Visualizing the Narrative: ‘Journey’
Introduction
Journey greets us with stunning visuals of a desert landscape. An out of focus dune reaches skyward, silhouetted against the white-wash sun. A bright light streaks through the sky below thin clouds and over a backdrop of stone columns before the camera cuts to an establishing shot of the desert, now accelerating at a similar pace to the light. The next shot mimics an impact, rapid at the start but nearly devoid of motion as we are silently introduced to our bright-eyed, red robed character; the traveler. We have been given life. Our inference is confirmed when the camera swings wide to rest behind us as we rise. A familiar scene settles into our vision in focus this time, and we assume control. The space between the objects on the dune is in desperate need of filling, and we’re in desperate need of a vantage point. As we near the top of the dune, the shot widens and our character is dwarfed by a distant mountain radiant against a sun-tanned background. There are no instructions and no directions. Just the word “Journey” that fades in above us, and we know that our goal is to reach the beacon of light at the summit.
Journey is a profound example of visual storytelling because it doesn’t bother to do anything else. In the first few moments, it sets the stage for how it will show us its story. It trusts the player to infer from imagery, much like a child sees a rattling cocoon and can infer from that cocoon will come a butterfly. Of course, Journey is more complex than that.
Narrative
The first level introduces us to Journey’s visual language; the visual cues that communicate the story – and vicariously the gameplay – to the player. The arrays of stone columns, light, and red cloth are the first significant elements that make up Journey’s narrative. When we are introduced to each, we are visually cued into what makes these things important.
Arrays of stone columns are recurrent, striking, and curious. Their presentation is key to inferring their purpose. For the same reason we understand a stick cross over a dirt mound to be a gravesite, we can intuit that these arrays of stone columns is a sort of graveyard. Burial suggests culture and civilization, and the layers of sand consuming the tombstones indicates world history.
Light and Red Cloth
If the beacon of light atop the distant mountain was any indication, light behaves differently in this world. In our first encounter, it transforms from a bright white glyph into flowing strands that surround us, manifesting as a scarf attached to our hood. Almost immediately, the red cloth ribbons react to our acquisition of this light, charging our new scarf, enabling us to utilize its power to fly. It doesn’t matter how or why these things are happening, just that they are happening in relation to each other. This shows us that light is magical – its properties defying reality – and the red cloth can harness that power, which connects the traveler to the world in mysterious ways.
How do we know?
Evidence of our inferences can be found throughout the game. Light murals depict the death of an ancient race similar to the traveler, buried beneath the sand, the stone columns standing as tombstones above them. Our symbiotic relationship with the red cloth creatures is developed over the course of many interactions; they help us fly and charge our scarf when we communicate with them, we free them from confinements, warm them in the cold. They light up, we light up. We visually share magic and use it in similar ways. Light is consistently mysterious and powerful, yet always serves as our ethereal guide.
The graves, light, and red cloth are all critical to the story. Their presentation and visual cues inform the narrative by showing us their significance to our character and their function within the context of this world. We have not theorized the importance and significance of these things, we have been shown their relevance and meaning.
Why does it matter?
Journey’s first few moments establish a visual language that never explicitly says anything, and the storytelling rarely deviates from that central concept; the inferences we make are as effective as explicit language. Without a single spoken word we know how to play the game and that the narrative will unfold as we play, leaving only the minutia to interpretation. The world and its story will be revealed in tandem through our experiences.
Can we go further?
Another prime example of how Journey visualizes it’s narrative is the descent into the ruins of the ancient civilization near the midpoint of the game. The traveler slides down what feels like miles of sand. The shadows become deep and dark, boldening as light slowly fades from the setting sun. Finally, we plummet below a stark silhouette against the horizon, and our setting switches from light to dark as we sink below the desert sands.
All of these things are visual cues for the upcoming shift in the narrative. The descent into the pits of the old civilization is a striking visual change that alters the tone of the game. We were previously exploring an open-sky desert expanse with a sense of wonder and lack of tension, but now we are decidedly linear, funneled through a dark, walled interior. For the first time, our objective is lost.
Oh, by the way…
Now seems like a good time to talk about something that was purposefully neglected up to this point: the murals that show the ancient civilization’s history. All that we’ve inferred through the visual language – the significance of light, red cloth, graves, and the shift in tone from the descent – all of this has already been revealed to us through multiple spiritual meetings with ancient beings. The murals are the closest thing to explicit communication we get from the game, but we really only need them to fill in the gaps. Out of context, the murals only serve to show the history of these beings, but in the context of the traveler’s experiences they inform the narrative. Every visual cue up to this point has been a conscious effort to convey story elements through visual language and player inference. Without the murals, the narrative is still cohesive and understandable. With the murals, we are able to confirm our previous speculations. It’s comparable to a picture book; the story begins to unfold as we collect more context, one page at a time.
The Guardians
Which brings us back to the narrative shift of the descent. In the murals, we are shown the significance of huge statue-like constructs called Guardians. They are depicted as instruments of civil war. Here in the depths of the ruins, the lowest point in our narrative paralleled with the lowest point of the old civilization, we are introduced to them through a display of their destructive power. We aren’t seeing this on a mural, it’s happening right here, right now. The terrible past has come alive, and in this moment the narrative shifts from exploration to survival. This is the dramatic shift we have been visually conditioned for. We watched the color pallete desaturate and grow cold, the shadows bolden and darken, the light fade and become scarce. We watched as the traveler descended, sinking below the setting sun, plummeting into dark depths; Journey never told us anything, it showed us everything.
The next meeting…
Following the incident with the Guardians, our next meeting with an ancient is unlike all the others. Up to now, the traveler has meditated in front of white statues in order to meet with the old civilization in a presumably spiritual or magical plane. This time however, the traveler does not sit. Instead, the walls contribute glyphs to the center of the room and as the white light fades we find ourselves in the same physical space as before. The walls have the same glyphs arranged in the same fashion, we stand on the same plateau facing the same stone-cut window that reveals the mountain peak. These visual cues are different from all our meetings past, and it is this difference that shows us this meeting is important.
Context is key to inferring the significance of this meeting. The previous mural concluded the ancient being’s history and depicted the traveler’s birth, signifying the convergence of storylines. In our climb to the top of this chamber, there were many light murals depicting the traveler as lead. And finally, this meeting shows our story in the form of a mural, but this depiction ends with a prophetic image of the traveler climbing the mountain after leaving this chamber.
This is our story now. The visual language culminates here in this shared physical space. We set out to climb the mountain, not knowing why but at least knowing that it was our objective. Along the way we saw the world first hand, inferring significance and meaning from the things in it, slowly collecting a series of snapshots depicting our journey. Our experiences thus far and the shift in tonality from the descent coalesce into a working narrative, our character as lead, by providing a newfound rise to our purpose. One that we knew all along but temporarily lost sight of – or perchance forgot – while navigating the bowels of the ancient civilizations ruin.
We now have all the confirmation we need that the shape of the story has changed and we have taken the lead. We are no longer observing. We have become an actor, our agency renewed, and we have a part to play. Though it is not without perils, as was foretold in the mural.
Climbing the Mountain
Upon exiting the chamber, we find the landscape covered with snow. A frost ridden, red cloth creature spirals from the sky, falling to the snow covered ground below a broken bridge. Our objectives have been achieved up to this point by our ability to walk, fly, and chirp. It goes without saying that it will be difficult to travel through this bitter cold weather. The narrative significance is obvious: climbing the mountain is perilous, and the symbolism of snow in contrast to the function of our abilities and the desert expanse below brings danger, warning, loss, and the creeping thought of death to the forefront of our endeavors. Journey continues to show us the narrative.
Our suspicions and fears are confirmed as the traveler inches near the snow-blasted summit through a raging blizzard. Our scarf deteriorates in the bitter cold and we lose our ability to use magic. It is a shocking visual to see the very thing that enabled us to experience the world turn to black shreds and disappear into the raging wind. We are losing a part of ourselves.
Worse, we are losing sight of our destination. The mountain’s beacon slowly disappears into the clouds, our everlasting guide diminishing before us. The light that guides has been snuffed, and hope destroyed. Our story seems to come to an end, this final climb laden with emotional lows. And we have experienced it all through the game’s explicit visual language; our inferences confirmed and validated at each story beat.
Above the Clouds
Journey’s world changes after the travelers rapid ascension. Colors are saturated and vibrant. There’s an abundance of light. It’s like our breakthrough moment, full of elation and relief. It is here in this moment above the clouds, spending time flying with the red ribbon creatures, that our journey is rewarded. As we near the summit, there is light spilling down from between the mountain’s peaks. A familiar sight from the first mural.
Ascendancy (death)
The summit is cold. Solemn. Sacred. And our scarf blows away in the wind yet again. For all the excitement and elation just a few seconds ago, though we were just flying in beautiful harmony with the creatures below us, we now walk a narrow path through snow. Not downtrodden, but slow and purposeful toward the light. If the graves were any indication, we’ve already determined that Journey uses cultural references to inform its narrative. Here is no different; the traveler is walking into the light, that sacred threshold between life and death, symbolic of one’s passing. A grave stands center screen as if to replace the traveler, and one last time Journey shows us something rather than tells us: our beloved protagonist is dead, our journey complete.
The Final Push
Perhaps the most challenging concept throughout Journey’s narrative is the travelers resurrection. The game never showed us that we might not be able to trust everything we see. Up to this point, Journey’s visual language has been consistent in its delivery and significance, but this scene breaks that established trust. It isn’t until after we reach the summit that it’s put into perspective. The murals never showed us atop the mountain. The paradise above the clouds and the lone walk into the light are cultural references to the kinds of things we might see when we die. Our gravestone lies among other graves under the same sky from when we collapsed. Journey makes sure to show us what really happened in a way that it hadn’t done so before.
The Beginning
However, the most compelling visual language comes after our death. The mountain shines again through the clouds and sends down a light, exactly like the one from the beginning. It travels back down the mountain through areas we traversed, shedding light over the land as it goes and passing other travelers along the way. As it travels the world in reverse order, we can’t help but remember our time spent in each place, and a curious feeling emerges as our thoughts reach further into the future. We know we’re going back to the beginning.
A familiar scene settles into our vision as the bright light streaks through the night sky, disappearing between the objects on the hill, before the camera transitions to a wide shot of the dune, the mountain, and the desert. The sun rises, the stars fade, and thin clouds litter the sky. Without ever saying a word, without ever telling us anything, we know everything. We know that the traveler never made it to the summit; the murals, the fateful collapse, and the traveler’s grave in the snowy mountain terrain have proven it. We know that the visual cues and presentation of the travelers revival is out of context of the visual language up to that point. We know that our journey concludes in a metaphysical state of ascendance, shooting us above the clouds to traverse a paradise that mimics the places we visited on our journey. And we know that the mountain has sent our light back to the desert to begin anew.
How do we know? Because Journey is like a picture book; everything we need to know about the narrative is right here, and the story comes together when you have all the pages. By the time the credits have finished, the beginning and end are one in the same, indistinguishable from one another, blending into the present as part of a cumulative experience.
Final Thoughts
Something to think about before we wrap up our exploration of how Journey visualizes its narrative: how could Journey have been different if it had included a narrator in its storytelling? Would we feel like Journey is the same experience if we weren’t so reliant on the visuals? Let us know your thoughts in the YouTube comments and we will discuss them in the future.
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