That Dragon, Cancer: I’m Sorry Guys, It’s Not Good review: tenderly contemplative

Ryan and Amy Green created the indie video game That Dragon, Cancer: I’m Sorry Guys, It’s Not Good to help deal with the death of their five-year-old son Joel, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer at a very young age and passed away in 2014. The original version was described by The Guardian as an “unforgettable experience” poignantly motivated to “leave a mark on a little boy’s behalf—something to show he was here, and real, and mattered.” A shorter, slimmed-down iteration of the experience was released for VR, which is the one reviewed here: an artfully made production steeped in a profound sense of loss. 

We assume the role of a God-like onlooker that enters the bodies and minds of various characters situated in a medical clinic, during an emotionally challenging time, accessing their inner thoughts and observing the same scenario from different perspectives. We have the ability to change perspectives (selecting different characters at designated points in the runtime) but never outcomes. Joel is rendered without any distinguishable facial features, as if the boy’s emotions are a blank canvas waiting to be filled—or perhaps indicating that he’s representative of other children and experiences.

This narrative-driven production is intended, like the original game, to convey the helplessness and intense feelings experienced by Ryan and Amy—and, to a lesser extent, the doctors—as they undergo various aspects of Joel’s diagnosis and treatment. We’re initially positioned above a couch in a waiting room, to the left of three people: a man, Ryan, who is leaning forward, clearly on edge and waiting for something; a woman, Amy, on a separate couch with her hands folded in her lap; and, to our immediate right, young Joel. 

A nearby “Spin and Say” toy functions like a remote control, enabling us to switch between people. After two doctors enter and one says “I’m sorry guys, it’s not good,” pictures of the animals on the “Spin and Say” are replaced by images of the four adults in the room. Above the wheel are instructions—“tap this lever to rewind time and experience other points of view”—signifying the beginning of the experience’s limited interactive elements. 

Once a choice is made, we’re transported into the selected character’s body and become privy to their inner thoughts. If we choose Ryan’s perspective, for example, we discover ourselves where he’s seated. We see his hands and legs—our new virtual body—and hear a short inner monologue.

When all four perspectives have been accessed, the sound of running water marks the beginning of a scene change that grows increasingly surreal and dream-like, the carpet beneath the characters’ feet rising like water and filling the room. It begins raining inside, signifying a symbolic storm or period of emotional turbulence. At the end of the experience a final portion of text appears: “Thank you for playing. Tap to experience again from another point of view.”

This kind of interactivity is pretty much as simple as it gets—like turning pages in a Choose Your Own Adventure book. And yet it enables one of the great features of art: observing human existence from another perspective. In that context That Dragon Cancer is a modest success, slight but profound, feeling at all times tenderly crafted and contemplative.