Better to see once than hear a hundred times.
In 2021, I watched a full playthrough livestream by a content creator on Bilibili and was immediately captivated by its ethereal art style. Two years later, when I finally played it myself, the visual splendor struck me just as profoundly, while the emotional resonance felt freshly poignant.
On January 12, 2023, I embarked on this journey with two anonymous travelers. The first accompanied me through the desert, the second through the snow-capped mountains—neither left their names, mirroring how we meet, connect, and part ways like ships passing in the vast sea of humanity. Together we raced across dunes, climbed through blizzards, and soared above clouds, only to separate at the summit. Perhaps they tried to share contact details through Morse-coded chirps, but alas, I couldn’t decipher them.
Perhaps an encounter without full connection is the perfect ending—
My heart brims with regret, yet overflows with tenderness and love.
Though predating Sky: Children of the Light (2019), the 2012 Journey achieves superior visual artistry through platform advantages—every grain of sand, snowflake, dune, gust of wind, and wisp of cloud beckons beauty-seeking eyes. Its level design maintains remarkable freshness throughout.
In short: If you haven’t bought it yet, do so now. I paid full price (¥55 on Steam) with zero regrets.
Over its 11-year lifespan, Journey has garnered constellations of praise, so I’ll refrain from adding clumsy strokes. Below is an excerpt from user Baiyewlaef’s review on HEYBOX:
“What’s truly astonishing is its multiplayer system and unique player interaction—no text communication, only ambiguous concepts conveyed through chirps of varying length and pitch. This strips away all externalities, leaving only the essence of human connection. Completing the journey mirrors life itself: meeting strangers in solitary travels, walking together, then parting. Though brief in playtime, its afterglow lingers.
Having played ABZU and Sky beforehand, Journey clearly operates on a higher plane. ABZU falters narratively and mechanically, while Sky—constrained by free-to-play mechanics—expands communication systems and emphasizes cosmetic differentiation to boost social engagement, daily activity, and monetization. But these very mechanics introduce comparison metrics: ‘My hairstyle is exclusive,’ ‘My instrument is rare,’ ‘This veteran has epic gear—I must cling to them.’ Such competitive mindsets inevitably proliferate, shifting focus from spiritual fulfillment to vanity metrics.
Journey eliminates all such reference points. Your companion has no unique appearance or special colors—their gender, age, or skill level remain unknown. Each player becomes a pure human symbol. This intentional obscurity purifies motivations: You may abandon this stranger or selflessly collaborate. Your warmth may go unreciprocated; your indifference won’t be judged. Everything becomes fleeting moments preserved only in memory.
Playing Journey, I felt that beneath all exteriors, people are inherently kind. A single chirp exchanged in circles could fill me with contentment. Yet most modern games increasingly emphasize differentiation, opposition, and competition. When designers incentivize hierarchy and combat, how can players cultivate kindness within such frameworks? Over time, these adversarial systems became the norm, making Journey’s approach feel revolutionary—a marvel that praises the game while lamenting industry trends. Competitive games have merit, but when they dominate the landscape, it feels like a waste of gaming’s artistic potential.”
When will I have a drink and discuss the details again?