When I was growing up in 90/00s rural Ireland, I roamed our neighbourhood. There was a smaller collection of houses – the bungalows – to the back of our home, with soft grass that my friends and I would bring our toys and blankets. Our imaginations would steer our adventures for hours. It was a space where we would meet (and greet) our neighbours, all of whom knew our families.
As I got older, we moved and I could see the sea from my house. There was a field of cows over the wall, the mountains towered in the distance, the countryside felt endless, but I never felt too far from home.
When I visited friends, their front door was unlocked; we could simply walk in, stay for dinner and take things home with us. There was no scheduling, no cancelling, you were simply there or not. People knew people, neighbours knew neighbours, milk was shared, not spilt. As the years went by and we all moved on to adult life and city living, I quickly forgot about how wonderful that was.
I was reminded of this loss unexpectedly while tethered to my desk, playing a farming simulator of all things. For the uninitiated, the game Coral Island sees the player relocate to a tropical island to kickstart a farm after becoming disenchanted with city life.
It’s a classic farming sim premise where the player finds themselves thrown into a small, close-knit community. “Cozy”, “low stress,” and “wholesome” are most often words bandied around when describing such games, and I’m no stranger to the genre, having sunk an ungodly number of hours into Stardew Valley, Sun Haven and My Time at Portia, to name a few.
But it was not until Coral Island that I found myself becoming actively despondent about their idyllic living situation.
I first noticed my vexation when Raj, the local coffee café owner, closed for the day and left every single item of their shop open to the public. For context, Raj has a small shack by a pier side, RAJA’s, which is more akin to a stand than a shop.
It’s open with no door, a basic wooden structure with only the shade of palm leaves as the roof. It doesn’t change even in stormy weather or in the depths of winter.
The day I stopped to watch Raj leave, they had just told my very broke-ass farmer that they, like me, were struggling financially and were considering being part of the new initiative. The community was setting up a commerce group to help each other and Raj reassured me that whatever happened, it would work out in the end.
I pursed my lips at my desk as I stared through my screen at their open café, each object still on display. Had they considered that they were actually being too optimistic? That most businesses fail? That they were potentially being swindled each night as they left everything – even the cash register – out in the open? RAJA’s is the only business with no door! Why were they so sure everything would work out fine?! I was sceptical.
Sure, one could argue that the devs planned on making Raj an actual shop instead of leaving it out to brave the elements, and sure, one could argue that it’s just a game and isn’t that deep. But the more I played, the more down I found myself triggered by unrealistic expectations of community, teamed with their Disney-esque character designs.
I kept playing and sank deeper into this weird world. I was embedded in their programmed lives, fascinated by what it felt like as someone who was actively frustrated by the characters’ naivety and their natural optimism. Maybe its impact on my life was inevitable.
I watched as Millie berated Scott for accessing her personal reports on him, only to seconds later forgiving him (though she still had the good sense to take his actions into account).
I watched as Oliver, a child, was able to roam around Starlet Town unaccompanied AT 6AM as if that was a totally normal thing for any child to do.
I certainly didn’t really question why Walter needed hibiscus so urgently that he couldn’t just go pick it himself, or why Emma urgently needed two papayas. I didn’t question why everyone needed to correspond with me via posted notes and thank me by giving me recipes. (I’m pretty sure they hand deliver their mail by the way).
The cast of Coral Island has over 70 NPCs, and is much larger than previous community-based games I’ve played. It makes this town feel much more lived in and I, whether I liked it or not, was part of their community. They knew where to find me, even if I never engaged with them outside of buying seeds at the general store. NPCs actively wanted me to be part of their lives, which was in such contrast to how I live most of my real life. It’s not that I don’t like people, I just need to expend a lot of energy and recharge to live amongst them. I’m an ambivert most Mondays.
So when given the chance to invite NPCs out on regular “hangouts”, I found myself once again, curious and enthralled. In these hangouts, you can choose to do common things like go for drinks, a walk, or immerse yourself even more in their lives by cooking together, volunteering at an animal shelter or assisting the elderly Onsen worker by cleaning the hot springs. These moments, meant to be seen as kind acts of community service, admittedly made me a little depressed by the lack of effort I was making in reality.
That isn’t to say that there isn’t any drama in Coral Island; no town is real without it, even the digital ones, but their surroundings, communal living accommodations (some of them just live at an inn), reminded me of so much that I had lost. Where had that “openness” gone?
What a dream to be able to just walk down to the beach within seconds, speak to as many or as few people as you’d like, spend all day fishing or at the animal shelter, or to be able to wander to the woods each evening to catch bugs.
In Dublin, where I live, I know of my neighbours, but I don’t know them. We are surrounded by folks we may never know. We have their names and greet them from the door, closed tightly and often locked twice. I dropped in a “welcome to the neighbourhood” card when new folks moved in, but have heard nothing from them. I wouldn’t knock down their doors at obscene hours, but I’d like to know that we both cared if something was to happen to us. We are strangers separated by mere meters.
And then here’s Coral Island, where everyone knew who you were before you were fresh off the boat and where folks wanted to get to know you after you moved in. What a joy to have countless community spaces and people that don’t baulk at you when you run to their home at 9 pm to offer them a fish taco.
There was a genuine curiosity there to make you part of their community in their tropical paradise. It isn’t pure reality, but it is special, and dare I say, not actually too far from the “paradise” I had growing up in rural Ireland.
I have over 130 hours in Coral Island, and despite my initial annoyance at how picturesque their world is, I must admit my jealousy has fuelled action. I’ve unexpectedly become conscious of the little efforts I could make that could become bigger ones. I want to believe in “community” and connection again.
I address my postman by name – shoutout to Gary – I’m aware of the impact of attending “town hall” AGMs, and I connect with folks in our community garden. Even if I arrive home more tired than I left, the effort and camaraderie are worth it.
It is these small actions that make me move on from my somewhat self-inflicted state of isolation and bring me closer to actual reality.
And… I like that.