When I met you I was afraid to kiss you.
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When I kissed you, I was afraid to love you. Now that I love you, I am afraid to lose you. I am who I am because of you. I will always be yours. But I can say that my world is all smiles whenever I am with you. I love you a lot. I say it to remind you that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.
You complete me and make me a better person. I love you with all my heart and all my soul. I mean I love you more than the bad days ahead of us, I love you more than any fight we will ever have. I love you more than the distance between us, I love you more than any obstacle that could try and come between us. I love you the most. I knew it the minute I met you. I just got stuck. Scott Fitzgerald. Thank you for being mine.
I love you, most. I am at rest with you. I have come home. But the new point-and-click interface added to Remastered is no picnic either. Occasionally, when I was navigating with the cursor, Manny would simply refuse to run, plodding across the screen in what seemed like deliberately slow steps. This happens more frequently in areas that zoom out for a distant, bird's eye view of our hero, meaning he was slowest when reaching the next screen already took the longest. As I wrote in my notes: "when he's really small he walks really slow and oh god it makes me want to die.
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Congratulations, you can't! The moment you click on them, Manny walks across the room, shifting the perspective so the books are no longer visible. Another puzzle ate 30 minutes of my life as I tried over and over to present a ticket to a ticket-taker, only to learn that I had to give it to an identical man on the other side of the room—a side of the room that I had no idea existed.
Did I have this problem the first time around? I don't remember.
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Rather than any sort of visual cue that there was a space to explore, I finally discovered it through a flurry of frustrated clicking, which felt a bit like a metaphor. These are problems. They always were, of course. Much like the design of the game itself, the issue was often a matter of perspective—what I couldn't see from where I was standing.
It's a strange thing to play a game like this, one that you once knew intimately and intuitively, after so much time has passed. You realize there's still a map of this place deep inside you, and when you move through it again you can almost feel the shape of it, the connections between the familiar streets, hallways and rooms unfolding slowly in your mind, like blood rushing back into a limb.
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Sometimes you don't remember exactly what lies around a corner as you walk towards it, only that it's something—and then you know it the moment you see it. It reminds me a bit of the way I think about the neighborhood where I grew up, years after my parents sold the house. When I close my eyes I can still trace my way through those streets in my mind, the way my road turned steeply into a hill where my brother and I loved to skateboard as kids, then slouched down to the high school where the older kids smoked by the chain link fence, before pooling in a cul-de-sac outside the house of that girl I was friends with for a little while, the one whose name I can't remember anymore.
Now that I've been back to the Eighth Underworld of Grim Fandango , I can walk through it the same way: closing my eyes running over the old railroad track and across the stone bridge towards the roundabout, past the faint jazz of the Blue Casket to the loud elevator doors that creak open and take you on that long elevator ride back up to the casino that Manny calls home. When I play Grim Fandango , it still feels like home too, as much as anything does.
About a year ago, I had an argument about someone with adventure games, one that I knew on some level was not really an argument about adventure games. It was about what they had meant to me, about a brief but incredibly formative time in computer gaming that not only felt like it belonged to me but one that seemed like it would go on forever.
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In that sense, it was a lot like how being young feels. And like youth, it didn't go on forever; Sierra and LucasArts collapsed and everyone started playing first-person action games and I went off to college and everything changed. I'm not sure that I consciously linked the two in my mind—losing adventure games and losing my childhood—but you don't have to be Sigmund Freud to connect those dots.
And therein lay the fear of replaying: What if I cut open the carapace of memory I had built around this game and found it shriveled at the bottom, or worse found it empty, as though the thing I loved had never really been there? What if I looked at it with more mature eyes and thought—or realized—it was ugly or boring or stupid, what would that take away from me?
Was it really worth the risk? One of the great joys of playing Grim Fandango again was the way it obliterated those fears, both about the blindness of nostalgia and about what happens when you pull back the veil.
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The game didn't change, but the world around it changed, and maybe more importantly, so did I. I'm more experienced now, more discriminating, and my eyes feel like scalpels, slicing through the skin of nostalgia to reveal both the successes and the missteps. There's something compelling to me now about this nakedness, the way that the bumps and the cracks of its age reveal the shape of the canvas it was created on, like an interactive snapshot of everything that was beautiful and flawed about that era of games.
Grim Fandango is an artifact of its time, an exceptional piece of interactive art wrapped inextricably around the technology and conventions of its time in a way that reveals both their limitations and the brilliance they were capable of producing. Is Grim Fandango still beautiful? Do the awkward controls and weirdly impossible puzzles sometimes make me want to bang my head against a wall?
They do. But I feel strangely comforted by both how much I still love the game and all the problems I now see in it, and by the knowledge that like so many hometowns and sports teams and families, the things closest to our hearts, the things that make us who we are, can be both imperfect and still worth loving.
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