Games were hard in the early 1990s. Even a humble adventure might require months, if not years, to complete. Consider the pie in King’s Quest V, and my father, who was not OK with me calling America (on the telephone) for a hint. At the stubborn age of 12, I ‘completed’ The Colonel’s Bequest, Sierra’s first Laura Bow mystery, in spite of the incongruous (bad) ending dialogue; “Could there be more to the story? Oh well, you’ll probably never know. Best to forget it and go on with your life.” I did go on with my life, but never quite forgot.
At the internet-facilitated, hint-abundant age of 43 (two years ago), I replayed The Colonel’s Bequest, for the purpose of understanding what I had missed. I was disappointed to realise that there was never a true ‘fail run’ because, although time progressed based on exploration and the triggering of sequential events, the clock suddenly stopped at 9.30pm, until you had solved a great many puzzles. (The game assumed you were solving them along the way, like a regular early Sierra game, rather than doubling down on the experimental, innovative structure in which ‘being oblivious’ was presented as a valid option.) And, although I had definitely missed a small, yet significant, collection of important things, there was really only one, or two, variations on the game’s ending, anyway.
And so, when The Crimson Diamond came along, I was ideally placed to appreciate it. Although someone new to parser adventures is also likely to love it, this game feels utterly made for me; for my nostalgic inner child, and for the discerning reviewer I try to be now. I failed my first run spectacularly, in a way that was so affirming. Where The Colonel’s Bequest made you feel like a useless detective via a few lines of throwaway dialogue, The Crimson Diamond has 15-20 minutes of deep reflection, debriefing, being interrogated, epilogue, and so on. This occurs without spoilers, but nonetheless reveals the depth of what you have misunderstood. This is not a game you’re supposed to ‘finish’, it’s a game you’re supposed to avoid finishing until every aspect has been intimately dissected, in every possible way, with your eyes, ears, nose, fingers, possibly even your tongue. (The thing I licked was very informative, really.)
Nancy Maple is a mineralogist, sent to a remote, garnet mining town, to investigate rumours of a diamond. Her cheerful enthusiasm for rocks, and willingness to snoop, are charming and infectious. She’s borrowed most of Laura Bow’s clothes, and hairstyle, and the lodge in which she stays is uncannily similar to Colonel Henri’s mansion. Yet, the Crimson Diamond is not a remake, parody, (or plagiarism). It’s a faithful and clever homage that pushes the boundaries of what The Colonel’s Bequest set out to achieve; to show the player that choosing to try harder can be rewarding, especially when juxtaposed with the irritation of ‘missing out’.
When precious things get stolen, and someone gets murdered, some of Nancy’s tasks are mandatory, like collecting everyone’s fingerprints and examining evidence, but these are clearly explained and relevant to her position, as a scientist who is conveniently passing through. A nifty ‘review’ feature causes Nancy to list, and summarise, all of her current goals, and such quality of life improvements effectively mitigate the pixel hunts, parser wrangling and more painfully authentic genre throwbacks. If that last sentence sounded like a criticism, it wasn’t. There is honestly nothing I love more than painful authenticity. I grinned each time I fatally slipped on the same (not actually Stair Quest level dangerous) slippery rock, or hastily misspelled ‘ask abotu’. (The Crimson Diamond does have keyboard shortcuts, if not the autocorrect/suggest of Snail Trek.)
The generous volume of dialogue, cutscenes and ambient description, make The Crimson Diamond’s story feel rich and detailed. Because puzzles are what I usually enjoy most, I wasn’t expecting to care so much about the characters. They’re an interesting collection of visitors, locals, siblings, employees and lovers, who are invested in diamonds, and other things, to varying degrees. There are also First Nations themes around land and mining to ‘ask abotu’. You can’t use the word ‘use’, so creatively using other verbs like ‘brush’ and ‘turn’, also really connected me to context. It is exciting to know that one scene of basic-looking forest is likely hiding many creative potential ways to engage.
Hints are presented like an old-school, highlighter experience, in which you navigate to the question you need, and then reveal sequential lines of text. I am a big fan of incremental hint systems, but this structure wasn’t specific enough to avoid spoiling content for me, because it’s actually more of a walkthrough than a hint system. (I used it twice, for mandatory progression.) It’s also interesting that (more than half of) hints are provided for all of the things you may have missed, before progressing. I’m torn on whether this undermines the experience of ‘playing well’ to feel satisfied (assuming you have as little self-control as I, because I peeked after only one fail-through), or whether it’s just cool to see quite how much optional content there is, explicitly laid out.
I was interested to see what other games the designer, Julia Minamata, has made, but this appears to be her debut. She absolutely nailed it. I initially wondered why The Crimson Diamond was quite so much like The Colonel’s Bequest, but having cause to so strongly remember the latter, as I played, contextualised Minamata’s very significant achievement for me.
If her intention was to conclusively answer the important genre questions, about agency, failure and engagement, that Sierra raised so long ago, she did. Consider playing both games, and for as long as it takes to truly discover everything.
The Crimson Diamond was reviewed on PC using a code kindly provided by the developer.
