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256 pages, Paperback
Published May 15, 2024
The game suggests, in ways just subtle enough to go consciously unnoticed, that you matter. Your neighbors enjoy talking to you and seeing you at events, and they notice when you're not around. Even the little details are meaningfully constructed: They move their head to look at you as you walk by, and clap if they observe you catching a fish. You are never invisible. Your existence in the game is important-- and not because the game needs you for the days to advance or the trees to grow, but because the game misses you when you're gone.
You can do things like plant trees and flowers and change the design of the town's flag, but the landscape itself is pretty static. You can't move the river, change the location of the police station, or tell neighbors to leave town. You have the exact amount of power a good citizen should have-- this is not a dictatorship, you are not God, and most things aren't decided "only by you."
When New Horizons allows you to place an entire tree in your pocket and replant it wherever you see fit, it robs you of the feeling that the decision to plant a tree matters. When it has you choose whether a new neighbor is allowed to plop their house down in an inconvenient spot, it gives you jurisdiction that no single person in a community should have. The game communicates that your feelings and desires are the most, or maybe the only important ones-- and that makes the experience feel a whole heck of a lot lonelier. Your neighbors still talk a lot, but they no longer matter. They don't get a say in their own community. They're not even bold enough to be upset when you literally force them off the island because you found a pastel bear you like better. They're just... props.
