“I’ll remember you, even after I die.”
This quote, delivered half-way through Lost Records: Rage and Bloom’s first “tape,” is perhaps the most concise and poignant way to convey what Don’t Nod’s latest title is about. Lost Records is a game that revels in the melodrama and contradictory nature of adolescence. It understands the yearning we all once had to be completely unknowable and one-of-a-kind while also being fully-understood, accepted, and loved. Within its eight or so hours, insecurity and conviction walk hand-in-hand while the assumed invincibility of youth is stretched to its breaking point. How can one summer–how can life–feel so everlasting yet utterly fragile? Such is the magic of our teenage years.
Lost Records captures this phenomenon stunningly, yet doesn’t settle for being a game merely driven entirely by nostalgia or reminders of what it felt like to be young in the ’90s. At its core is an eerie, supernatural mystery that spans nearly three decades and threatens to consume the four women involved in it–one that promises violence and the reemergence of events perhaps better left forgotten. This intense, slow-burning narrative provides an excellent framework for an empathetic exploration into girlhood, friendship, sexuality, individuality, expression, and the transition from youth to middle age. All this combined with dynamic characters, cinematic visuals, beautifully-rendered character models, and keen sense of atmosphere makes Lost Records one of Don’t Nod’s best games to date.
Set across two distinct time periods–one being the summer of ’95 and the other roughly two years into the COVID-19 pandemic–Lost Records follows shy, red-headed movie buff Swann Holloway as she reexamines a series of dark events from her adolescence. This undertaking kicks off when one of her childhood friends, Autumn, reaches out to Swann with frightening news: Apparently, there is someone out there who knows who they are, what they did, and has chosen to deliver them a mysterious package. Despite going nearly three decades with zero communication–the reason for this deliberate, but unknown to the player–Autumn eventually asks Swann and the two other girls affiliated with their friend group, Nora and Kat, to meet up with her in their hometown of Velvet Cove to address the situation.
It didn’t take long for this set up to sink its teeth into me; I was instantly curious. I wanted to better understand these girls, why they had lost contact, and what disturbing things they had either witnessed or, worse, done. Though the game’s slower pace could frustrate some, the slow burn captivated me, as I felt its charming, mundane activities were perfectly paired with breadcrumbs and answers that ultimately led to more, increasingly interesting questions. I was also immersed in the unexpected eeriness of the story–of the cabin I stumbled upon, seemingly adorned in cultist markings, and the horrific, paranormal phenomena that seemed to be only increasing in both frequency and intensity.
For the bulk of Tape One, however, you play as a young Swann savoring her last summer in Michigan before her family relocates to Canada. From the very start, it’s made clear that Swann is a bit of a loner who chooses to find solace in nature, movies, her pet cat, and X-Files fanfiction rather than other people. However, all this changes when she meets best friends-turned-bandmates Autumn and Nora, and a scrappy, homeschooled girl named Kat. Despite the knowledge of her upcoming move looming over her, Swann eagerly seizes the opportunity to make friends and opens up to the girls, eventually “joining” Autumn and Nora’s band, Bloom and Rage, as their music video director while Kat jumps in as songwriter. The four then spend nearly every last second of summer together, embarking on misadventures that Swann gleefully captures on her trusty old camcorder.
Outside of Don’t Nod’s signature choice-driven gameplay, in which your decisions ultimately dictate the events that occur throughout the game and how certain characters feel about your protagonist, the vast majority of player interaction in Lost Records happens via Swann’s camcorder. As someone who tends to be a bit critical of story-heavy games that offer little interactivity apart from reading item descriptions, I was delighted by how much fun and artistic liberty the device offers. Sure, you will still be doing plenty of walking and interacting with items that flesh out the world, explore girlhood, and serve as fun little time capsules, but the camcorder and its optional objectives add goals, structure, and a personal touch that would otherwise be missing. Though I wished we were granted a bit more to explore overall–Lost Record’s world feels very isolated and linear compared to previous Don’t Nod games–I loved searching for subjects to capture, whether they were vulgar bits of graffiti or wide-eyed owls. Additionally, seeing my footage–meticulously trimmed up and carefully curated thanks to my tendency to overshoot footage and the game’s built-in editor–featured in cutscenes made me feel more personally connected to both Swann and the game as a whole.
That said, it wasn’t hard to feel connected to Lost Records in countless other ways as well. Though Swann and her friends are around a decade or so older than me, I saw parts of myself and my own childhood throughout each of them and the games’ intricately designed environments. As I traipsed through Swann’s room, I remembered my own Spacemaker pencil boxes and how much I loved the hell out of The Dark Crystal. I saw my first head-over-heels crush in the boisterous, guitar-slinging Nora, and my mother in the neatly scrawled note Swann’s own mother left on her bed, telling her that the diet snacks she had purchased for her had “only 50 calories!”
Despite sometimes finding her awkwardness and insecurity a bit irritating, I am forced to admit that I saw a great deal of myself in Swann–that her demeanor is ultimately a perfect representation of how many of us truly are as teenagers, even if we might perceive it as grating, overly self-critical, or melodramatic later in life. One thing I related to particularly intensely was her love of recording things as, strangely enough, I was always my friend groups’ resident videographer as well. Perhaps this comes from being someone who also grew up feeling chubby and insecure, but I found comfort in seeing her approach life in such a similar way–in her effort to capture the things that remind her of the world’s goodness and beauty, and the moments that would ultimately prove to her that she was once happy and loved and will be again.
As I grew closer to Swann, and Swann grew closer to her new friends (and potential love interests), the dialogue I chose grew more confident–a testament to how relationships can empower you that was made tangible in this game. Yet I also felt the shame that accompanied butting up against a friend’s boundary, and remembered my own missteps as a young girl. In fact, it’s a testament to the game’s writing that a lot of its reliability came from witnessing certain interactions and dynamics rather than the injecting of trite (and often cringe-inducing) “hey, remember this thing” moments. Yes, we all love and remember Tamogotchis, Pogs, and Blockbuster. It’s far more of an accomplishment for a game to make you remember the first time another girl said she wanted to kiss you or that time you played Truth or Dare with your close friends and someone ended up feeling overexposed and hurt. As Swann explored her memories, I was forced to recall some of my own, making for a vulnerable but rewarding experience.
Another key factor in Lost Records invoking such a personal response from me is its depth, artistry, and cinematic nature. In this game, adolescence is presented in the almost dream-like way we see it when we look back upon it, which makes complete sense, considering the story is essentially delivered via a reflective conversation between former friends. I was constantly impressed at the visuals, colors, and surreal, bittersweet atmosphere curated in the game, as well as the soundtrack–stunningly composed by Chromatics singer Ruth Radlet–that accompanied it all. At the same time, however, there is a realism that grounds the game and immerses you. I loved seeing Nora–who is consistently depicted as flirty, gorgeous, fun, and ridiculously cool–with red, hot acne scars tormenting her cheeks in the same way nearly all of us endured at some point. It felt real; It felt like yet another thing about Lost Records that was unflinchingly honest.
Lost Records explores and depicts adolescence in a way that not only surpasses many games, but several works of media in general. It’s no secret that we are inundated with “coming-of-age” stories, and as a fan of the cliche, I’d argue it’s for good reason. The era between childhood and adulthood is one filled with hormones, emotions, self-discovery, lust, defiance, and experiences that ultimately shape the person you will become, shedding some semblance of your former self. Yet both the story that Lost Records explores and the one being shaped in the “current” time, in which women in their 40s come together and dispel the grating notion that women of that age are decrepit, matronly, and boring, do so in a way that feels fascinating, new, and important. As it stands now, Lost Records: Bloom and Rage is poised to be one of Don’t Nod’s greatest titles. Ultimately, however, much of the game’s success is dependent upon the release of its second half, which is scheduled to release this April. It will take answers, action, and rewarded patience to stick the landing, but as of right now, I have faith that the team will do so.
