to this day.

I finished Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice recently, and the way the story unfolded made me feel so bad — in a good way! Yet, despite Sekiro's ending being exactly what I want in games, I didn't enjoy the story, at least, not as much as Celeste's.

I replayed Celeste after playing a precision platformer with my co-writer retrogamergirl and found that I'd quite enjoyed the premise of precision platformers. So, as I enjoyed that one, I decided that perhaps it was time to tackle Celeste Mountain once again; and climb I did as I played through the game.

Observing Madeline climb the mountain was the least of the things that interested me about the game; I wanted to suffer and climb the mountain myself, not see the character persevere through her hardships and reach the peak. Originally, I only played Celeste because I wanted to see if I had gotten better from the last time I'd played and if I could die less. As I climbed the mountain, I found myself caring for the story a little more; Theo was an enjoyable character, Madeline seemed to be facing struggles that I appreciated, and the Old Woman (yes, that is apparently her name) was funny every time I met her. Yet, it didn't captivate me because I knew Madeline would succeed at the summit, and it wasn't only because I'd played the game once already; it's spelt out for you.

Despite knowing of the coming success, climbing the mountain felt... good. As I slowly neared the peak, I found myself rooting for Madeline. It didn't matter if she wouldn't lose; I looked forward to seeing her persevere. And as I reached the final chapter and climbed the last 30 checkpoints, with the game cheering me on along the way, I felt a joy that I hadn't felt in years of gaming: I was going to succeed, for the first time in what felt like forever.

No monster or behemoth awaited me at the end of the climb; no horror stories nor tales that ensured me we'd fail one way or another. As the game so excitedly cheered me on to continue climbing, I felt excited and invigorated; I couldn't wait to reach the summit. As I slowly approached the peak and watched the remaining number of puzzles count down, I felt borderline melancholic about what I was experiencing, as I knew I'd look back from the future and remember that moment fondly.

To the difference of games I'd been playing the last couple of years, where the closer you are to the ending the more doom-filled the world is, the closer I was to the summit, the better and brighter the world felt. The final boss of Sekiro promised me defeat for countless hours, but the final climb in Celeste promised me greatness at the peak. Once I'd reached it, and I watched the closing cutscene, I felt serenity, gratification... dare I say, I felt happy. At the end of the story, the tale that awaited me was not heart-wrenching with a big twist, but instead one of fulfilment.

If I took one thing from Celeste, it is that perhaps storytelling doesn't have to be grim. Perhaps it's okay to have a calm tale every once in a while. Because once I reached the summit, I wasn't sobbing, mourning my hero or deuteragonist; rather, I was glad for her. Celeste taught me that simple storytelling isn't boring, it's peaceful.