North, a writer sits on a second-hand sofa. His laptop warms his legs as it struggles to run the video game that reflects off his face in the evening darkness. He’s deeply engrossed in what he reads and doesn’t notice the hands on the clock spinning quicker and quicker, the night growing darker, the cold setting in. Outside, an owl calls to its mate. A delivery driver hands a pizza to a neighbour, steam dissipating into the night. All goes unnoticed as the writer clicks, reads, clicks, reads.
His only breaks are when he treks ten paces to the kettle or fifteen to the bathroom. After each interruption, he settles back down into the warmth of the worn sofa. The comfort of his perfectly-placed cushions. He brings his laptop back to his lap. He resumes playing.
Disco Elysiumis a comfort to the writer in the cold nights, a game he returns to again and again. Maybe this time he won’t play a communist disco superstar. Maybe this time he’ll have the guts to punch that infuriating Scouse child ruining his crime scene. Every playthrough is different, but every playthrough stirs something inside. The feeling of discovery, of roleplaying, of reading a familiar novel with a different ending. He squeezes even deeper into his spot on the couch, ready to tell the same story a different way, all over again.
There are many changes. The device he plays on, sometimes a desktop, sometimes a handheld, sometimes a console – the latter lighting up the whole room with its expressionist brushstrokes. The accompanying emotions change, too. The dread of the unknown has been replaced by the comfort of the familiar. Discovery still exists, different now. Where once he explored Martinaise with complete freedom, now he pores over tiny details to try to find something new. Occasionally, he succeeds.
He leans back, a smile writ across his tired, sagging face. Late nights and revenge procrastination are his only gaming time now. He used to lose whole weekends to the streets of Revachol. Now he has responsibilities, children to care for, scant few hours to return to his most beloved fictional city. His habits have changed. But one thing remains. Shivers remains.
No matter the persona of the detective he plays, no matter his political affiliation, no matter his name, points are put into Shivers. Strong cop? Shivers. Clever cop? Shivers. Other points will be spread around Perception, Encyclopedia, Pain Limit, or Persuasion, but Shivers always comes first.
Shivers doesn’t make him any better at the game. It doesn’t help with the hard skill checks that the writer butts his head against time and time again. It’s not going to unlock a new path to arresting a murderer. But it gives the writer a sense of the world. Of what’s happening around him. Of the context within which his detective flounders.
Shivers gives the writer an insight into strangers’ minds, a postmodern approach to worldbuilding that Disco Elysium feels bereft without. He’s tried to play without Shivers before, but it left him feeling cold. He wonders what’s the point in solving a murder if you don’t care about the deceased or the survivors. Justice? There’s no justice here. There’s only exploration. Of the detective’s mind. Of his own mind. Of Revachol, of his own psyche.
Every playthrough, a new or misremembered Shivers dialogue pops onto his screen. A new passive check is passed. A server somewhere in the world has decided that today, the writer is allowed another helping of delicious Revacholian life. Life away from the crime scenes and union syndicates. Life for regular people in this regular world. The writer sips his hot tea and settles in for another conversation with his detective’s broken mind.
He will never know when he’s read every Shivers interaction. Maybe he’s read them all already. But he will read them all again. Shivers is a comfort blanket in a cold, unforgiving world. Shivers is a beacon of contextual storytelling, the epitome of what makes this game so special to him. Shivers is completely unnecessary and yet a complete necessity.
The writer makes himself comfortable again. He tunes out the train passing the bottom of his garden and the sounds of his family’s restless dreams permeating reality. He takes another drink, feels the warmth descend to his stomach. The warmth on his knees. He reads his favourite game again, with retained information and new appreciation. With more to learn. With a smile writ across his tired face.
