I’m out on the open water. A bright orange fishing line trails from the back of my yellow kayak, the only splashes of colour cutting through the grey ocean and rapidly descending fog. Suddenly, my lovely fishing trip at the edge of the Atlantic is beset by fear, a fear that wouldn't have ever entered my consciousness a couple of months before.
Some games stick in your mind for days, months, and even years after playing them. You’re probably thinking of one right now because I’ve said that. For the majority of the past year, my mind has been occupied by the stories of Citizen Sleeper, ricocheting around my skull like atoms in the Large Hadron Collider. Then there are other games you enjoy, but only certain things remind you of them once in a while. It turns out that going ocean fishing triggers all sorts of memories about reeling in disfigured angler fish and Lovecraftian horrors hiding in the fog. Thanks, Dredge.
I really liked Dredge. The combination of creepy vibes and satisfying fishing mechanics hit all the right buttons for me. I loved upgrading my tugboat, gradually exploring new areas, and quickly developing a diurnal work routine that my IRL self could only dream of. Night time is terrifying in Dredge, especially as you start being hunted by incorporeal sharks that take out your lights and engines. I limped home from a fishing excursion on multiple occasions, surviving on the weakest of engines and the seat of my pants. But it’s the creeping sense of dread that gets me.
Dredge’s plot is drip fed to you, almost begrudgingly. You’re rewarded with delicious nuggets of context for exploring far afield and stumbling on deserted islands, and therefore piecing the narrative together feels so much more rewarding than if it had just handed you a 20-piece sharebox of lore dump right at the beginning. Developer Black Salt Games understands that the unknown can be far more terrifying than a paragraph of scary sentences, and thus gives the explorative gameplay a narrative hook: find out what the heck is going on here, and quick.
I’m not particularly into fishing – I certainly wouldn’t go as far as to call it a hobby – but when on holiday in the most remote peninsula in Ireland, it’s a calling. Grab the kayaks and a handful of hooks, and head onto the water. We fish right on the edge of the Atlantic, cowering just inside the estuary, still fighting the tides but just out of reach of the crashing waves. Tommy the fisherman goes further afield, but this is his livelihood. Besides, he’s in a boat with engines and winches and lobster pots. We’ve just got open-topped kayaks and a line.
I often wonder what Tommy sees out there, past our capabilities and imaginations. I wonder what he thinks about when he comes home each night, to a village that is a handful of houses seemingly built to keep the pub in business, a village where everyone knows everyone else, a village with no shop or inhabitants under the age of 70. I wonder this because I’m still thinking about the fog.
I’ve kayaked through fog and clouds on numerous occasions before. Last week I kayaked against the winds and tide for 50 minutes just to end up on the shore I’d left ten minutes prior. It’s hard, but at midday, the only fear I had was that my muscles or lungs would give out before I reached my destination. But this time was different. This time, I wondered what was hidden in the fog that encroached so quickly on my position. I wondered what it would secrete onto my hooks far below. And I wondered if I should paddle a little further away.
Dredge’s fish are hooked in via fun minigames or trawled by giant nets attached to your hull. Getting into the perfect rhythm is immensely satisfying, only for that satisfaction to be immediately replaced by revulsion as you take in the vile creature you’ve just hauled from the depths. Fishes with too many eyes and octopuses with abnormal brain-like growths are the least of your worries; at least you can comprehend them. Those foul gills were, moments ago, propelling this creature through the ocean directly below you. What else could be waiting underneath the waves?
I wasn’t looking for a coelacanth, or even hoping for anything as big as trout, on my fishing trip. We hope for mackerel, and sometimes settle for perch. This week, we were all unsuccessful in hooking so much as a minnow. I jokingly suggested that the seals who’d been following us had warned the fish to steer clear of our neon vessels, but I couldn’t help but wonder if something else was at play. Perhaps the fish were swimming away from something else. Something in the fog. The day had grown late, too. It wasn’t close to nightfall but the weather made it feel like dusk. What would we see on the water if we stayed out? What did the fish fear? What did the fog hide?
If we’d caught a mackerel, and eaten it – my friend, a chef, was talking about tartares and ceviches – I worry about the effect it could have had on us. I certainly wouldn’t buy produce from the creepy fishmonger in Greater Marrow, and I don’t think I would eat anything caught on a foggy trip on the waters beneath the southern tip of Ireland either.
We turned back and arrived home tired and hungry, but I was glad. The thing about real life fishing is that it’s far more boring than any video game mechanic. It’s mostly waiting, really, even if you can split that up on the ocean by paddling around a little, trying different spots and embracing new scenery. As new as ‘more water’ can be, I guess. That gives you a lot of time to think. I wasn’t properly scared by my foggy trip onto the water, but I would certainly describe it as unsettling. And that’s entirely down to the effects of Dredge.