Disco Elysium

After spending 58 hours immersed in Disco Elysium‘s fractured psyche of a world, I’ve emerged profoundly moved by what might be the most psychologically nuanced CRPG ever created. Far from being just a murder mystery, this game dragged me through the murky depths of a broken soul, searching for meaning amidst personal catastrophe. The haunting melancholy of abandoned love, the clash of failed ideologies, and the persistent ghosts of trauma all weave together into something that transcends conventional gaming. Each conversation, internal dialogue, and moral choice resonated with an uncomfortable authenticity that mirrored our most deep-seated emotional wounds. Disco Elysium doesn’t merely tell a story—it transforms your understanding of how games can explore the human condition, leaving you contemplating its insights long after the credits roll.

Waking up with a killer hangover and complete amnesia in a trashed hostel room, I found myself inhabiting the role of Detective Harry DuBois, a man who has obliterated his identity through substance abuse and trauma. This opening sequence, which can potentially end with a heart attack from trying to retrieve a necktie hanging from a ceiling fan, immediately establishes the stakes: in Disco Elysium, even the most mundane actions can be fatal when filtered through a broken psyche. Having navigated through the first few minutes of gameplay, the brilliance of ZA/UM’s approach to roleplaying becomes evident in these opening moments. Rather than controlling a blank slate onto which I could project myself, I was navigating the fractured consciousness of a fully realised character with a history I was as ignorant of as he was. This amnesia creates a unique storytelling opportunity, allowing me to discover Harry’s past alongside him, piecing together the fragments of a shattered life while simultaneously investigating a murder in the district of Martinaise.

What begins as a straightforward case—a hanged mercenary behind the Whirling in Rags hostel—gradually unfolds into a complex exploration of Revachol’s social, political, and historical wounds. Interviewing the locals reveals a community fractured by a bitter strike between the dockworkers’ union and the megacorporation Martinaise. This conflict serves as a microcosm for the broader ideological battles that have shaped Revachol’s history—communism, fascism, moralism, and ultra-liberalism all having left their marks on this once-revolutionary city. The setting itself is a character, with its crumbling architecture and haunting emptiness reflecting the failed utopian dreams of its inhabitants.

What distinguishes Disco Elysium from other narrative RPGs is its extraordinary skill system, which transforms your character’s internal faculties into speaking entities with their own personalities and agendas. Instead of traditional attributes like strength or charisma, you’re assigning points to aspects of your psyche: logic argues for rational deduction, empathy urges compassion, and Half Light encourages paranoia and aggression. These 24 different voices don’t just determine success in skill checks; they actively comment on your surroundings, offer unsolicited advice, and sometimes outright lie to you. My logic might coolly analyse a crime scene while electrochemistry desperately urges me to search the area for drugs instead. This system creates a revolutionary approach to roleplaying where you’re not simply choosing dialogue options but negotiating with different aspects of yourself.

The beauty of this system becomes even more apparent when attempting difficult skill checks. Failing these checks doesn’t simply block progress but often opens alternative pathways that reveal different facets of the story. When my attempt to intimidate a witness failed spectacularly, it didn’t end the conversation—it revealed Harry’s fragility beneath his tough exterior, eliciting unexpected sympathy from the witness. This approach to “failure” as an alternative narrative branch rather than a dead end encourages experimentation and risk-taking in a genre typically plagued by save-scumming. Would Harry, in his fragmented state, actually succeed at everything he attempts? Of course not—and the game is richer for acknowledging this reality.

In a brilliant inversion of traditional RPG progression, Disco Elysium‘s “Thought Cabinet” system allows you to internalise ideas encountered throughout your investigation. By dwelling on concepts from political ideologies to personal traumas, you can unlock both benefits and drawbacks that fundamentally alter your character. When I chose to internalise an enigmatic thought relating to a mysterious figure from Harry’s past—someone whose presence lingers like the scent of apricot-flavoured chewing gum—I found my character drawn deeper into melancholic introspection, gaining certain emotional insights while losing his grip on objective reality. This system elegantly merges mechanical progression with thematic exploration, making character development itself a commentary on how our beliefs and traumas shape our capabilities.

The narrative unfolds across Martinaise, a district that exemplifies the concept of “failed utopia.” Once the heart of a revolutionary movement, Revachol now bears the scars of a revolution crushed by foreign powers, leaving it in a state of political limbo under the authority of the Coalition government. The architectural landscape mirrors this history: grandiose revolutionary buildings crumbling into disrepair, corporate developments encroaching on working-class neighbourhoods, and the omnipresent graffiti that serves as the voice of the voiceless. Exploring this environment isn’t merely about discovering new quest locations but about excavating layers of history that provide context for the current social tensions.

Within this setting, Disco Elysium presents one of the most nuanced explorations of political ideology in gaming. Rather than offering simplistic moral judgements, it presents each political philosophy—from communism to fascism, ultraliberalism to moralism—with both its idealistic aspirations and its catastrophic failures. When engaging with Evrart Claire, the manipulative union boss, or Joyce Messier, the sophisticated corporate negotiator, I found myself simultaneously drawn to and repelled by their perspectives. The game refuses easy answers, instead illustrating how ideologies can become corrupted by human failings and institutional inertia.

Central to this political exploration is Harry himself, whose blank slate offers the opportunity to adopt or reject various ideological stances. Should I embrace the revolutionary fervour of communism, the nostalgic authoritarianism of fascism, the cynical pragmatism of moralism, or the unfettered individualism of ultraliberalism? Each choice shapes not only dialogue options but Harry’s understanding of himself and his place in the world. What makes this system so compelling is how it acknowledges the emotional appeal of extreme ideologies to damaged individuals seeking meaning—a psychological insight rarely explored in gaming.

No discussion of Disco Elysium would be complete without mentioning Kim Kitsuragi, Harry’s stoic partner who serves as both foil and moral anchor. Kim’s restrained professionalism contrasts sharply with Harry’s chaotic nature, creating a dynamic partnership that evolves based on my choices. When I opted for increasingly unhinged behaviour—declaring myself a superstar cop, speaking to inanimate objects, or developing bizarre theories about the case—Kim’s reactions ranged from restrained disappointment to reluctant amusement. Building his trust became as important to me as solving the murder, making our partnership the emotional heart of the narrative.

The murder investigation itself serves as a brilliant narrative device, providing structure to what might otherwise be an overwhelming character study. As I gathered evidence and interviewed witnesses, the case expanded beyond a simple homicide to encompass the district’s labour dispute, historical traumas, and supernatural elements. The pacing masterfully balances detective work with character development, using each new lead to reveal another layer of Martinaise’s complex social ecosystem and Harry’s troubled past.

Aesthetically, Disco Elysium employs a distinctive oil painting-inspired art style that perfectly complements its thematic elements. The expressionistic visuals, with their distorted perspectives and exaggerated features, externalise the internal distortions of Harry’s perception. Are the surreal elements—like the talking necktie or the pale—objectively real, or manifestations of Harry’s deteriorating mental state? This ambiguity is enhanced by British Sea Power’s haunting soundtrack, which shifts seamlessly from melancholic piano pieces to discordant electronic tracks as Harry’s investigation deepens. 

The band, renamed simply “Sea Power” since the game’s release, created compositions that brilliantly capture both the personal desolation of Harry’s inner landscape and the broader socio-political decay of Revachol. Their music evokes the same atmospheric melancholy found in the Soviet Wave genre—that nostalgic electronic music trend that emerged from post-Soviet spaces, romanticising the lost futures promised by communist ideology. This musical connection subtly reinforces the game’s exploration of failed political systems and the emotional aftermath of their collapse.

The game’s writing deserves special recognition for its literary quality, blending philosophical depth with darkly comic absurdism. Conversations with characters like the cryptozoologist Lena or the racist lorry driver Measurehead are masterclasses in dialogue writing, revealing complex worldviews through distinctive speech patterns. The internal monologues, where Harry’s different faculties debate and contradict each other, achieve a level of psychological realism rarely seen in any medium, let alone gaming. The voice acting introduced in The Final Cut edition elevates this writing further, with performances that capture the nuanced personalities of each character while avoiding stereotypical voice acting tropes.

What elevates Disco Elysium beyond mere entertainment is its unflinching exploration of trauma and addiction. Harry’s alcoholism and emotional breakdown following some mysterious personal catastrophe aren’t treated as quirky character traits but as devastating conditions that have stripped him of his identity and dignity. The game never romanticises self-destruction, instead illustrating its catastrophic personal and professional consequences. Yet within this bleak portrait, there exists the possibility of redemption—not through grand heroics but through small acts of human connection and the gradual reassembly of a functional self.

The game’s approach to memory proves particularly affecting. As I recovered fragments of Harry’s past through conversations and environmental triggers, I experienced the pain of remembering alongside him. Each recovered memory—from professional failures to the heartbreak that seems to haunt him like a phantom pain—added another piece to the puzzle of his identity. This process mirrors our own construction of self through narrative, suggesting that identity itself is a story we tell about our past actions and experiences.

Perhaps most remarkably, Disco Elysium achieves this psychological depth while remaining fundamentally playful. For every moment of existential despair, there’s an opportunity for absurdist humour—whether it’s having a philosophical debate with your necktie, attempting to convince a child you’re actually a supernatural entity, or failing so spectacularly at karaoke that you psychologically damage your audience. This tonal balance prevents the game from collapsing under the weight of its heavier themes, instead creating a tragicomic experience that feels truthful to the contradictions of human existence.

The title Disco Elysium itself carries a particular resonance within the game’s world. Disco—that glittering, excessive music genre that flourished in the West during the 1970s—takes on a different significance in the context of Eastern Bloc countries, where it represented not just a musical style but a form of cultural resistance against authoritarian control. The game brilliantly incorporates this history into its worldbuilding, suggesting how disco culture penetrated the Iron Curtain as a symbol of Western decadence and freedom, arriving late and lingering long after its decline elsewhere. Harry’s personal obsession with disco isn’t just a character quirk but a profound metaphor—a man clinging to a faded cultural moment that promised liberation and transcendence, much like the revolutionaries of Revachol clung to ideological promises that ultimately collapsed. His self-proclaimed identity as a “disco star” reveals both the pathos of his delusions and the genuine human need to find meaning through cultural identification.

It’s impossible to fully appreciate Disco Elysium without acknowledging the painful irony that a game so focused on moral compromise, toxic power dynamics, and the corruption of idealism would itself emerge from a studio environment seemingly plagued by similar issues. The reports of toxicity at ZA/UM, with allegations centred around lead writer Robert Kurvitz’s leadership style, create an uncomfortable parallel to the game’s own themes. Former and current employees have described a workplace culture where some developers received preferential treatment, feedback could be harshly delivered, and the creative process itself became traumatic for many involved. The bitter legal battles that followed Kurvitz’s departure have only deepened these wounds, with some developers even receiving death threats from passionate fans.

This situation creates a complex lens through which to view the game. When Disco Elysium asks us to confront our own moral failings and political contradictions, it now carries the shadow of its own creation story. As Lauren Morton noted in her reflection on the game, “Progress, of the personal, social, and political varieties, is always painful. It involves tough decisions. It requires making messes. It isn’t about being ‘Nice.'” The game itself seems to anticipate its own troubled legacy, suggesting that even our most sincere artistic expressions can’t escape the moral compromises inherent in their creation.

As I approached the game’s conclusion, having pieced together both the murder mystery and Harry’s fractured past, I found myself emotionally invested in a way few games have managed. Would my version of Harry find some measure of redemption or spiral further into self-destruction? Would I solve the case, and at what cost to Martinaise’s fragile social ecosystem? The game offers no easy resolutions, instead presenting choices with ambiguous moral dimensions that reflect the complexity of real-world ethical dilemmas.

The game’s philosophical underpinnings draw heavily from Albert Camus’ theory of the absurd, positioning Harry as an absurd hero navigating a meaningless world. Like Sisyphus eternally pushing his boulder uphill, Harry continues his investigation despite its apparent futility, finding purpose in the struggle itself rather than any guaranteed resolution. This existentialist framework provides intellectual heft to what might otherwise be a conventional detective story, transforming Harry’s personal journey into a meditation on how we construct meaning in a universe indifferent to our suffering.

The pale, a mysterious force present in the world of Disco Elysium, serves as a powerful metaphor for the weight of history and collective trauma. This enigmatic phenomenon ties into the game’s broader themes without needing explicit explanation. The game offers no definitive answers about its nature, instead suggesting that acknowledging our wounds might be more important than healing them.

In an industry often criticised for narrative immaturity, Disco Elysium stands as a testament to what video games can achieve as an artistic medium. By leveraging the unique potential of interactive storytelling—allowing players to not just witness but participate in a character’s psychological journey—ZA/UM has created an experience that could not exist in any other form. The game’s willingness to engage with complex philosophical questions, political ideologies, and psychological realities without offering simplistic answers represents a significant evolution in gaming’s narrative sophistication.