You are not a soldier of anarchy. You have no ill will towards the Federation stretched across the vastness of space. On the contrary, you and your loyal crew have a mission to save the Federation from a terrible rebel threat. And light years of deep, dangerous black stands between you and delivering your intel on the rebel flagship. As the cold of the void presses against your ship's hull, you accept the loneliness of your mission for the greater good. You captain a vessel in the unknown reaches of FTL: Faster Than Light.
FTL, a spaceship simulation designed by Justin Ma and Matthew Davis, charges you with a single mission and the care of a single ship. Overcoming hazards, buying weapons, managing fuel, and hiring a crew occupy every second of your time as rebel forces bear down upon you. Despite the exotic aliens that offer you wares and the passing travelers you meet along the way, your time in space is spent in spectacular isolation. FTL is a game of loneliness.
Once you shove off from the hangar, your ship drifts through empty backdrops for the remainder of your journey. That’s not to say the backgrounds lack detail; far from it. They glitter with the colors of strange worlds. But they lack life. The only company you have is that of your crew members marching about your ship's interior.
The actual play in FTL reinforces the importance of your crew and your attachment to them. You can name them, and command them to man various stations aboard your ship. Their skill grows with experience, and increases your chances of survival. Losing a crew member inflicts a tremendous blow against your progress, and fills your ship with the hurt of emptiness. One stray missile and your wizened pilot is suddenly gone forever.
The rare friendly face you come across during the trip, a soothing voice over the comm or an outpost willing to shelter you, exists only in text. The absence of other friendly character sprites enhances the importance of the officers aboard your vessel -- they shield you from the otherwise crippling lifelessness of space.
But the core of FTL's loneliness is powered by composer Ben Prunty's astounding soundtrack. It hums, whirs, and sings with a perfect ache all too fitting for your course through unfamiliar galaxies. Whether it's the ethereal, haunting blips in "MilkyWay (Explore)" or the music box lilts of the Engi, Prunty's work pulls at the heart. It's both beautiful and sad, and makes every jump through space a stirring, desperate affair that reflects the science-fiction setting of FTL just as much as its 8-bit aesthetic.
Fortunately, this pervading loneliness works to FTL's advantage. Rather than serving to discourage or upset, it’s a necessary counterweight to all the beneficial items and opportunities that affect you throughout the story. Say, for example, you encounter a vicious slave trader on the fringe of civilization. A well-fought battle might reward you with a new crew member liberated from the trader's space-faring prison. Or perhaps the good will of a passing traveler will grace you with fuel when your ship is running on fumes. These moments of good fortune taste sweeter after the bitter loneliness you and your crew know so well.
That loneliness also weighs upon you with each decision you make. Do you send one of your valuable crew members, a friend and rare ally, into an abandoned station in search of supplies? Or do you avoid the risk and sacrifice any possibility of reward? As captain, you face this delightful agony with every challenge.
In the world of FTL, there are no checkpoints or restarts. You have one chance to make it to your Federation comrades, and you cradle the fate of your ship -- and your crew -- in your hands. The loneliness in every song, backdrop, and string of text works in bittersweet harmony with this responsibility. And in those flashes of time when your ship and crew are in danger, you'll do anything in your power to save them.
It's strange that a game that instills such challenging emotions in you can still reward and entertain in the same instant. But some say that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." As you jump to an empty beacon with nothing but your tireless crew to stand with you in the dark, that phrase sounds particularly apt -- especially out in the starlight.
Ryan Clements writes for IGN. Despite the tone of this article, he's actually not a lonely person. He's happily engaged! Follow him on Twitter at @PwamCider.
Source : ign[dot]com
