Death Stranding and Little Libraries: Connecting with the Unseen Other
Even the little things matter
There’s a different kind of ecosystem in Toronto. You’ll miss it if you keep to the main streets and intersections, but if you explore the residential neighbourhoods, navigating past the old Victorians and Georgians, you’ll find it.
One house might have children’s clothes neatly folded on the sidewalk, another an offering of dog-eared paperbacks or a collection of various dishes and kitchen utensils. Then there are the little libraries. The small, roofed cupboards with an eclectic mix of books donated by members of the community and the odd passerby, where Graham Greene mingles with Captain Underpants.
The idea is you take a book and leave a book. And if you see something strewn out on a lawn, and if it’s something you need, you take it with you. It’s an unspoken exchange, built around a communal understanding: these things are better shared or handed-down than thrown away, and if someone doesn’t have a use for it anymore, maybe someone else does.
I’ve made my fair share of contributions to little libraries and I’ve also claimed a few titles for myself. The same goes for the community’s lawn offerings. I’ve left things out I no longer needed and have collected the stuff I did. What’s interesting is I’ve never met the people who’ve been kind enough to share things they no longer need, nor have I seen the people who’ve claimed the items I’ve left out. This exchange has happened so much that I never thought anything of it.
Until I replayed Death Stranding.
Released in 2019, Death Stranding, created by Japanese video game auteur Hideo Kojima, follows Sam Porter Bridges, a courier and delivery man, who must deliver various packages in the hopes of reassembling and reconnecting the shattered remnants of the United States after an apocalyptic event. This catastrophe, known as the Death Stranding, has made the world of the living and the dead collide, and in navigating a treacherous environment inspired by Iceland’s primordial landscape, Sam must dodge dangerous spirits trapped in limbo to accomplish his mission. You can watch some gameplay here.
Death Stranding isn’t a shooter. There’s not much in the way of action, nor does it follow the clearly defined tropes of a specific genre. Some have jokingly called it a walking simulator. There’s a bit of truth to that, I suppose. I’d go as far as calling it an arthouse video game. Even though it was widely released, Death Stranding by no means follows the mainstream framework of most games released today. It’s a curated pastiche, taking inspiration from movies like 2001: A Space Odyssey and Stalker to anime, novels and poetry. I play it because it’s a meditative experience. You listen to the sounds of the environment around you and take in the scenery as you make deliveries. You hone in on the menial task and give into the relaxed routine of it all.
What I’ve come to like most about the game is something I didn’t appreciate in my first play-through, which I completed before the pandemic really got into full swing. Death Stranding has a multiplayer feature which, like most of the game’s design, isn’t common elsewhere. The more you connect the various locations and waypoints in the game, the more you connect with other players all across the world via the internet. But here’s the kicker - you never see them, you don’t run into them, but what you do find are the items they’ve left behind to help you with your journey.
A player-placed ladder may help you climb a treacherous mountain or cross a raging river to get to your ultimate destination, a generator will recharge your dying vehicle, and postboxes are often filled with resources and donated items to help ensure your survival. And even though you’re the only soul physically wandering through the game’s wide open and expansive world, you’re reminded that you’re not alone. Players from across the globe are spiritually with you every step of the way.
This didn’t mean much to me before the pandemic, when being social was something I took for granted and even grew a little disenchanted with. But the game and its mechanics made an unexpected impact on me in the aftermath of that isolating and introspective time, and as I continue to work from home.
My life is quieter than it was before the pandemic. It’s gotten a little slower. Most of this I’m happy with, but I’m still coming to terms with the isolation. I find myself thriving for connection, for being a bit more social than I was before the outbreak. I’m finally understanding the importance of staying in touch with friends and family, but even more in making small talk with neighbours and the people in my community. I get a refreshing energy from catching up with my barber or a quick chat with a barista, swapping a polite nod with another cafe-goer. And sure, it can be a little awkward, but that’s the fun of it. It keeps me on my toes. It brings a bit of unexpected variability to my day. More than anything, it reminds me I’m not alone. Even though I’m isolated by the nature of my work, I’m reminded I’m part of something bigger.
This all sort of gelled for me one day after I played some Death Stranding and stepped out for a walk. I dropped off a few books a little library and it suddenly clicked. Much like the character in the game and the other players who populated the environment with helpful items, I was leaving something behind that helped me on my journey, not realizing it had the potential to help someone else with theirs.
I’ll never see the person who takes the book I left behind or the items I’ve left for them on my lawn, and I’ve never seen the people who’ve left things behind for me, but somehow we’re all managing to help each other in little ways. Maybe one of those items was exactly what someone needed and couldn’t afford, but what I do know is many of the free books I’ve read have given my life and introspection more meaning and understanding.
Beautiful, isn’t it?
What this has helped me realize is the ways in which we affect each other without knowing. There are so many little things we do and don’t do that end up connecting with people we’ll never meet. And there are so many things they’ve done that’ve managed to make our lives just a little bit better. We leave things behind each and every day, ranging from physical to intangible, direct and indirect, that impact someone else. A door held open, a smile on a bad day, a compliment, donated clothing, a shovelled sidewalk. It all adds up.
It’s easy these days to get pessimistic and cynical. Social media and its illusion of connection have a way of making us think we’re the world’s main character, that we have to conquer each other to get a leg up. It’s us against the world.
I think it’s the exact opposite. Even if we have lots of people in our lives, at the end of the day, we’re all alone in our heads and with our thoughts. But there are little things we can do each and every day for the people we love and for the people we don’t know and may never come to know, without the instant gratification of seeing the result, to remind us of a comforting, reassuring truth: we’re all in this together. And it’s what we leave behind that makes all the difference.
See you next week.
- Keith