![]() ![]() When I left home, I did so because I feared getting stuck there if I remained. Walking through Edith's old house, listening to her as she recalls and imagines the stories of those who came before her, I thought about my own family history and its effect on me. I remember the air conditioner's pipes freezing in the summer. I remember my mom getting sick and getting better. I remember my parents fighting, separating, divorcing. I remember my half siblings, who came and went before I reached adulthood, and who still live within half an hour of that house. Somehow, though, it still worked for me, because I remember my own family home. You see, everyone in Edith Finch's family is dead. Every room is a gravestone, the house a mausoleum. Each is sealed shut, and inside lie memorials in the form of diaries, letters, poems and paintings. Each room was built for a member of a family that spans generations. A series of additions resulted in a spire of conflicting architectural styles reaching toward the sky. The Finch house sits alone and ungainly, isolated off the coast of Washington. What Remains of Edith Finch is a game about a house and the burden of painful memories. ![]() Live somewhere long enough, and you wear a groove into the floor so deep that walking anywhere else becomes difficult. Given the chance, memories can overwhelm a place and become invisible barriers hemming you in. If I inherited that house tomorrow, I would sell it. My family history feels like it's collected inside that house, worn into the walls like dirt. The same house with its faded blue garage door and the dining room window that faced the sun at the hottest part of the day. ![]() I lived in the same house until I was 18. ![]()
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