Being surrounded by games that promote and encourage death as an end result for so many years, it comes as a stark, harsh blow to the emotional centre when playing something that makes one life matter so very much. That Dragon, Cancer tells the story of Joel Green: an infant given months to live after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, who went on to live to the age of five before passing away. It was created by Joel’s parents, along with his young brothers, and is a difficult experience – one many will actively, understandably, choose to avoid.
Those who do soldier on will end up able to share in a fraction of a percent of the pain, grief and joy the Green family went through during the short life of their son/brother. Playing out in a series of interactive scenes, mostly using just the mouse, the two-hour story weaves together narration, audiovisual cues and – importantly – elements specific to gaming to craft the fairly abstract, deeply imaginative narrative. It makes clever use of a player’s agency both to progress through things and to help the player sympathise with Joel and the rest of the family’s plight. Being forced to walk away from a hospital bed-bound child isn’t something we will forget any time soon.
At the same time, the fits and spurts of happiness – innocent, pure joy, say, or a family coming together in support of their youngest member – hit just as hard as the sheer, despondent sadness. The couple of hours it takes can feel like a lifetime, and in one very unfortunate way are just that.
It’s absolutely fair – right, even – to say that not everyone will feel That Dragon, Cancer is a positive experience overall. From the base-level ‘this isn’t a game’ complaints to those pushed back – or outright angered – by the deep-seated Christian faith that runs through to the title’s very foundations, there are legitimate, personal, reasons to avoid it. But that’s the thing: this is a very personal project; a tale told from the perspective of a single family. Making it a third-person cover shooter would be absurd, and ignoring the religion these family members share – and draw courage from – would be an outright lie.
To put a score at the end of a review of an experience like this is to distil such an emotive and personal experience into an easily-digestible digit. It means very little for That Dragon, Cancer. All that needs to be known is this is a beautiful, affecting and emotionally challenging title that acts as a truly fine love letter and monument to a lost loved one. It will open eyes and it will help people with their very real grief, and because of that it is a success.
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