For a few years now, I’ve been hearing people praise Chicory. It’s a game where you play as a dog, which I decided to call Pasta, that wields a magic paintbrush, and you go on an adventure. It’s also a game about depression, tradition, expectations, and the nature of creativity. There’s a lot to unpack there, but I’m not entirely sure I’m equipped to do it. In fact, for the first time in a long time, I’m at a loss for describing why I actually enjoyed playing Chicory.

Part of my dilemma with discussing Chicory stems from how I choose to write about games. I’d classify most of my written work as either analytical, or informative. I try to approach writing in a way where I have some idea of what I want to say, and then I work backwards. As a result, a lot of my work feels like I narrow in on specific aspects of a game, and then I break down all of the bits that make it work, and why that resonated with me. It’s a process that doesn’t always feel creative. Instead, it feels more like I’m designing, and implementing code.

I suppose my approach to writing isn’t exactly surprising – I am a programmer by profession. It makes some degree of sense that my writing style would mirror how I tend to solve problems in the majority of my day-to-day activities. Plus, it isn’t like I have any formal training, or education to pull from. I slugged my way through 12 years of English class where we were rarely encouraged to do creative writing. It wasn’t until (relatively) recently that I even learned I had an interest in writing, and started blogging in my spare time.

That lack of training always makes me feel like I’m never actually qualified to write about games. I know that I’ve been doing this for…actually how long have I been doing this? 6 years?! Jesus Christ. Okay – despite having 300 articles, 40000 published words, and 6 years of experience, I still don’t feel qualified to write about games. Before I publish every single article, I hesitate. I think to myself that this will finally be the one. This will be the time that everyone collectively decides that everything I write is trash. They’ll finally realize that I don’t deserve to have a voice, and will take it away from me.

Besides, it’s not like I can break down a game’s story, or talk about its themes in a way that people can relate to. Surely my insecurities with writing don’t mirror the same feelings that Pasta has throughout Chicory when she becomes the new brush wielder. She suddenly becomes responsible for fixing all the world’s problems, and filling the world back up with colour. This is despite having no training, or qualifications outside of a desire to the task that has been put before her. It’s not like the whole game is an exploration of that idea, even going as far as to feature boss fights where you literally fight the manifestation of your own self loathing.

Oh, wait. That’s exactly what Chicory is about.

That’s why I like Chicory so much – it’s a game that speaks to me on a very personal level. It examines what it feels like to put yourself out into the world through your creative work. What’s wicked cool is the many ways that Chicory successfully manages to communicate that feeling through its gameplay. That’s why I liked it so much – Chicory made me feel seen.

I mean – ok, so exploring my own debilitating anxiety as it relates to creative work isn’t the only reason I liked Chicory: it also lets me draw on everything. Literally EVERYTHING. There’s a chain restaurant here called Crabby Joe’s that used to cover every table with paper, and then they’d supply you with crayons. This was meant to keep children occupied, but I was the one adult at the table who’d immediately start drawing all over our table regardless of how inappropriate that might have been. If you’ve seen a range of the digital artwork I’ve posted over the years, I’m sure you can imagine some of what I came up with. I greatly enjoyed doing this, and the people I was with always seemed to like it too.

Using the magic paintbrush in Chicory has the same energy as drawing on the table at Crabby Joe’s. You just start going at it. There are no gods, and no masters. You simply art all over the place. I figured the novelty would wear thin by the end of the game, but I never stopped splashing paint all over the screen. This is especially notable as I finished Chicory in a single sitting. That’s correct – I enjoyed painting Chicory’s world so much that I continued to do it for 9 hours straight. Maybe that speaks more about my love of drawing than it does anything else.

While I don’t think I’ve covered everything Chicory has to offer, I think I have managed to convey why it’s special to me. Chicory let me play a game that captures the way I feel a lot of the time while creating. Writing, art, whatever. It’s a reminder that other people out there struggle with the same sorts of challenges I do. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone.

Thank you, Chicory.