That game is Life is Strange (2015).
Now celebrating its 10th anniversary, Don’t Nod and Square Enix’s third-person narrative adventure tells the story of Max Caulfield, a photography student who discovers she can rewind time. On Oct. 7, Max has a vision of a catastrophic storm. By Oct. 11, she must figure out how to change the fate of her town and her relationships.
But Life is Strange isn’t only about supernatural powers. It’s an introspective journey where choices aren’t just gameplay mechanics — they’re philosophical dilemmas and moral crossroads. The hardest of them all? Belgian waffles vs. bacon omelette, obviously. I mean, how do you even begin to choose? I couldn’t. I spent 15 minutes debating with my little cousin how some sugary goodness might help us solve the mystery.
It was with him as my faithful companion that I decided to navigate this pixelated world that — despite its bending of physics — at times felt terrifyingly more real than the outside world. We investigated, solved puzzles, weighed our options, and braced the storm together. Those moments weren’t just play — they were connection, escape, and sometimes, even healing. Healing, because this is a queer game, and that meant the world to me: seeing a queer relationship as a possible choice — not a side plot, not a token gesture, but a real, meaningful path. And imagine that: being able to choose love that represents you. It wasn’t the first game to do this, and at the time, there was even some pushback, as many felt that it wasn’t enough; yet, this is undeniably one of the few games that still made its representation feel honest, tender, and central. It was also lovely to see my cousin vehemently supporting this colourful path.
There’s a sense of kinship I felt with the main character, Max. Not just because you play in her shoes, but because we shared traits — a love of polaroids, a tendency to observe rather than speak, and fondness for those quiet moments where you sit and reflect on how strange life truly is. She doesn’t quite fit in, yet she manages to grab the attention of many. And Max’s estranged childhood best friend, Chloe? Full of reckless abandon and built-up rage, yet brave and fiercely loyal. These characters are relatable and well-rounded, and their relationship serves as the driving force behind this masterpiece. Having two women at the helm of the story is also a testament to a step in the right direction for video games.
Not to mention the soundtrack: a mix of melancholy and magic, echoing every emotional beat of the narrative. “Santa Monica Dream“ by Angus & Julia Stone and “Obstacles” by Syd Matters — even a decade later — still trigger memories of gentle interludes, grief, and hope. Musical narrative needs to be explored more in video games and I will die on this hill!
It’s wild to think this all started with a small indie studio that dared to tell a tale that was raw and deeply human. That risk led to a franchise, and I would not forgive myself if I didn’t at least mention the comics that expanded one possible timeline and added even more depth to this universe. But beware: this universe is not for the faint of heart. I’m being cereal here. If you dare take the plunge, prepare for the emotional damage.
Recently, someone told me video games are useless. That they don’t tell stories. The first game that came to mind to contest that idea was Life is Strange.
A game that begins with a storm and ends with a choice that still haunts me. It’s tragic. It’s queer. It’s beautiful. And it’s proof that games can be literature, cinema, and therapy all at once.
Games aren’t just entertainment. They’re memory. They’re legacy. They’re the stories we choose to live — and sometimes, the ones we wish we could rewrite and freeze in time. Like Max, who longs to stay in a moment forever, but knows if she did it wouldn’t be a moment anymore.
