Wandering Through Dreams and Stories: A Reflection on Yume Nikki and Ihatovo Monogatari
So, when I first kind of stumbled onto Yume Nikki, I wasn’t really sure what was happening. You know how, when you’re younger, everything feels sort of endless and full of time that you don’t even think to value? It was during one of those stretches where time felt infinite, like, something you could waste without a second thought. And, in a way, that’s what Yume Nikki seemed to want: for me to just get totally lost in it.
There wasn’t really any clear instruction, no glowing arrows telling me where to go or why. Instead, it gave me this small room, quiet except for a faint hum, and, like, one choice. Step out into what felt like someone else’s dreams. But here’s the thing: it wasn’t the kind of dream where you’re flying or whatever. It was weird and unsettling, and sometimes, it was just empty.
At first, I was just wandering around, you know, pacing back and forth, pressing random buttons like I was waiting for some big moment to reveal itself. But after a while, and I don’t even know when it happened, I stopped waiting for the game to tell me what to do and just started walking. Like, not with a goal, but just to see what was around the corner.
Surreal Landscapes and Hidden Paths
Every new space felt like peeling back layers of someone’s brain, almost like their private thoughts had been scattered into different rooms. It wasn’t about finishing anything; it was about seeing what was there, maybe even letting it freak me out a little. There were those neon-filled areas that looked almost alive, those eerie, shadowy figures you’d run into, and objects that didn’t make sense but felt, I don’t know, significant in a way you couldn’t explain. It was like wandering through someone’s fragmented memories, all stitched together in ways that didn’t line up but still sort of made sense emotionally, if that makes sense.
And now that I’m thinking about it, Yume Nikki felt, like, so opposite to how most games or, honestly, life is set up. It didn’t care if I “got it” or if I felt like I was making progress. In fact, it almost seemed to thrive on me feeling unsure. And I’m not gonna lie, that’s kind of rare, right? We’re so used to needing answers or rewards, like, “What’s the point?” But this game didn’t even pretend to have one.
Challenging Conventional Structures
It’s funny because, now that I’m older, I can see how Yume Nikki was almost rejecting, like, the whole structure of what we think games should be. It didn’t ask you to solve anything or achieve some big moment of triumph. Instead, it just said, “Here, take this weird, unexplainable world, and figure out how you feel about it.” That’s something I didn’t realize I needed at the time, but looking back, it felt like permission to just… be. No pressure, no expectations. Just wandering, failing, and letting it all sit with me.
And while Yume Nikki kind of thrives in its vagueness, there’s also something deeply deliberate about it. The way it’s structured, or maybe, the way it isn’t structured, makes you think about how much of life is framed by instructions. Go here, do this, win that. Yume Nikki was almost like a critique of all that noise, asking, “What if none of it mattered? Would you still move forward?” And, yeah, it’s unsettling, but it’s also freeing in a way I didn’t know a game could be.
Journey into Ihatovo Monogatari
Then, like, a few years later, I got into Ihatovo Monogatari. And honestly, it was such a different vibe but still hit me in a way that felt kind of the same. This one wasn’t about creepy dream spaces or cryptic figures; it was softer, like stepping into this peaceful, old storybook where everything felt like it had a little bit of magic in it.
So, it’s based on Kenji Miyazawa’s stories, which I didn’t know much about at the time, but the game didn’t, like, demand that you read up on him or anything. It just invited you to walk around this small, gentle world, talk to people, and, sort of, let the stories unfold however they wanted to. It wasn’t like Yume Nikki where everything felt disjointed and surreal; this was more grounded but still had this quietness that felt really personal.
Dream-Like Interactions
What really stuck out to me was how it kind of felt like the game was saying, “Hey, don’t rush. Just take your time.” It’s not like there were any puzzles to solve or huge moments of action, just moments that kind of asked you to pause and notice them. And yeah, it’s weirdly rare for games to do that, but it worked so well here.
There’s this one scene, or maybe it’s a series of moments, where you’re just sitting with characters, talking about things that don’t really seem important. The weather, a memory, maybe even nothing at all. But those moments stick with you, you know? It’s like the game was less interested in telling you a story and more interested in creating a feeling. And honestly, that feeling has stayed with me way longer than any cutscene-heavy game ever has.
It’s interesting how both games, in their own way, pushed back against the idea of having clear instructions or rewards. Like, neither of them cared about being “fun” in the way we’re used to. They were more about creating spaces where you could exist and make your own meaning out of them. In Ihatovo Monogatari, it felt more like you were being gently guided by the world itself, while in Yume Nikki, it felt like you were just thrown into the deep end and told, “Figure it out.”
And maybe that’s what I’ve come to appreciate about both of them: the way they trust you. They don’t spoon-feed you answers or try to impress you with flashy mechanics. They’re just there, waiting for you to meet them halfway. And, in a way, that feels more honest than most games that try to wow you with explosions or intricate systems.
What’s wild is how both games kind of go against everything we’re used to, not just in games but in, like, how we’re taught to approach life. It’s always about getting somewhere or doing something, but these games were just… there. They trusted you to show up and figure it out for yourself. And honestly? That’s a lot harder than it sounds. But it’s also kind of freeing.
Looking back, I think these games taught me a lot about how to sit with things that don’t make sense right away. They showed me that not everything needs a clear answer or an endpoint. Sometimes, just walking around and letting yourself feel lost can be enough.
And maybe that’s why they’ve stuck with me. Because in a world that’s constantly asking you to prove yourself, these games were, like, small, quiet reminders that it’s okay to just be. And yeah, I think we all need more of that.
But, also, there’s something about the way they make you think about time. Like, how often do we get told to spend our time wisely? To make every moment count? Yume Nikki and Ihatovo Monogatari almost laughed at that idea, like, “What if you just spent time for the sake of it? What if nothing counted?” And that’s kind of a scary thought, right? But it’s also kind of beautiful.
When I think about those hours I spent wandering through Yume Nikki’s dreamscapes or walking through Ihatovo’s quiet little towns, it’s not the destinations I remember. It’s the in-between moments, the ones where I didn’t know what was going to happen next but decided to take another step anyway. And, in a way, isn’t that what life feels like most of the time? Like, not knowing where you’re going but moving forward anyway?
Both games, in their refusal to conform to typical expectations, taught me that it’s okay to feel lost. That there’s value in wandering, in sitting with discomfort, and in finding beauty where you least expect it.
