I've owned Refunct for as long as its been out, almost a decade. I come back to it every so often when I remember it exists because it is such a short, fun jaunt. When I first played the game, I was 16-- curious about the world, but naive. I took the game at face value: It's a fun little platformer that you can beat in less than an hour! It has nice graphics and can run on my dinky laptop! The achievements were named with weird questions that seemed pretentious, or maybe just weirdly incongruous with the game's aesthetic. It was a single experience I experienced a single time. And then, time went on. I graduated high school, went to college, graduated that, and got a job. Now I'm 24, and I'm in the middle of the worst year of my life. I turn on Refunct for the umpteenth time, and realize I have just one achievement left: beat the game with less than 33% of the ground touched. This was pretty challenging for me, but also very exciting. I got to experience the game in a way I hadn't before; each grey tile on the ground became an obstacle, each wall an opportunity, each low-elevation tile an entry point. I was prodding, poking, looking for shortcuts and discovering optimizations, getting my percentage lower and lower with each passing run. Many of the game's achievements change your relationship to the world in this way. Collect the optional cubes scattered throughout the map, touch every last patch of ground, beat the game in eight minutes, and then four. You learn a little more about the world, become more familiar with it, almost grow attached to it. Each time, when you earn a new achievement, you are posed a question. For one cube: "Hello?" Someone else is here with me. I don't really think about Refunct all that often in my day-to-day. It's a digital game, it belongs to the computer. I belong in the real world, right? For beating the game: "What makes you smile?" This question inspires warm thoughts. But the game made me happy, you know? Gave me a little escape. For a moment, I live in a digital world. A small digital jungle gym where I am agile, cunning, and fearless. For collecting five cubes: "How are you?" A kind greeting from a fond acquaintance. I suppose the digital world feels comfortable in a lot of ways. It feels like another self, something not quite me and yet distinctly me. I go silent, expressionless, body limp. But the mind is more alive than ever. My fingers and hands, by way of keyboard and mouse, become my digital body. I am, in that sense, not human but cyborg. For beating the game in 8 minutes: "Can we be friends?" The game is reaching out to you. In that way, digital space can be just as comforting as physical space. It can be as inviting as a mug of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. For collecting ten cubes: "What drives you?" The game begs to understand you deeper. I was born in 1999, a week before the end of the millennium. I never knew a world without the internet, without Google, without computers, without the screen. The screen is the interface through which I enact reality. I dream of screens, have nightmares about screens. I see screens, I am a screen. I am a computer, not fully human. I am not built to handle reality without plugging into the divine digital consciousness. For touching every piece of ground: "What makes you, you?" The game asks the fundamental question. I am not my body. I have never been my body. I am my mind, and my mind was cultivated by humans and computers. I have no culture other than the computer. It is my birthright as a zoomer, as a girl born at the end of the millennium. We were doomed to live in a world of screens. We were doomed to exist on the internet first, and in real life second. For collecting fourteen cubes: "Do you do what you love?" The game questions your conviction. Humans are strange creatures. We created technology, and yet we are trapped by it. We have such phenomenal potential, and yet we are drained dry, programmatically destroyed by the world's ills, one propagandistic heap of branded content at a time. You are inundated with messages, messages, messages, and eyes everywhere, eyes everywhere. You are yourself and yet you are no one at all. Humanity is merging into a great, central mind, and we are each an individual neuron. For collecting every cube: "Who do you love?" The game makes a confession, and a plea: love me. In the end, as Stanley Kubrick put it, we all learned to stop worrying and love the bomb. We were born plugged in, so why bother plugging out? The Matrix is the obvious comparison point here, overplayed as it is: we are born into a digital prison that we cannot taste or touch, existing purely to provide profit for billionaires we'll never ever meet (some of whose names we will never bother learning). Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. But this raw nerve of despondency is one I cannot bear. For the first time in my life, I am out from under the shield of the screen... and I have no idea who I am. The screen was all I was. For beating the game in four minutes: "Is this goodbye?" The game knows your time is closing in. Where exactly do I go from here? What exactly does the future hold? What technological developments will transpire that will completely change the way I interface with reality? When I die, will I only be a screen? For touching less than 33% of the tiles: "Will you come back?" A resigned declaration of the truth: you are leaving. I collected the last achievement today. My satisfaction and whimsy were positively gutted by the final question: "Will you come back?" Will I? I don't know, game. I really, truly don't know. I hope so, but I will face the fact: there will come a time where I play Refunct for the final time before I die. There will be a last time. There will be a last time for the screen, too. And when I die, I wonder if I will live on in the screen. For all intents and purposes, I must be immortal. I must be everyone and everything, must see all and be all and do all. By technological mandate, kicking and screaming, I have become God. Good game and worth a little more than $2.99.
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