Dishonored 2: The Jindosh Lock
Or: Why I voluntarily spent 7 goddamn non-game hours on the stealth-action sequel’s hardest puzzle…
Note: This article contains mild spoilers for Dishonored 2. Continue at your peril…
My mother used to tell me I was smart. My god, you should’ve heard the way she’d enthuse about my supposed intelligence and future prospects. To the casual observer, you’d have thought I was the Second Coming.
No wonder my sister hated me.
I don’t say this to brag, only to provide a bit of context. As I got older, and my pool of schoolmates widened, it became clear that I was nothing spectacular. I like to think I’m not unintelligent, mind, but fans of Our Lord and Saviour might want to hold off on buying party poppers and streamers for now.
You’ll all be pleased to hear that I’m no longer a smug, precocious little shit. However, this early confidence, since tempered by experience and grim, miserable life, has left me with a rather irritating little trait: I’m annoyingly proud. A childhood of being told I was the smartest person in the class and winning ultimately meaningless academic plaudits has left me with the hugely inaccurate assumption that I can solve any problem placed in front of me. Within reason, of course. I wouldn’t say I was any sort of “prodigy”. Even my once-beaming mother would stop short of comparing me with Hawking, or Einstein…
…or Kirin Jindosh. Yes, the Grand Inventor to the Duke of Serkonos and former student of Anton Sokolov truly has an intellect to admire. He’s an archetypal reclusive genius, cut from the same cloth as Ex Machina’s Nathan, Bioshock’s Sander Cohen, or Willy Wonka (though with fewer sweets and more mechanical murder machines). His fingerprints (or more specifically, his Jindosh brand) can be found on most major contraptions throughout the Isles. He’s heavily involved in the conspiracy surrounding Dishonored 2’s coup, and as a result, you’ll target him early on in your quest to return to the throne. And, in my playthrough at least, he’s very, very dead.
I won’t spoil the delights of the now famous Clockwork Mansion mission, but suffice to say, Jindosh spends most of it outsmarting you, frustrating you, and practically begging you to put him in the ground (fear not: as always in the series, there’s a fitting non-lethal way to deal with him too). And yet even in death, his superior intellect continues to put barriers in your path. Once you reach the Dust District, on your way to another supposedly impenetrable fortress (aren’t they all?), you’ll meet The Jindosh Lock: set into a door which can’t be broken, it’s a complex riddle with a five-part solution, and if you don’t solve it, you’re going nowhere.
Here’s where it gets silly. Actually, no, that’s not fair: here’s where I get silly. The game makes it very clear that, while you can certainly work out the solution to the riddle and unlock the door, you can also play this mission in a more traditional fashion: stealth your way into the Dust District, and find the answer by sneaking, stabbing, and stealing. Couple of hours, tops, and I would’ve been through that door. Easy peasy. No hassle. Fine. Cool.
But then he’d have won. Jindosh would’ve beaten me, and I couldn’t have that. Not with my big giant brain! My mother said so!
I set to work immediately (around 10 at night; ironically NOT AT ALL SMART). I recognised the format of the puzzle as Einstein’s Riddle (something of a misnomer, it seems), but instead of houses, tobacco and pets, here I had heirlooms, alcohol and seats at a table (for the uninitiated, or those unwilling to Google, there are 5 people, each with 5 unique characteristics. You’re given scant clues from which you must deduce what characteristics belong to whom). This recollection, I think, was to blame for the initial temptation. I was reasonably certain I’d attempted some variant of this in my younger days, so how could I not figure this out? This’d be an absolute piece of piss!
It was not a piece of piss. Despite being aware of an accepted grid layout for solving the riddle (more on that later), I first elected for a few scraps of paper and a strong coffee. Needless to say, this was not sufficient, and my first couple of hours disappeared in an utterly shameful waste of time. If I took one thing from it, it was that I’d need to do this properly. Plan. Think. Get a bigger table.
My second attempt, which took place the following afternoon, was more successful. I set up my grid (even that took me three tries to get right), made sure everything was clearly marked, and systematically worked through the riddle, separating my definitive clues from my deductions, making sure everything was present and correct as I went. Except when I didn’t, of course. At some point, I filled in the wrong box, or misunderstood a clue. Given that this error isn’t plainly obvious, however, it was likely another half an hour before it became clear things weren’t adding up. I’d made an arse of it, and I had no idea where.
My resolve started to wane at this point. Approximately four hours deep, I’d wager. What was I doing? What was I really hoping to achieve from this? I’d have completed the mission already if I’d just turned away from the door and played the Howlers and Overseers against each other, like I was advised to do. I’d have been some ways into A Crack in the Slab, the level I’d later proclaim to be the best in the game. I considered the little gaming time I had, how I already felt a Dishonored 2 playthrough was pushing it; why was I artificially extending its playtime?
Kirin Jindosh, that’s why. Even slumped, lifeless on his laboratory floor, he continued to mock and frustrate me. I had removed this guy from play with a blade to the neck, and yet here he stood: a very real, very physical obstacle.
Even with their ever-increasing levels of sophistication, still games often present you with a single means of progression: the death of the enemy. Headshot, done, move on. But Jindosh was so much more than just someone to be found and dealt with. He lived within this world, and he had done for years before I came along and took control of a deposed Empress. His dealings, his inventions, his very existence, meant that there were some things his death would not affect. He’s incredibly well-written and performed, but it’s his insertion into so many aspects of the world, both immaterial and crucial, that makes him particularly effective. Had he been less so, I might not have cared about his STUPID LOCK. But he is, and I did.
If this were a movie, that same evening would’ve been my montage. Paper everywhere, organised chaos; countless cups of coffee; Mogwai in my ears (I can’t concentrate to music unless it’s instrumental). I was a man possessed, but I was getting it. I was spotting links I’d never identified before. I was using a separate system to cross reference the confirmed connections I had with other possibilities, something I’d been unable to fathom on the previous attempts. Those hundreds of little squares on my grid were filling up nicely, edging closer and closer to the specific details I needed to crack it. I’ve got you, Kirin, you disrespectful little shit. I’ve got you! First I took your body, now I’ll take your precious intellect…
I made it through, but not as I’d hoped. After nailing two of the five answers I required, and homing in on the completed puzzle, I came across an impossibility in my deductions i.e. I’d made another mistake. Due to the nature of the pen and paper method I was using to solve it, it’d have been difficult to reverse my steps, even though I later realised exactly where I’d gone wrong. However, requiring only three answers, each with three variables left to choose from, I was quickly able to brute force my way through and open the lock. In swung the door, and up popped an achievement for cracking it without obtaining the answer from another source.
I didn’t deserve it.
That might sound strange. After all, I did work it out based on my own deductions. I genuinely didn’t find the answer from another source. And I sure as hell put the time in: between 6–7 hours, by my count. I’ve since read others online say they did it in 30 mins. Even if that’s true, I was never one for being the fastest, so I really don’t care. I just needed to know I could do it.
But I wanted that crisp, clean, perfect solution. Written proof to show the grandkids, or something. So much so that I haven’t had the heart to bin my notes yet, and I’m sorely tempted to give it one last go, just to show I can do it. “He hath too much pride”, as the great Paul Rudd once said (in Underrated Comedy of Our Time Role Models). I often wonder why it is I can’t shake it; it clearly does nothing for me. Nothing good, anyway.
But it doesn’t get all the credit. Games have gotten under my skin before, but it’s usually to activate long-forgotten emotion and make water pour out of my eyeballs. This was different. This was envy, and Dishonored 2 is all the more astonishing for making me feel so strongly about an NPC. In its world and character-building alone, it’s an undisputed triumph, and while you won’t find a full review from me here (it hardly fits the remit of NTTG), you can infer high praise indeed. In fact, I should never have been pulled away from this game for as long as I did, but ultimately, I’m glad I was. My 10 year old self would be very…well, proud.
