It’s dangerous to go alone, as we say — and in no game is that more true thanWe Know the Devil. It’s both narratively and mechanically about the value of community and the cost of isolation, something a lot of its players are intimately familiar with.
Writing for Waypoint, Jennifer Unkle talks about the impact WKTD had on her own life. Like the game, Unkle’s story is personal and harrowing, but ultimately uplifting.
[font_text link=”” icon=”star” color=”dark” size=”small” border=”off” spin=”off”]Content warning: Transphobia, Spoilers for We Know the Devil.[/font_text]
I am a college student, finally letting my doctor in after several lengthy sessions focused on depression. I can hear it in his voice. He thinks I’m delusional, that this will pass, and that any actions taken toward fulfilling my desires will be met with regret. I smile and nod as he offers his take, noting the row of homeopathic medicine displayed near his secretary’s desk as I make my exit.
Later that day, Dad can sense that I’m upset, that I’ve been upset for a long time, and offers to talk with me. I recall Einhorn, Buffalo Bill, and the doctor, then repeatedly insist I’m fine until he leaves me alone. I know he only wants to help, but my mind is full of worst-case scenarios that end in tears for the both of us. No parent should ever know their child is a monster.
We Know the Devil isn’t about finding yourself. Instead, it passes out armor for the fights ahead. We’re only featured in stories on rare occasions, and the majority of trans-related plots negate our roles as human beings, even painting us as demons. To that, We Know the Devil asks, so what?
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