Ludonarrative Harmony in ‘Wandersong’: Bringing the World Together
Wandersong is a refreshingly optimistic tale of a humble bard who is tasked with saving the world, and was one of the best indie games of 2018. The game is both narratively and mechanically about bringing the world together, and tells an unforgettable tale about an indefatigable insistence to find the best in people. This insistence is demonstrated repeatedly by the bard, who overcomes impossible odds and unites the entire world in harmony by the game’s end.
Wandersong drops you right into the action, sparing no moment for preamble or context. The world is ending and you have to save it. You control the bard, who hops up a hill until he finds a gleaming sword simply begging to be wielded. He picks it up and his entire facial expression changes from carefree happiness to meek dread; clearly he doesn’t like the idea of brandishing a weapon. The bard carries on until a menacing dark figure emerges before him. With the bard’s first swing of the sword, it becomes clear that the bard is not up to the heroic task at hand. The sword is immediately knocked out of his hands, leaving you defenseless except for the ability to sing. This sets the tone for the story to come – at least archetypally speaking.
Wandersong is not about violence. If anything, it’s about using creativity to overcome the human tendency to resort to violence as a means of solving problems. In literature and gaming alike, the hero is classically rendered as the underdog who, by virtue of strength, intellect, and courage, overcomes impossible odds to slay the dragon and save the kingdom. When the sword is knocked out of the bard’s hands, however, the game symbolically indicates that the bard has an alternative (though still heroic in deed) means to heroism. Defenseless, the bard’s only option is to sing at the menacing figure, which quickly becomes less menacing once it realizes that the bard is no hero. This peaceful act indeed saves him; eventually, his peaceful acts save the world.
While travelling through the game’s eloquently crafted world, the bard has countless opportunities, including repeated insistence by his witch companion, Miriam, to solve things through traditional video game violence. But by repeatedly choosing to persist in a peaceable and optimistically open-minded manner, the bard begins to unwind the knots of resentment and bitterness in the world.
The first “boss” in Wandersong, for instance, has been haunting the nearby village of Langtree, where the mayor has been brandishing a broom to vainly fight off ghosts. The bard is literally advised not to be a hero and try to fight off the ghosts, but of course he goes in anyway. Inside the haunted building, the ghost appears and the “battle” begins. This ghost dances in a rhythmic pattern that players will be familiar with from childhood Simon Says toys, and the bard matches these patterns with his singing voice. With each stage (about 4 in total), the ghost shrinks in size until it finally stops looking ominous or dangerous, floating over to the bard. The ghost speaks to the bard in some indecipherable rainbow language before departing off…wherever ghosts go.
The village of Langtree has been unable to communicate with the ghosts and therefore concluded that they must be haunting the village for some nefarious purpose. The bard’s battle with the ghost has proven, at least momentarily, that these ghosts might not have bad intentions after all. This realization eventually culminates in another encounter with village ghosts later in the chapter, where, after being taught the curious rainbow language, the bard is truly able to communicate with the ghosts through song. In other words, Wandersong teaches the player early on that music is a way of overcoming language barriers, of getting past xenophobic assumptions about other cultural groups. In this instance, the perceived social others (i.e. ghosts) are revealed to be incarnations of the villagers’ recently deceased family members who miss their living companions.
Another beautiful illustration of the ludonarrative harmony in Wandersong takes place in a dingy cave – a place that videogames traditionally indicate for dungeon grinding on generic monsters. In Wandersong’s cave, the bard and his companion Miriam encounter a monster who ambushes them with a kind of windstorm. Miriam offers to counterattack with her magical powers, which would wipe out the monster and allow them to pass. But the bard expresses concern at the fact that her magic will hurt the monster. Instead, he elects to talk to the monster himself, to see if he can calm it down.
Simply by singing his way through the windstorm, the bard is able to inch up closer and closer to the monster, whose face looks more and more puzzled as to why this stubborn little bard isn’t being buffeted by the storm. Or even, why this bard isn’t attacking him back. Finally, the monster relents as if out of breath, exasperated. The bard now stands inches before the monster, but then the monster unexpectedly compliments the bard’s singing. This small choice by the bard brings about a benevolent consequence and a concordantly sad realization.
It turns out that this monster only attacked them because previously, some human cast a spell, cursing this monster’s boyfriend. This cave is now defended against humans so that no more curses befall the innocent cave dwelling monsters. What would have taken Miriam five seconds took the bard about a minute or two, but the consequence of the bard’s tactful, peaceful approach reveals a kind of – dare I say this about a monster – human character that could have easily been written off as something to be attacked or defeated. Rather than using violence to drive the world further apart, the bard sings to heal those wounds and bring the world together.
One of my favorite instances of how Wandersong subverts the trope of violence in video games (and heroic quests) takes place relatively early on in the narrative. In this scene, Miriam and the bard arrive at the town of Delphi. Immediately upon arrival, the bard meets a short and squat man who sort of looks like Dr. Robotnik, but friendly. This guy’s name is Manny, and he introduces the bard to the town of Delphi, which, by his description, has been dying out. The townsfolk aches for some memorable entertainment to enliven the town. The bard’s voice startles Manny, who apparently has been trying to form a band and play a show to cheer up the town. The bard then volunteers to scour Delphi for other musicians.
As the bard sets off on his task to find fellow musicians, the camera pans over to Miriam who (in a hilariously self-aware manner) passive aggressively reminds you that forming a band isn’t part of saving the world. But, of course, the bard carries on anyway.
Delphi proves to be a town where everything is worth exploring. In his exploration, the bard will have the chance to visit Jeb Holmes’ sweet shop, including a brief option to write a catchy jingle to hook kids into coming into the shop. This small gesture is another instance of how song can traverse cultural boundaries between older and younger generations, bringing people together. Every single character the bard meets thrives off their quirkiness, and not a single character feels like they were pasted into the world. Each feels alive and unique and often hilarious.
As the bard continues to search the town, he meets two other musicians who he ends up convincing to join a band with Manny. The first encounter is with Viola, a violinist who spends her days playing in the corner of a coffee shop. Through the bard’s interactions with her, she invites him to a duet, which quickly turns into a kind of rock off. In a brief facemelting competition, the bard strikes up a friendly relationship with her. Implied in this scene, Viola normally keeps to herself in the corner, feeling superior to everyone else in the room despite being one of only three people in the entire shop. The bard coaxes her out of this mindset, bringing her into the community for an eventual musical performance.
The bard then enters the village hotel, where music can be heard coming from a guest’s room upstairs. The bard knocks on their door and asks if they want to join a band, but he is rejected almost immediately. They invite him in anyway, and the bard proceeds to try and convince them to no avail. They had never played in front of an audience before, and always wanted to play their first show in front of their recently deceased mother. This depressing turn reveals a depth of character to this musician in the hotel room, and their body language reflects this grief. But as the bard politely leaves them to their grief, he is reminded of his ability to speak with ghosts. Presumably, if this young accordion player is staying in Delphi for their mom’s funeral, then maybe visiting her grave would be a good idea. Maybe the bard could bring closure to this young accordianist’s grief.
Returning to the town’s cemetery, the bard finds a peculiar glowing tombstone. The obvious thing to do at this point in the game is to sing at the tombstone, which begins to respond. Slowly, by following along with the song, a ghostly accordion player emerges peacefully from her grave. After singing together, the mother acknowledges why the bard came to see her and then returns to visit her child in the hotel.
When the bard returns to the accordianist’s hotel room, he encounters a problem: the child is just seeing the rainbow hieroglyphics that the bard saw until the Dream King enabled him to understand the ghosts. This newfound linguistic capacity becomes crucial once more, as the bard can serve as a translator between the mother and child. Furthermore, they engage in a duet, where both mother and child harmonize alongside one another, with the bard singing along in the mother’s place. This beautiful and somber moment brings solemn closure to the musical and familiar void left by the mother’s absence. The accordianist then concludes that their mother would have wanted them to go on stage with the band and play.
At last, the bard visits Manny again, who is now ecstatic, but positively nervous. He went through the trouble of organizing and advertising this concert at local bar called the Crazy Raven to the entire village. Manny tries to calm his nerves by suggesting that even if they mess up, this is their first show, no one knows of them, and this show can be thought of as a warm-up. Just as he’s reassuring himself, the manager of the Crazy Raven bursts through the door, announcing that the entire village is there. And so the completely sold out show begins.
The musical performance itself is brilliant and beautiful, but even more so is the symbolic nature of how one kind person – the bard – can bring a town full of despair back together. If the bard had followed Miriam’s impatient advice – to keep on with the main quest, ignoring this town unless it directly served their learning the Earthsong – then it’s not unreasonable to imagine this village falling apart even further. Through blind faith, compassion, and integrity, the bard proves not only to be a great protagonist, but a genuine hero as well, even though we may not recognize him as such.
These three main examples – the ghosts in the village of Langtree, the monsters in the cave, and the concert in Delphi – all reinforce the same ludonarrative structure that carries on throughout the rest of Wandersong. I haven’t even delved into the complex relationship between the bard and Miriam, or how the bard wrangles an entire crew of pirates together, swashbuckling along in song together. The bond of every relationship the bard has with characters in the world of Wandersong begins with song. That narrative cohesion with the game’s mechanics stands out amongst all other indie games of 2018.
Beyond character considerations, there are arguments to be made about how the singing mechanic ties into the varied platforming throughout the game’s world, a favorite of mine being little plants that grow in the direction that the bard sings. Furthermore, the game mixes up how these mechanics interact with the later stages in the world. There are moments where the player takes control of other characters, where the mechanics remain the same but there is no singing involved. Even then, the themes of narrative and control cohere.
Conversations about ludonarrative almost invariably focus on dissonance – or, what doesn’t cohere in a game. Readers of Epilogue will be familiar with my pedantic griping about how the term “ludonarrative harmony” doesn’t balance with the term “ludonarrative dissonance.” But I finally played a game where, for the first time, the term “ludonarrative harmony” fits better.
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