Pottering and Parenthood in Little Party

This is the first in a (hopefully) ongoing series where I attempt to play through, then write about, some 30-odd free games and demos I have downloaded in the past few years and never touched. What it will be called, I have no idea. Maybe “Mark is too easily tempted by free things, just like everybody else.”

I’ve never pottered in a game before. I’ve run, sprinted, teleported, swung, walked (simulated or otherwise), but never once have I pottered. There’s something deliberate about pottering; it almost has to be. There’s a pain in the movement. Not physical, perhaps. Just a mental anguish at no longer being the person you once were. It’s the perfect speed of movement for Little Party, a game where your character is not the centre of the narrative.

Your character is never named in Little Party. You are simply “Mom”, the person in the house with the greying hair who has the biggest bedroom and has to do work emails and look after the dog. The “little party” of the title is a creative sleep-over, held by your daughter for a few friends. Your home is the perfect place for such artistic endeavours, a solitary arboreal cabin, the sort of place bands go in order to find a new sound for their latest album. In this ersatz Pachyderm Studios, your daughter and her friends make board games, paint, record music and make films.

And you play no part in any of it. You don’t lay down any bass lines or play-test a bit of game. Your daughter Suzanne doesn’t push you away during the game. There’s just this implicit mother-daughter understanding that you’re not meant to be there. This is her space, her time to express herself. You learn that Mom used to paint when she was younger. But her story isn’t the one being told.

I don’t think I’ve played a game which so effortlessly captures being a secondary character. You don’t get to watch every pained note and exasperated brush stroke. You’re in the background, doing all the little things that carefree teens shouldn’t have to worry about. truly adore this sort of mundanity in games, doing those quotidian tasks that punctuate our existence like unwanted commas. It makes the game feel part of a reality I can exist in as well. You make guacamole. You take the dog for a walk. You read a book. The game doesn’t turn these tasks into forced mini-games; the screen simply fades to black for a few seconds. Then, you can go check on your daughter and her friends, but it’s never obtrusive.

Your character doesn’t need a name. You are simply “Mom”, the immovable rock in your daughter’s life by which she can grow and bloom. You aren’t meant to be a creative force, you’re meant to be reliable, predictable. This isn’t her story; this isn’t your story either. You are simply “Mom”, and that’s all you need to be.