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The grief may not be beautiful, but recognizing the courage it takes to bear it is. We would move mountains to offer a moment of relief to Joel and his family, but when the mountains will not budge, there is still dignity in the pain. I could not help but feel it is a deeply Catholic game. To love these strangers in the midst of their dark night. To fight with every ounce of your being for this child who deserves so much more.
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You feel viscerally the anguish and the instinct to never, ever let go. The monitors slowly beep and the sterile lights from the hall pour in as Joel lays silently, curled up against your chest. In one scene you take on the viewpoint of Joel’s dad as he cradles his son in his arms through the night on the hospital room couch. No strategy or skill or secret combination of buttons pressed will overcome it. The cancer exists and it will soon enough consume. But you are there to bear witness, not to save. You travel around and watch the characters interact, spurring them on to their next moments-from playful walks in the park to unconsolable nights while the medicines torture as they try in vain to heal. In that sense it is the opposite of a traditional video game. You move through the world of Joel’s family, but you do not change it. “That Dragon, Cancer” harnesses the immersive power of modern video games, while teasing the illusion of control. It is, admittedly, an unexpected premise for a game, but it mixes actual audio of a terminally ill 5-year-old named Joel interacting with his parents and brother, along with stunning animations produced after his death. There is a video game about a child slowly dying of cancer.