It is hard to be a person of vague age trapped in the American wasteland. This game, like many in this Age of Videogames, is based around survival and crafting. The barks are helpful because they’re what help you stay alive. It’s about managing your life and the life of your dog, Aesop, a strange mutt with a backpack who rolls around the apocalypse barking at every damn thing he can get near. That’s what The Flame in the Flood is all about: safety. There’s a meter that tells you exactly how close you are to drowning in floodwater muck, and you can get down to the smallest sliver, praying that you can make it to the next marina so you can spend some nuts and bolts to get a little bit of safety back into your life. Each hit makes the model a little more ragged. The raft is made of barrels, tires and planks, so scraping land or running full-on into the supports of shattered overpass is bad for you.
The player controls a raft that travels along what might be a river that’s swelled so far beyond its banks that you can’t even estimate where they might have been.
There should not be peace in this action. It’s a post-lapsarian fantasy of humanity sunk beneath waves where no waves should be, and the navigation of those waves is some of the most peaceful excitement in memory. One gets the sense that there is no going back. One has to assume that it has destroyed everything in some kind of scenario that has changed the land permanently. The world of the game, a strange bleak southernist apocalypse space, has been overrun with water. The most beautiful part of The Flame in the Flood is when you’re on the open water and rafting your way toward the future.
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