Vanishing Grace review: lonely and contemplative

Like many VR productions of the present era, Vanishing Grace evokes a striking sense of solitude. Navigating this world is a lonely experience; sometimes I wanted to cry out “where the hell is everybody?” There is however a narrative justification for this, the experience taking place mostly on a caravan-like hovercraft gliding across barren desert in a future world that’s gone to the dogs for largely undisclosed reasons, imparting wasteland-like vibes. Like in other games such as Farpoint, Stormland and Red Matter, the story involves retracing the steps of particular people—in this instance Grace, the best friend of Joel, the player we embody.

Visiting the kind of world depicted in Vanishing Grace feels a little like arriving at a community in the wake of a natural disaster: we weren’t there when it happened but its impact can be felt everywhere. We know this game’s world is not what it once was, tanging the narrative in a sense of loss. This is what I call “after the fact” drama—when the really big, impactful moments have already transpired, casting a long shadow.

Whereas Farpoint and Tidelands illustrated events from the past visually, using hologram-like presentations, Vanishing Grace uses something more basic: cassette tapes we discover around the vessel. These tapes provide stop-start voice-over narration, as we hear Grace musing about various things, from her emotional state of mind to commentary on the remote locations we visit, including an abandoned petrol station and lighthouse (none of which are particularly engrossing environments). Audio recordings in general and cassettes in particular are everywhere in video games: an easy and unimaginative way to divulge narrative information. 

The first tape we listen to in Vanishing Grace contains thoughts from Grace about her and John’s relationship: “I hope you aren’t mad at me anymore,” she begins, before moving onto vague commentary hinting at what the world has become. “I am no longer willing to bow down to the Citadel,” she says, which brought to my mind visions of Mad Mad: Fury Road. Are there War Boys yelling “witness?” An Immortan Joe type warlord fanging it across the landscape?

This line suggests a potential source of dramatic intrigue: unveiling the circumstances around how and why society collapsed. As does the commentary we trigger when we pick up an orange rock from a bench (some voice-over slabs don’t need to be triggered by cassettes; we hear them inexplicably, as if Grace has burrowed into our brains) in which Grace notes that “all other conventional fuels started to run out after the ‘93 incident.” 

Presumably she’s referring to the year 2093, but it’s all rather vague, the writers resisting painting specific details of what happened, beyond basic information about an extreme weather event. If the narrative in the present reality is compelling enough—the Mad Max movies are a good example of this—one doesn’t necessarily feel a strong desire to absorb backstory information. But if the narrative is lacking, as it is in Vanishing Grace, obliqueness can be irritating, bringing a sense of lost opportunity. 

The hovercraft is an OK central setting—nothing special—that’s effective in establishing a sense of homeliness. Like the (immobile) old bus in Walking Dead Saints and Sinners, it feels like a safe space, and one draws some comfort from being here. Duties performed on the ship involve operating the vessel, achieved by following instructions that appear in text and solving simple puzzles, for instance using a slider to accelerate, finding a handle to replace a broken one, and repairing a broken pipe with a blowtorch. A soft, reflective score communicates during these moments there is no rush or danger, nor any consequences for moving slowly. 

The vessel itself is in absolutely no hurry, even at full throttle; the point is not to provide a visceral thrill ride but to convey a steady sense of motion. This means that when we perform even menial duties—for instance fixing this or that, inserting a disk into a computer, picking up documents—the background keeps moving, conveying forward momentum: a feeling that the experience is still progressing even when we’re not doing much. This is a nice touch, because without it, Vanishing Grace would lose some of its already limited appeal.