Romance: the final boss

I expected the breakup; I also expected to marry him. But you can only go down one route, and he chose ours. We lived together and just celebrated our two-year anniversary. I still loved him.

He said he still loved me, too. He also said he’d be moving out in a week. 

So many video games left to play before he took all the consoles with him. On date nights, we’d sink into our threadbare couch, passing around the controller, whittling down one narrative out of many possible paths, following our chosen story route to its destination. I always looked up guides to engineer our success. I needed to ensure we made all the right decisions to reach the best ending. Any other outcome was failure. In this, we agreed: best to know where we were headed before pressing a single button.

After he broke the news, we played one final game together, ignoring our hurts. This felt natural. I still craved a different ending, it seemed. The irony of playing Catherine: Full Body, a game about relationships, wasn’t lost on us.

For the next week, we were Vincent Brooks, a directionless 30-something experiencing supernatural nightmares where he must climb a crumbling block tower or fall to his real-life death, all while his romantic life likewise crumbles in the waking world. To escape his nightmares, Vincent must choose between three partners: Katherine, his straight-laced girlfriend pressuring him to propose; Catherine, a free-spirited seductress he begins having an affair with; and Qatherine, or Rin, the amnesiac pianist at his favorite bar. 

To progress between levels, Vincent must answer philosophical questions like “Is romance annoying?” that shape his beliefs and which K/Q/Catherine he pursues. But, of course, Vincent doesn’t actually make any decisions—the player does. The player can either select the answer they themselves believe or, if you're like me, choose the option that corresponds with the K/Q/Catherine they prefer. The player molds Vincent to be suited to whomever they want—all that’s required is deciding who to romance.

The reason Vincent’s subjected to his deadly nightmares is because he can’t commit to anyone, not because, as is implied for the majority of the game, of his cheating. What matters is the act of choosing, not the partner selected. Vincent is happy no matter who he ends up with. Otherwise, the game leaves the actual invested romantic partner—the player—cold.

Either way, Vincent finally commits to a K/Q/Catherine. However, the agency of his choice is an illusion. How can Vincent meaningfully change if the decisions that facilitate his growth are made for him?

#

My ex was like a character stuck in a perpetual idle animation. When I asked if we could spend our anniversary at a B&B in Concord, he said, “I don’t want to think about this.” Every time we discussed the future—whether it be moving cities or scheduling a date three weeks in advance—all conversation stagnated. His constant refrain: “I don’t know.” 

By no means was he comfortable in his listlessness. He complained incessantly about the state of his life and how he felt powerless to change it. Though he mostly directed this frustration internally, it was hard not to feel like he was snapping at me whenever I suggested possible paths forward. He said he had to “get all his ducks in a row” first. Didn’t you have to settle on a goal in order to work toward it? And why did “getting all his ducks in a row” look like playing video games on the couch? 

I constructed my life like I constructed stories in a game. I chose the ending I wanted—a career as a writer, kids and a husband, living in a major city—and all my actions were in service of guiding me towards that outcome. Meanwhile, my ex stalled at every life decision, and he simply followed the conveyor belt to wherever he’d eventually get spit out. Our routes were bound to diverge.

#

Though my ex and I collaboratively maneuvered Vincent through his nightmare towers during story mode puzzles, I quickly became obsessed with conquering Babel, a gameplay challenge mode where the player must scale a series of punishing towers, on my own. Considering how adept I was at the campaign, I thought I’d fare well in this ascent. Instead of creating a navigable path forward, I plummeted into a pit each night, long after my ex fell asleep.

But rather than quitting in the face of failure, I had a near pathological drive to beat Babel, or, bare minimum, its first level, the Altar. I’ll make the same decision again and again until it yields my desired result. There are two ways this can characterize me: stubborn or devoted. Choose one to believe, but know both are true.

When I did reach the Altar’s summit, days later, it finally dawned on me that this relationship would never have culminated at the wedding altar, no matter what decisions I’d made. I’d thought molding myself into the character of “supportive girlfriend,” would, one day, help my ex grow into the partner I needed: someone driven, confident, secure. What upset me most about our breakup wasn’t that I was losing him, but that I wasn’t enough reason for him to not only change routes but change at all—I was upset he didn’t choose me.

But I hadn’t chosen my ex, either; I chose a fantasy. Who wants to date a person who wants someone you’re not? He wasn’t a playable character I could control with the press of a button. 

My ex loaded the U-Haul (booked only a week in advance), and I waved him off from the doorway. On our first date, we agreed that love is a choice more than a feeling, but we couldn't make any choices together beyond the fact of our togetherness. I thought that was commitment: romantic endurance. But love didn’t present a guide for how to proceed to the next level. True commitment means constructing a navigable route to the future, dictating where that togetherness leads, one decision at a time, with a player 2.