The Power of Choice in Syberia and The Longest Journey
Written by Ceridwen Millington
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Syberia and The Longest Journey are two of adventure gaming’s most iconic and long-running franchises, having flourished during more than twenty years of video game advancement. They have devoted fanbases, too, that have followed the games through their best and weakest installments. Undoubtedly, though, the best-loved releases are the first, and this isn’t just the result of simple nostalgia. There is a profound appeal to the simple messages of the early games that allow them to stand the test of time, no matter the technological bells and whistles that came later. They are games of unique optimism and raw insight.
Art design might seem, superficially, the reason why these games have such persistence. They both present worlds that are captivatingly dreamlike. The Longest Journey presents a futuristic Earth – known as Stark – that meshes the mundanity of ours with a cyberpunk reality. It extends this uncanny vibe with a magic-driven, medieval counterpart called Arcadia. Syberia is similarly only partially based in our reality, its protagonist a 21st century New York lawyer dropped into a Europe barely recognisable in its steampunk artistry. These worlds are stunning and intriguing, but their atmosphere reaches its high level of appeal thanks to the themes that snake beneath them.
Both stories are essentially coming-of-age adventures, the lead characters both capable, intelligent women who are lacking purpose. Syberia’s Kate Walker is an up-and-coming attorney, sent to the Voralberg factory in France to facilitate its purchase for a major toy company. Unexpectedly, though, she’s forced to travel across Europe in an urgent search to find the Voralberg heir. She is taken far away from her comfort zone – her boss, boyfriend, and best friend – and into an array of bizarre locales. Everyone back home wants to tell her how to approach the journey, but as she goes further, she slowly starts to see the need to rely on her own wits.
April Ryan’s tale isn’t about being a highflyer, as she’s instead a snarky art student who seems to have little enthusiasm or self-belief. She’s stuck with a lack of creative ideas, a grimly harassing neighbour, a childhood that still irks her – and an unshakeable dream of another world. She does, naturally, discover that there is more to existence, and that she has some sort of greater purpose tied into this other world of Arcadia. However, despite April’s ennui she isn’t eager to throw herself into this enormous responsibility, and tries to reject her calling again, and again, and again as the narrative progresses.
It becomes increasingly evident as the tales unfold that injustice is what holds these characters back. Kate is constantly pressured by the rigidities of conventional thinking, receiving call after call from those who aren’t happy with her immersion into this other world. Her boss constantly pressures her to just get the job done, her boyfriend wants her home to help push his own career ahead, and her best friend wishes to bring her back to so-called reality away from the esoteric. They have no interest in her self-discovery and, as players (like Kate) are thrown into these wondrous environments, the haranguing calls from mundane reality feel oppressive in comparison.
April is equally subject to injustice in a way that seems to have crushed her spirit. Her character begins in a version of Earth where the gap between rich and poor is in plain sight, despite it being hardly remarked upon. She is forced to live in a cramped boarding house, holed up with a motley crew of the good and awful. Just outside her home is a tribute to a massacre of striking workers. And, of course, her past is a clear drain on her mind, her diary reflecting her angry thoughts about the home she fled. It's not surprising that April has so little creative or personal spark, her hope and imagination drained in a way that resembles Kate’s ordered life.
Freedom doesn’t come from both heroines throwing responsibility to the wind, however. Syberia, indeed, presents warnings in the form of characters who choose to live outside of human connection, particularly when she visits lands that are clear analogs for post-Soviet countries. She meets a pilot whose lack of purpose has driven him to alcohol abuse and misery. And there’s the factory operator whose purpose has become a selfish obsession, his aim being to possess an opera singer he once admired. The latter becomes the villain of the tale, and his desire to bend events to his will drives him to frenzied violence. His selfishness becomes his undoing, with his goals thwarted and his utter loneliness sealed.
Kate’s story reaches its climax in a way that is very much a counterpoint to such a fate. Along the way to fulfilling her quest, Kate has learned about Hans Voralberg’s own journey across Europe and obsession with a remote, mammoth-housing island. There is no world-ending decision here, but simply the choice of whether to return to her conventional role or to commit herself to joining the quest that she’s learned so much about. Watching Kate decide at the last minute to reject her corporate mission and, ultimately, set aside the strictures of society is deeply moving. The final cutscene has her literally running towards a departing train and a new way of life with an enthusiasm that feels inspiring.
But April’s story is more invigorating for the journey itself rather than its end. April might begin it complaining and, indeed, have that attitude through various parts of the tale. However, her journeys to Arcadia seem to open her up to the excitement of the power of living by her wits. She’s able to bring peace between two long-antagonistic races, help a young boy find out about his long-lost family, and even free and befriend an abused crow. These steps are as consequential as her world-saving actions, giving her a place and purpose that exists beyond fulfilling destinies and expectations.
Because of the mixture of fantasy and coming-of-age themes, these tales might seem archetypal, and they do bring to mind the work of Joseph Campbell. The Longest Journey, in particular, evokes memories of Campbell’s most famous devotee, George Lucas, who had the academic’s ideas at the core of his Star Wars flicks. Those ideas focus on someone coming from zero to hero, essentially realizing their greater purpose in a world bigger than their starting point. But what these games do differently is remind players of the need to not just accept a destiny but to choose – and to keep choosing again, and again, and again. Adventure gaming highlights this better than any other genre, where positive outcomes are the satisfying result of hard work and head-scratching.
I didn’t play Syberia and The Longest Journey at launch but played them for the first time this year. It’s a long time since they were released and, at least on a technical level, they’ve been very much superseded. For me personally it’s been the perfect excuse to experience them, given that I’ve felt particularly disempowered. I’ve scarcely been able to afford the bare essentials, lost friends who I relied upon for years, and felt hopeless against the forces that appear to dictate our lives. These games don’t shy away from that reality – but they also present a way out that’s more helpful than just waiting for change. They suggest that there are different ways we can engage with life right now, and that our skills are needed in ways we might not have imagined.
Plenty of merit can definitely be found in these games’ sequels, and they continue to show a commitment to serious themes. Syberia: The World Before delves into the resistance against fascism, and Dreamfall: The Longest Journey has a striking reversal in its portrayal of losing hope. The original games, though, feel particularly right for this present moment, where the news and social media make the world’s challenges seem overwhelming. Syberia and The Longest Journey are reminders that our realities are simply the narratives that we choose to go along with, and that we can shape a different reality with each choice that we make.