My Dad and I used to collectively pull out our hair over puzzle games. We uttered angry, not-so-nice words at the computer screen while staring down images of Myst. We reveled in various games’ unlocked achievements, cascaded tiles, deciphered secret codes, and manipulated picture frames that somehow became castle keys.
We had entire text conversations which consisted of “This level./I KNOW.”
When my Dad first got sick, I sent him The Room, a stunning and immersive game- the kind that made you cry in the very best way. It’s a doozy of a mystery, it’s a haunting tale, it features items you swear you can hold in the palm of your hand and feel every tiny bit of detail. I wanted something to take his mind off of the dehumanizing process of chemo and, even though the first few days following each treatment weren’t so much for meaningful interactions and upright conversations, I always knew he was finding his feet when I’d get a call from a raspy voice asking, “That spinning lock? Are you kidding me?”
In between our Room forays, I sent him coded doors, colorful puzzles, and interactive detective scenes. Most were fun, all were quick, but none had the same thrilling pull or satisfying, slightly exhausted ending.
I sent him The Room 2 after his second surgery and subsequent extended hospital stay. I can’t imagine it was easy for him to navigate an even more intense (and hauntingly beautiful) incarnation of the locked-room mystery while being quite that tired, but he totally trounced my completion time. (Along the way there were more than a few irate texts asking me to lend a clue/demanding that I don’t say a word because this game will be the end of me.) We also managed to incorporate elements of the Room games into our daily conversations. We were super fans, I tell you.
(Please don’t ask why I have my Dad in my phone as “Dave.” I’ve tried to change it many, many times. It keeps popping back up as “Dave.” Thankfully, this is his actual name.)
Since he and I hadn’t started playing these games right when they were released, we were lucky enough to have near-immediate access to the next in the series. The Room 3 was slated for release right around the time be began hospice. It was delayed, the holidays came and went, and I held out hope that he and I would get to play it in the early Spring, maybe even together during my every-three-week jaunts back home to hold his hand and quietly hate cancer. And truth be told, his brain was tired those last few weeks and months. It would probably have been confusing and frustrating to even attempt game play during that time.
But we looked at screen shots and previews of the upcoming game, and he’d always shake his head with a rueful smile. If we were fisherman, the Room games would be the ones that got away, the really gigantic catches we barely hauled into the boat, lemme tell you about the time… They were our shared endeavor, our inside joke, our incredulous marveling at man, the stuff “they” can do now.
My Dad never got to play The Room 3. He died on March 30th, 2015, and at the memorial service I had a fleeting, bizarre, partially inappropriate thought that I’d never be able to play those games again.
I avoided puzzles, brain teasers, Nero Wolfe mysteries, and anything even remotely resembling a locked-room app. The thought of not being able to share any of this stuff with my Dad made me wonder what the hell they were good for, anyhow.
But last week, P.J. silently handed me my iPad. He had purchased, downloaded, and opened The Room 3. My first feeling was utter elation. The second was crazy anticipation. The third was a crushing grief that caused me to bawl for a good twenty minutes.
And, being the lover of melodrama that I am, I poured myself a Scotch. Went upstairs with the iPad. Opened the game and told my Dad it was finally- finally– time to play this one! Felt his encouraging hand on the back of my neck. (Cried for another twenty minutes.) And I began the game.
It was good. Actually, it was great. I stayed up way past my bedtime, the bedtime of those on the West Coast, and approached the bedtime of folks in Asia. It became my nightly routine, one that made me feel even closer to my Dad, because man, would he love that part and jeez, that’s a twisty bit of puzzling! A glitch right at the very end of an alternate ending forced me to pause and email tech support. And being the lovely people they are, I received a response right away with the trick I needed to finish the game.
As of this very moment, I have probably five minutes of game play left in The Room 3.
As of this very moment, I don’t think today’s the day I’ll finish The Room 3.
I’m not quite ready. I know I will be soon- if only because it’s probably driving the spirit of my Dad crazy that I haven’t entered the damn portal already you have all the pieces.
And I’ll dig the ending and I’ll mourn the ending and it’ll join the ranks of things my father never got to physically experience, like the newest James Bond movie or the fusion restaurant down the street or Christmas this year. But, much like this game, sometimes fearing the experience actually means I’m fearing that I’ll enjoy the experience. Because how can enjoying anything not be a betrayal to my Dad?
Except he’d want me (and us) to enjoy movies and food and copious amounts of holiday cheer. The thought of never again playing a game as pristine as The Room would also be a kind of blasphemy. To take everything he ever loved and only experience them through sadness and anger? Isn’t that a kind of betrayal, too?
So I’ll go finish it. Besides, what better to help heal a grieving heart than a game whose central story is all about transcending time and space, if only you know where and how to look?
Man, the stuff they can do now.
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