The Witcher 3: Wild Huntis ten years old today. That’s right, for ten years now, Geralt has been choosing between Yennefer and Triss,discovering the Bloody Baron’s equally bloody secrets, and walking a few frames slower every time he pops into Novigrad. It also means that, for ten years, this excellent game has been making players feel guilty for their decisions. Maybe not every player, but definitely me.
The Unique Feelings Games Can Make Us Feel
Games can make us feel all kinds of things.Clair Obscur: Expedition 33’s opening hour left me with a deeply bittersweet feeling.Bloodbornebosses historically make want to smash a controller (a feeling the current console peripheral market has rendered too costly to indulge). A great shooter level likeTitanfall 2’s ‘Effect and Cause’orHalf-Life 2’s ‘We Don’t Go To Ravenholm’fills me with respect for the craft.
But melancholy, anger, and awe are emotions that other artistic mediums can inspire, too. What games are capable of, that is actually unique, is inspiring feelings that involve our sense of self. Games can make us think ‘I did that’ — in ways both good and bad.
We feel a sense of accomplishment when we beat a tough opponent in a multiplayer game, but we can also feel guilt when we make the ‘wrong’ decision because, in a real way, we are the ones making the decision. The Witcher 3 made me feel that guilt in a more profound way than, say,Fallout 3’s Megaton decision, because The Witcher 3 let me make a small, relatable choice — the kind people make all the time in real life.
We Were On A Break!
Let me explain. When I played The Witcher 3, I planned to romance Yennefer. From its earliest hours, this is what the game seemed to be funneling me toward, and I went with it. I assumed the raven-haired sorceress was Geralt’s developer-sanctioned soulmate. You meet Yenn early on, but then you spend hours waiting for her to show up again. And she just doesn’t. For dozens of hours.
But while exploring the world, I met the mage, Keira Metz, and the option to hook up with her presented itself. Knowing that I planned to eventually romance Yenn, this felt disloyal. But where was she? My Geralt was lonely.
When I finally ran into Yennefer again, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I didn’t know if Geralt’s tryst with Keira could have an effect on his relationship with Yennefer — I didn’t know the extent of her witchy powers; maybe she had a network of ravens she could send out to watch over me or something — but I was worried it would; worried that it would come out somehow, or that Yenn already knew.
Geralt’s Guilty Conscience
That feeling, that paranoia and personal culpability, is unique to games. Other mediums can vividly capture guilt — when I read Crime and Punishment in college, it viscerally made me feel like I was in the head of its murderer protagonist, Raskolnikov — but only games can actually render you the responsible party. I might feel frustrated when a character cheats on their partner in a TV show, but if I do it in a game, I actually made the choice to do that. I caused a bad thing to happen.
This is the flip side of games allowing us to feel genuine closeness to their characters. If you loveAstarion, seeing him leave the party, filled with hatred for you, naturally feels bad. If a game can make a romance (or friendship) feel real, it can also evoke the feeling of a breach of trust that causes that relationship to end — or, at least, change.
Ten years later, I’ll always associate that negative emotion with The Witcher 3. But if you love art, feelinganythingcan be a blessing. Here’s to ten more years of The Witcher 3 getting players to make questionable choices and feel bad about them.
