"Darry, did you play The Binding of Isaac yesterday?"
"No. I thought the art style was kind of bad. It really doesn't feel like the kind of game someone like Takayuki would make."
"Huh? Bad art style? I think it's pretty distinctive."
On the morning commute, Darry was chatting with a few coworkers as usual about the games they'd played the night before.
"I think I saw you playing Counter-Strike all night again?"
"Well, I think you should try some other games too. You've got so many games in your library—if you don't play them, that's just a waste."
Darry shrugged indifferently."It's fine. Buying them is enough. If I don't play The Binding of Isaac, that's okay too—I'll just think of it as supporting my favorite game creator."
"That mindset isn't great. Think about it—games are made with a lot of effort. Developers don't just want people to buy them; they want people to actually play them. And this is the god of games' work, no less. Plus, it's really fun. I didn't even realize it, but I played all night yesterday. You really should give it a try."
"Is it really that fun?"
"Of course. Why else would I be nagging you about it?"
"Alright then. I'll try it tonight."
With his coworker recommending it so strongly, Darry finally decided to give it a shot when he got home. It wouldn't take much time anyway.
What had really turned him off before was the art style.
But if the game itself was genuinely fun, he didn't mind trying it.
After finishing a full day of work, Darry went home and, as usual, grabbed a few beers from the fridge.
Drinking as he walked to his computer, he opened the Battle.net platform.
Staring at The Binding of Isaac in his library for a moment, he hesitated—then clicked on it.
"Ugh… this art style really is hard to accept."
He muttered to himself.
That was when some old rumors he'd heard suddenly came back to him.
People said that the god of games, Takayuki, was exceptional in almost every aspect.
Game music, programming, level design, story writing—he excelled at all of it.
But he wasn't perfect. He had weaknesses too.
And that weakness was drawing.
His drawing skills weren't particularly strong.
It was rumored that his mother had been an artist, but apparently the god of games hadn't inherited that talent.
Could it be that his lack of drawing ability was the reason this art style looked so rough?
No… that didn't quite make sense.
These days, AI-assisted drawing was incredibly popular online. Even complete amateurs could use AI tools to create artwork that looked beautiful and polished.
Whether AI-generated art counted as "true art" was debatable, but applying it to indie games would at least dramatically improve their visual quality.
And Gamestar Electronic Entertainment was a leader in AI technology. They were the first to apply AI to game development.
If Takayuki wanted to, he could easily use AI to assist with art.
But he clearly hadn't.
Which meant this art style was intentional?
That thought suddenly made Darry curious.
Why insist on using this kind of art style?
If it looked better, wouldn't it attract more players?
He shook his head.
Whatever. He wasn't a game developer—why was he overthinking this? All that mattered was whether the game was fun.
The game's opening screen showed that familiar white figure curled up on the ground in pain.
Combined with the dark background, Darry immediately sensed that this wasn't going to be a cheerful story.
It probably carried a heavy, even tragic tone.
That kind of opening was rare for a game.
In the past, most games started with grand backdrops.
A hero saving a princess, or an elite soldier sneaking behind enemy lines to save the world.
Even lighter games usually had playful openings, like the absurd humor of WarioWare.
Starting with an image of suffering was unusual.
He started the game.
Darry began playing.
At first, the game gave a simple introduction to its world and its protagonist.
The white figure was revealed to be a child.
A child, huh?
That made sense.
Darry nodded and continued watching the opening sequence.
Calling it a "cutscene" was a bit of a stretch.
There was almost no animation.
It looked like a white sheet of paper, with drawings sketched on it in crude lines, as if by a child.
More like a series of illustrated story pages.
There was no voice acting—only narration.
The narrator steadily explained the white figure's background.
The child's family life was far from happy.
In fact, it was disastrous.
The household was steeped in oppressive religious fanaticism, and the mother was violent, frequently beating and scolding the child.
At school, the child was bullied as well.
This story… wasn't it a bit too heavy?
Darry felt uncomfortable.
Not because he disliked the plot.
But because it stirred memories he'd buried long ago.
Memories he desperately wanted to avoid as an adult.
His own childhood wasn't as tragic as the protagonist's—but he had his own pain.
He, too, had been bullied as a child.
Those memories were so painful that he wished he could erase them entirely, just so he could live his adult life in peace.
Some people heal their entire lives with a happy childhood.
Others spend their entire lives healing from childhood.
Darry was clearly the latter.
And it seemed the game's protagonist was too.
In that moment, Darry suddenly felt a sense of immersion.
The art style he'd found ugly before no longer bothered him.
The story abruptly ended after a simple narration.
Then the game transitioned into actual gameplay.
It seemed that, to escape reality, the protagonist had created a fantastical inner world.
But even in this imagined world, he continued to suffer all kinds of hardships.
And under these hardships, the player was meant to control him—to fight back, to struggle, to resist the injustices he had endured.
Just like that, the sense of immersion shot up dramatically.