How does one properly deal with grief? The grief of recollecting beautiful memories, knowing they can never return. The grief of watching the life you built for yourself drastically slip away. The grief of seeing a loved one lose themselves to dementia. I’ve lived these moments. The pain of watching my grandfather, the kindest and gentlest man in my life, lose his entire personality and identity to dementia. The worst part is arguably watching the disease progress, seeing him lose more and more every year. Yet, throughout these powerful and intense moments of grief, love shines through in every scenario. This is the excellence of And Roger, a visual novel that swept me away with its brilliant gameplay and masterful storytelling, and for the first time in my life, made me reconsider how I critique inaccessibility.
Spoilers for And Roger to follow.
Developed by TearyHand Studio, And Roger follows a couple as the wife, Sofia, progressively loses herself to dementia. The hour-long game, composed of three chapters, recounts moments throughout Sofia’s life, particularly those associated with her husband, Roger. Players see the evolution of the couple’s life together, performing varying quick-time events to progress the story. Yet, with each loving and tender core memory, the shadows of Sofia’s disability continuously lurk.
But I’m not here to explore the emotional depth of one of the most powerful games I’ve ever played. Rather, I want to explore something that continually struck me as I completed each minigame: how a lack of accessibility, ultimately leading me to struggle, made the story much more impactful. The power of this short experience was so great that it made me reflect on my own beliefs and journalistic practices as both a disability reporter and disabled gamer. How I view accessibility will forever be changed because of this game.
Love and quick time events
And Roger begins with Sofia as a small child, struggling to wake herself. She tells herself she’s exhausted and dizzy–that her body feels abnormally heavy. The music during this sequence is haunting and made me feel uneasy, as if I were about to enter a horror game. Instead, I found myself thrown into the game’s first QTE, which required me to rapidly press a white button to sit Sofia up. Like Sofia, I struggled immensely to click the button on the screen. With every slip, she would fall back into her bed, forcing me to start over. And after completing the task, I felt drained, barely able to move my hand across the mouse. My stamina mirrored hers, yet this was only the beginning; as she slowly forced herself into the bathroom, we were confronted by another minigame: brushing her teeth.
After finishing that sequence, players are introduced to a strange man that Sofia mistakes for her father. He appears friendly, instructing her to go about her day and eat breakfast. The interactions are tense, with one minigame consisting of the strange man feeding Sofia, much to her objection. The uneasiness builds, with the stranger asking Sofia to take some medication to feel better.
As a scared child, she resists. And the QTE expertly reflects her struggles to fight. Again, by rapidly pressing a button, players are meant to push the man’s hand away. The event itself was impossible to complete without outside assistance. Like Sofia, I felt powerless, completely unable to budge the extended hand until someone else was able to take control. After the event, I felt considerably weaker, but I continued to play, leading Sofia out of the apartment and into a bakery where she collapses at the sight and smells of a presumably safe space.
The bakery remains a key setting, both in terms of QTEs and core memories. Chapter Two begins with Sofia entering the bakery to purchase baked goods; There she meets Roger, and the connection is immediate. The ensuing dates consist of QTEs ranging from moving dials to choose a hairstyle, to tracing heart monitor lines as the two talk. It’s a beautiful way to explore their blooming relationship, and the games expertly reflect the tenderness and fragility of new love.
Through these sections, Chapter Two beautifully demonstrates the importance of love and finding joy. Yet the struggles of dementia are ever present, and one QTE abruptly and forcibly brought me back into Sofia’s current world.
Food is integral to the relationship between Sofia and Roger. Their romance began at the bakery, and numerous QTEs–from chopping vegetables to shifting dials to purchase bread–reflect this special bond. In one scene, players are required to spin a button around a pot, stirring the soup inside. If the button falls outside of the ring, the meter to complete the objective progressively depletes. On numerous occasions, my strength and stamina levels would fail to keep up with continuously spinning a button. After approximately 10 minutes and several breaks, I finished the task, once again leaving me physically exhausted. And after finishing and eating the meal, Sofia mimicked my energy levels, dropping the pot of soup on the floor.
Inaccessibility as a tool
I’ve been professionally critiquing accessibility in games for six years. My reviews always focus on what is or isn’t included, and how the lack of appropriate options or designs make games unplayable. With And Roger, I found myself conflicted with my own ethics and morals as a disability reporter. As someone who regularly pushes back on the belief that accessibility can ruin artistic vision, I struggled coming to terms with the fact that, in this instance, inaccessibility had made the game so much more profound.
Players are meant to feel Sofia’s struggles as she navigates her world. We’re meant to feel her exhaustion, frustration, and animosity toward people and activities that once brought so much light into her life. And for me, someone with a physical disability, struggling to perform and finish certain QTEs only enhanced my connection with her. Do I recommend more games adopt this practice of forgoing accessibility? Absolutely not. But for this specific work of art, the emotional journey was vastly improved because I struggled to play.
And Roger wants players to appreciate the everyday moments in life, cherishing them on the chance they’re one day outside of your control. Yet in addition to a greater appreciation for life, I also have a newfound appreciation for games and the unique way my disability interacts with them. Inaccessibility is so innately tied to the disabled experience. And Roger showed me that there is often beauty in moments of frustration.
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