Il la regarde de toutes ses forces. Avec les mains il dénude son visage pour la voir jusqu’au non-sens, jusqu’à ne plus la reconnaître.

I don’t want to see your face. Turn away from me. You are me. I don’t want to see me.

Et puis il pose la question rituelle. Déjà ils parlent pour parler. Ils tremblent. Leurs mains tremblent.

I feel a tension between my desire to entertain people and my reluctance to manipulate them. On the one hand, I’m interested in “good game design”. I want players to enjoy themselves and I want them to be drawn to my work. I have no problem with seduction. I want players to become immersed in my work, to imagine that they are somewhere else. But I don’t want them to lose themselves.

I want them to remain alert, to be who they are and allow the aesthetic experience to come from the interplay between their world and that of the game. Not because I feel they should be critical but because in my experience the awareness of being manipulated heightens the joy.

I’m not sure why that is. Or even if there’s anybody else who feels the same. Maybe it’s related to the joy we find in seeing people experience joy. Or maybe it’s because awareness of what the art is doing with us, reminds us of the author’s hand. And then we suddenly feel a connection with this other person. And the fact that we most likely do not know this other person (he may even be dead), gives the experience the magical, almost transcendental aspect of feeling close to the unknown.

When I observe my reactions to stimuli, my pleasure is doubled: first I enjoy an experience, and then I notice that I am enjoying the experience and this surprises and delights me. The initial experience is like a spontaneous reflex but in the awareness of this event, I become human. It is this realization of being human, of being a creature that can feel joy, that brings about the second layer of pleasure. I think that’s what happens when I am moved by art.

— Ce qui est vrai c’ est que j’ ai envie d’ être toute seule, une fois. Pour penser à toi et moi. À ce qui est arrivé.
— Et aussi à rien.
— Oui – et aussi à rien.

When making the kinds of games that we do, it’s common to think in terms of expression, meaning and narrative. And while it is important to at least guide the player a little bit towards an interpretation that makes sense, I believe that a videogame should allow for as much freedom as possible for the player to play how they want to. Often technical limitations prevent us from offering all the possible interactions and features a player might desire. But sometimes reducing the amount of features can lead to more ways of playing.

My best experiences in multiplayer games are often the ones in which I “abuse” the system for my own story. Having our avatars intersect with each other in A Tale in the Desert is a beautiful romantic memory. Having Jin and Xiaoyu tackle each other in Tekken turned into an erotic fantasy. We didn’t need our avatars to play animations of hugging or having sex. In fact, it was more fun to attribute our own meaning to what we were doing. It made the activity more personal.

I remember adding such personal layers to table top games as well: inventing stories that are only vaguely related to what the board and the pawns and the rules represented. It’s a fun thing to do together.

So rather than defining the meaning of certain actions that a player can do in Bientôt l’été, or figuring out how to implement a wide range of recognizable gestures and interactions, I think I will offer simple, rather meaningless things to do instead. Putting an object on the table and moving it around means nothing. Until you do this while another person is watching and when this other person can do the same. Then a communication can develop. This communication may not have any specific meaning. But does that matter? How many of our conversations in real life are actually exchanges of information? Is communication often not simply testing how much we like each other and expressing these feelings? Even when we might not really feel all that fond of someone, it’s often simply fun to act as if we are.

If I could say “Read Duras the way I have,” there would be far less reason for me to make this videogame. But I can’t say that and believe that you will. Some people, sure. But from what I read about her here and there, many not.

Bientôt l’été is not about Marguerite Duras, it’s not a videogame version of one of her novels, nor is it an attempt at a faithful presentation of her style. Bientôt l’été is driven by my experience with reading Duras. The things I have learned while reading her work. The beauty I have felt. Not only the literary beauty of the text, but also the beauty of the real world that her work points out.

Bientôt l’été is also an expression of admiration for the artist, and a posthumous nod of sympathy for a woman whose flamboyance served as both the flame under her extraordinary gift as the target for mockery and derision by the less talented, the less interesting.

I would like to say what it is that I enjoy so much in her work. But I can’t. So I’m making this videogame to try and capture and express the feeling.

Not just that. I also want to share these feelings. To inhabit this world with you. With words, one can never be sure. But in a videogame, I feel we can get closer. It’s about experience, about shared experience. And videogames can be poetic on a sub-rational level that is far easier to share than the joys of French literature.

At least that’s what I hope to achieve, what I aim for. It’s probably far too ambitious or hopeful to be realistic, let alone find a significant audience, but if even a fraction of this comes across, it’ll be worthwhile. If only because knowing that there’s people out there that can share this emotion, will make me a happier person.

In a way, Bientôt l’été is fan art.

I have been “live-blogging” our short trip to Trouville-sur-Mer on Tumblr. Here’s my Trouville observations.

Ils n’ont rien à se dire. Personne ne parle. C’est le silence. Personne ne s’en étonne, n’en est gêné.

The contrast between nature and man is enormous at the seaside. There is the obvious difference in scale between the immense mass of water (playing with the moon of all things), a sky above that stretches out in all directions and the insignificant human body and the buildings and infrastructure created for its comfort. But what struck me even more is the inadequacy of the human senses when confronted with the raw natural elements.

Outside, there is too much noise to hear anything and too much light to see anything. It’s only when we find shelter in a café that we can use our senses again. Inside, we can hear and see.

This maps very nicely to the situation in Bientôt l’été. Outside, you are on your own, endlessly seeking, cold, exposed to the elements. And inside you find another human being, to see, to hear, to touch.

Another strange effect of the seaside is that spending time outside makes one dizzy. Maybe the sea air contains more oxygen or some other gas that affects us. Or it’s the continuous motion of the sea that gets to us. The waves, the clouds, the seagulls, the wind: all is in motion all the time, spinning around the poor human head. The roar of the ocean, the hissing of the wind and the shrieking of the gulls seem almost designed to drive a man mad. Not to mention the blinding light reflected by the enormous surfaces of sand and water.

Seeking refuge in a mundane man made establishment suddenly becomes refreshing, soothing. Nature may be beautiful, but it’s also terrible. We seek comfort with each other, warmth, love.