This Week In Retro: That Dragon, Cancer (Patreon)

January 12, 2016: Content Warning with a capital C

by Diamond Feit

I like to keep things light in my line of work. It's one reason I bristle at the title of "journalist." Journalists cover the News. They report from battlefields, ask world leaders tough questions, and hold those in power accountable for their actions. I write and podcast about video games and most of the time, I'm trying to make my audience laugh.

I don't think we'll get there today because I'm revisiting the most difficult year of my life, 2016. The short version: I left my job without having a new one lined up then spent months on unemployment feeling like an utter failure before reluctantly taking a new teaching position for far less pay just to stabilize myself. On top of all that, two people close to me died with little to no warning which means sorrow and thoughts of my own mortality dominated my free time—a resource I had in abundance due to the whole "no job" thing.

What's really wild about all this is I kicked off 2016 playing a video game steeped in grief. We seldom associate games with that emotion, tending to focus on the medium as a form of entertainment. Video games can tell sad stories just like movies and television and books, but we still show up expecting some manner of positive feedback from the experience. Spec Ops: The Line wants players to think about their role in a simulated military campaign but it also entices them with fulfilling action sequences. Without that hook, no one would pick up the controller in the first place.

Ten years ago this week, I had no such illusions about That Dragon, Cancer. The game had long made the rounds at indie festivals and launched a Kickstarter campaign in 2014 which I backed. When I sat down and clicked start, I knew this game was going to tug at my heartstrings. I just had no idea that it would set the tone for my next 12 months. 

That Dragon, Cancer tells the story of the Green family, specifically Ryan, Amy, and their son Joel. The couple has other sons who periodically sound off with comments and questions, but the game primarily focuses on Joel, his illness, and his parents' emotional journey. We hear their voices throughout the game, sometimes in conversation, other times addressing the player directly. I don't know how much of their dialogue came from archival recordings or a script but either way, I immediately formed a bond with these strangers on my screen.

That Dragon, Cancer unfolds in a dream-like manner in that the player bounces around to and from different locations and perspectives. In the initial moments we control a duck swimming and feeding in a pond, before switching to young Joel tossing bread to that same duck. In a nearby playground, we can push Joel on the swings or catch him on the slide or we can take our turn playing alongside him. In these moments, we are not Ryan or Amy; we are ourselves and we form a first-hand connection with Joel at his happiest.

Even during these bright times, we know Joel hasn't had an easy life. As a baby he developed a series of tumors that required corrective surgery and chemotherapy. The Greens dig into the specifics of his case on the official That Dragon, Cancer website but in the game, we see and hear about Joel's developmental issues. He appears able-bodied but seldom talks, a fact his brothers wonder about given his age.

That Dragon, Cancer presents its world and characters with simplistic, low-poly 3D graphics. None of the characters have distinct faces; Ryan wears glasses and a beard but Amy and Joel lack any features. While this renders natural, outdoor scenes somewhat abstractly, it's a perfect fit for the cold hospital interiors where the Greens spend much of their time—as do we.

When Ryan holds his baby close while a glowing green liquid flows into Joel's tiny frame, we are in the room, switching between roles as an observer and as Ryan himself. When Amy reads to her son, we can listen in or step out and roam the halls decorated with dozens, perhaps a hundred dedications to other cancer victims. The Greens collected these memorials from Kickstarter supporters, including one from me for my father.

I learned of my father's condition in 2007 right after finishing my degree and right before moving to Japan where I had already secured a job. His diagnosis came months earlier but he didn't want to distract me from my studies or interrupt my plans to live abroad.  That summer, in-between packing up all my possessions for my international relocation, I often accompanied him to his chemotherapy sessions. If you've never gone—and I hope that you never have to—they can last for hours at a time and the patient can do little besides sit in a recliner and hope that this suffering pays off.

From the start we didn't have much in the way of hope, for my father's other health issues combined with the relatively late discovery of his cancer ruled out surgical and radiation treatment. In the best of these cases, patients might live to see their next birthday, but the doctors couldn't make any promises. I got on a plane in July not knowing if my father would make it to my wedding in the fall.

Dad fought hard and beat the odds. Come November, he flew to Japan for the big day. The following spring, we had a reception back in the U.S. for the rest of my extended friends and family; Dad stood up and delivered a speech, including a passage in broken Japanese because my wife's father tried to speak English during our first reception. Dad flew to Japan again in 2009 to meet my infant son; months later we brought Go to New York so he could crawl around his grandfather's apartment.

In 2010, the inevitable finally came to pass. We had enough notice to fly to the States and see him one last time before the end. Still, he survived three full years since we learned of his cancer, an eternity compared to the doctors' preliminary impressions. Mourning my father hurt but I tried to recognize how fortunate we were to have as many interactions as we did post-diagnosis.

From the moment I learned about That Dragon, Cancer, all those feelings and memories surrounding my father's struggle swelled up inside me. I remember reading about Jenn Frank's overwhelming encounter with an early version of the game in 2013, moving her to tears with a 20-minute demo. I had my doubts about vicariously reliving such a harrowing time in my life via a video game, but I also believe in the importance of games as empathy facilitators. If That Dragon, Cancer could trigger my own grief, maybe it could do the same for a wider audience. For me, this was reason enough to invest in the project and enable it to reach as many players as possible.

Playing That Dragon, Cancer a decade after launch and nearly 16 years after losing my father isn't easy. Ryan and Joel occupy what looks like the exact same chair that I saw Dad use for his own chemotherapy. I think about how helpless I felt back then, doing nothing but sitting next to Dad as he winced in discomfort. I can only imagine how much worse it would feel to sit in the chair not as a patient but holding one in your arms, a precious infant new to our world who could not possibly deserve such an affliction.

That Dragon, Cancer impacts me due to my family history with cancer and my status as a parent, but it also hits hard thanks to a number of coincidences. The Greens premiered the game on January 12 because it aligns with Joel's birthday. That's just a few days away from my father's birthday. I also noticed Joel was born in 2009, the same year I became a dad. That means every milestone I celebrated with my son Go—his first steps, his first words, his first day of school—The Greens would have celebrated with Joel had he not gotten sick.

I've spent many words trying to describe the sadness I feel when I play That Dragon, Cancer but it aims to deliver positivity as well. Ryan and Amy's love for Joel imbues every moment of the game. There's anguish here, of course, but they never waiver in their dedication to their son. The game even ends on an speculative, upbeat note that Joel now exists in a state of bliss, a powerful moment even if you—like me—don't share the Greens' Christian faith. I don't know what became of my father's essence after his last breath but I'd love to believe he's pain-free and that we'll meet again.

2016 forced me to take the lessons I learned from the Greens to heart in a hurry, as my best friend Ben died barely two weeks after That Dragon, Cancer came out. To this day I still don't know exactly what happened; he was only 38 years old. Reflecting on the anniversary of this game necessarily includes revisiting the emotional turmoil surrounding that sudden loss. However, I must also acknowledge that flying back to New York, delivering a eulogy, and remembering Ben alongside everyone who knew and loved him filled me with solace.

That Dragon, Cancer entered my life a decade ago, refreshing some unpleasant memories but also giving me cause to celebrate my dad again. Ten years later, the game still demands I acknowledge my mortality and the people I've lost while simultaneously imparting a reassuring message of hope. I don't know if That Dragon, Cancer is a game that everyone should play, but its lessons matter and I'm glad I did. 

Writer/podcaster/performer Diamond Feit has written professionally since 2009 and contributed to Retronauts since 2018. Look up feitclub on social media or visit Diamond's lofi website.