Myst (PC) review "Today I found an old shoebox in my closet. When I opened it, it revealed a stack of papers, all of them littered with scribbled notes in pencil and quick sketches of strange artifacts, maps, and charts. I began to leaf through, intrigued by the unfamiliar handwriting, until I came to a drawing of an island. Underneath it was scrawled a single word: Myst. "

Today I found an old shoebox in my closet. When I opened it, it revealed a stack of papers, all of them littered with scribbled notes in pencil and quick sketches of strange artifacts, maps, and charts. I began to leaf through, intrigued by the unfamiliar handwriting, until I came to a drawing of an island. Underneath it was scrawled a single word: Myst.

A memory began at once to form in my mind of a ten year-old child hunched before a computer running Windows ‘94, the newest Microsoft desktop. The child clicked away at a mouse, his eyes glued to the screen as ambient music drifted from two massive slate-grey speakers set in front of him. Occasionally the child would look down at a piece of paper and make notes in an uneven hand. Then he would stop and think, examining the writing intensely, as if it held the answer to some deep question. Back in the present I smiled at the notes I’d taken from the shoebox. The writing didn’t seem quite so unfamiliar anymore.

My hands, now much larger and steadier than they had been when they first made the marks, traced the lines of an crudely drawn map showing a vast series of tunnels. A small note next to the map read “the secret is in the sounds.” I flipped forward a few pages and saw the outline of what looked like a spaceship next to a sketch of a piano and a few shakily drawn lines that formed a short musical score. Even now, the notes rang clearly in my mind. Each new page brought up old memories. Here was a chart showing the position of various constellations in the skies above Myst island; here a map detailing the fastest route through a village set in the canopy of trees sprouting from the surface of a beautiful blue-green sea. I saw a note about compasses and had a vision of a ship stuck in a stone island, its cabins filled with exquisite tapestries detailing mythology I would never know the history behind. The single word “library” brought up an image of tomes filled with the observations of a man who could create worlds. A tingle crawled down my spine as I read a warning on the same page proclaiming “don’t trust Achenar.”

I felt a surge of excitement, then, a desire to return to the island of Myst and the many enigmas of its puzzle-riddled landscape. I thought suddenly of my younger cousins, thinking that I would bring them with me; allow them to chance to have the same amazing journey I had experienced over a decade ago. I could already hear, however, their eager voices turning to disappointment as they complained of having to go back to the same worlds twice just to collect some stupid pages. I imagined them laughing at the simple graphics and wondering aloud when the cutscenes would show up. I could see them becoming bored and quickly logging into Gamefaqs to figure out what to do next, the pen and paper I’d placed in front of them completely ignored.

I smiled sadly down at the papers in my hands, remembering just how much work had gone into making the charts and maps, into recording everything that Myst had to offer, and the excitement I’d felt when finally making the connections that would solve a puzzle and open up new worlds to explore; worlds that could only be traversed by observing the physical logic that ruled them. I recalled how, at the time, nothing had excited me more than forging new paths into the dark mysteries surrounding the incredible back stories and vast loneliness of Myst.

For a moment longer I harbored the desire to revisit those worlds. Then I placed the papers back in the box and closed the lid. Sometimes you can’t go back. Sometimes the memories are too precious.

Featured community review by zippdementia (March 17, 2010) Zipp has spent most of his life standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door. There is a small mailbox there. Sometimes he writes reviews and puts them in the mailbox.