Key Fairy feels both timely and timeless. This pacifist bullet hell game wears its kindness and compassion on its sleeve in a way that’s perhaps unusual for games in its (ostensible) genre. Like many of the very best games, it bursts out of and challenges its categorisation while simultaneously functioning as a remarkable example of it. It’s a genre-stretching game that got me thinking, more broadly, about combat in contemporary video games and their place in the wider cultural landscape.
All this comes through not only in its note-perfect dialogue but also in its core gameplay philosophy and design. But this supernatural folk tale, set deep in the heart of an enchanted forest, also feels like it’s existed forever, like it’s an old, old oral tale that’s been passed down through the ages only to finally arrive in our time in its current electronic form.
As the mysterious titular key fairy, you use a silken thread to grapple and swing your way through a fantastical 2D monochromatic forest world. You are a small, fragile creature – ‘in shape no bigger than an agate stone / On the forefinger of an alderman’ (the game put me in mind of the Queen Mab speech from Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream) – whose only defence is to keep on moving. This movement is hypnotising and soothing; a mesmerising dream. You don’t walk but float and twirl your way through the forest – with a charming pirouette animation – utilising your gossamer grappling hook to elegantly swoop across screens. It’s all very relaxing and lovely, until it’s not.
Every few screens you come across a forest denizen who has been bewitched. They are angry and confused, and you must restore them to their former selves in order to progress. During these single-screen encounters it all becomes rather frenetic, but the elegance of the movement remains as you dodge, grapple and swing around the confused creature, collecting stars that will help them regain their equilibrium.
Getting to grips with the mechanics of the silken thread and the dash (which is added to the moveset early on in the game) is a joy. Stringing together a set of spinning, swirling movements feels so delightfully smooth. The controls are remarkably responsive. Speedily grappling across a screen, even when backtracking, never gets old. And this is important, as you do have to retrace your steps in this often bewildering woodland world, in which brambly paths twist and turn into each other in purposefully disorienting ways.
The world design is superbly intricate, and exploration is a delight. You never know what creatures may dwell in the next clearing, or where the winding path you’re treading will take you. There is no map, which I liked, as it added to the mysteriousness of the place and the sense of adventure. But this does mean that a decent memory or, in my case, the drawing of your own map with pen and paper is required. As are quick reflexes.
You do not hit or kill ‘enemies’; you dodge and spin around them in a beautiful dance. And you save them, if you’re fast enough. It’s a difficult game. You have to be fleet of foot and of thought. It certainly tests your hand-eye coordination. Some of the bosses, in particular, felt nigh-on impossible on the first attempt, but I never got frustrated. Even after ten or more attempts, I was still smiling; such is the joy of the moveset and the delightful twirl and whirl of these non-combat encounters. The game is designed to be challenging, but I was pleased to see that there’s a comprehensive assist mode, which will hopefully open up this wonderful world to more players. (I, too, was relieved it was there, just in case I needed it).
I was surprised at just how liberating it felt to play a game in this type of combat-focused genre that didn’t actually have any violence. Helping, instead of hurting, bosses and other ‘enemies’ was a revelation, which made me think about just how many video games rely on violent conflict in order to function (heck, even Mario stomps on other creatures’ heads until they’re dead). There are, by the way, achievements in the game for being kind; all this compassion soon began to warm my cold, cynical heart.
As did the story behind the game’s development. Key Fairy started out as a final-year university project by a two-person team, Niosis and Tex Barnes, from Brisbane, Australia. (Jane Wei, Kirk Osamayo and Natalie Murrieta Lagos also contributed to the final game’s sound design and music). They pitched their game to Screen Queensland and, later, to Screen Australia and obtained grants enabling them to work on it full-time.
One of the things I love most about indie games is that, coming from smaller teams, you often get more of a sense of the individual creators behind them. Indeed, as is the case with a novel or a poem, it often feels like a meeting of minds between reader/player and writer/developer, with meaning being generated in the interaction between the two. This comes through strongly in Key Fairy. I felt the joy of their creative process, as well as our interactive acts of interpretation. On a more human level, I liked these wonderfully creative and compassionate people, lurking in the trees just behind the game, and wished I could know them in real life. In short, my heart was now positively warm. The games industry still has lovely tales to tell.
Back in the forest, the swirling art is intricate and beautiful. The ethereal flora and fauna feel so alive, their eyes always watching you from the undergrowth. But as I set out on my woodland adventure, admiring this dense, gorgeously drawn monochromatic dreamworld, I wondered just how well visual clarity would be maintained during the bullet-hell encounters to come. Would the lack of colour prove problematic?
Certainly, each encounter feels and looks different in terms of its environment. There are often trees, bushes and rocks encroaching upon the non-combat arenas – some of these you can grapple, some you can’t – not to mention the bewildered creatures and their projectiles. In short, the screens look busy, and you do have to get your ‘eye in’ to each of them and be aware of your surroundings, especially of what you can interact with. However, once I’d parsed each screen and mastered the movement mechanics, I was astounded at the game’s environmental readability. And this is coming from a relative rookie in the bullet-hell genre. Only a small handful of times did I succumb to an unseen projectile.
Moreover, the game has collectible colour palettes. I was surprised at just how much these changed up and further enhanced visual clarity in a way that felt bespoke. I could see much more clearly with some of them than with others, and I suspect that everyone will soon discover their own particular preferences. Meanwhile, the subtle forest soundscape – babbling brooks, cawing crows, murmuring trees – complements the art perfectly. And the understated music ramps up pleasingly during bullet heaven encounters.
The storytelling is allusive, skipping just ahead of you through the forest, enticing you onwards. And the dialogue is charmingly playful, like the flitting movement of the key fairy. Do talk to everyone you meet; there’s not a wasted word. There’s so much poetry in this forest. It all feels like a tale you’ve heard somewhere before. A folk tale for our fractured 21st century, which also feels like it’s been around for a long, long time.
