“I am la revacholière. I am the city.”

I wrote this after finishing the game for the first time:

I just finished playing Disco Elysium. I know, after taking so much in, it’s time to let something out; this game is the most profound and fitting one I’ve ever played.

First, there is a melancholy. A sadness born from helplessness, the frustration of not being able to save Revachol—or a lover. Dancing aerobics under the disco lights in the church, the god of Revachol was right, soothing your restlessness with ethereal sounds of universal love and greatness. Inside you, within your organs, guarding you in your lungs, loving you. You feel a purity of body, she was right, that was the old you, so there was no return kiss, only a hurried rush to the airport.

Then, back to reality. A baseless sense of defeat rises, not quietly, but wraps tightly around your heart, declaring, "I exist." Harrier Du Bois returns to Precinct 41 after closing the case, discovering the Insulindian Phasmid "I exist," successfully recruiting lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi; yet you, you are still you in this real world. You remember the headless horseman figurine you gave her: yet the figurines won't win her back, comme elle.

Finally, there is hate, not the hate of envy, but more of a resentment. When you fully return to the world of "you exist," and finally view Disco Elysium from an outsider’s perspective, two thoughts arise: you cannot fully remember and spread such a wonderful story, world, and ideas; and you cannot gently guide all those with academic, health, and emotional deficiencies in this world to spend dozens of hours immersing in this world, and then return.

 

I started to delve into the philosophical thoughts behind this game, and I even made a presentation on this topic to all classmates.