Normally, I look up other postings of media & content before publishing my own posts, but the experience that I’m about to share feels so singular and powerful that I decided to forge through and add to the stream of content that’s already out there. Stick with me here as I share a clip from a video game as well as my collateral thoughts that are about so much more than a video game — stuff that I’m still trying to process, in fact.
About six years ago during the pandemic, I stopped playing video games entirely. I haven’t looked back. At the time, I had lost my job and was struggling to find a new one, and video games were monopolizing my time. A lot of thoughts went into this decision: I had been playing video games since quite literally the Atari, and none of my friends were playing video games anymore, and so that must mean I need to proverbially “grow up” at my current age of 42, right? Plus, I wasn’t really gaining any visceral enjoyment from video games anymore: it felt like (and still sometimes feels like) video gaming at the time was at a standstill for years in terms of innovation and art, and in any event, I always told myself when virtual reality became a viable medium for gaming, then I might return to the headsets and discs and keyboards/controllers. And this will also be an unpopular opinion, but in that same vein, I believe that when artists begin accepting AI as a tool for—rather than as a replacement of—their artistic talent, then it might pull me back to the video gaming world, too. But I digress — this post is not about that discussion.
I had heard about this game, Kentucky Route Zero, and I was familiar with its general premise. In case you’re not aware, the video game is an avant-garde, albeit text-heavy, work about certain concepts of death, transcendence, the finality of our existence, and the temporary nature of this mortal coil. So I figured this game would make for the perfect vehicle to end my gaming journey on. In the game, you play as a character, Conway, as he delivers a final package before his retirement, delivering to a destination along a thoroughfare called the eponymous Kentucky Route Zero. Naturally, all the characters he meets along the way tell him that this path doesn’t exist, but he’s determined to reach his final dropoff. If I recall correctly, on his journey, Conway sustains an injury in his leg or foot that festers, and the area of his injury becomes a glowing bone. As the game progresses, in fact, his glowing injury consumes his whole body until he becomes a completely glowing skeleton — and then he vanishes from the game [almost] entirely, signifying his death.
There are many games out there that exploit a character who meets an untimely end, but none of them address so directly the fact that death is encroaching and will ultimately claim you. Typically, these other games feature a sudden, tragic death that is quickly and haphazardly processed by the player, but in Kentucky Route Zero, the sheer premise of the game is that you are meditating for hours on end about the demise of a beloved personnage. The game was released piecemeal over the course of seven years, starting in 2013 and ending in 2020, so players had a lot of time to sit with the character of Conway.
And though I never looked back on gaming after completing Kentucky Route Zero, I nevertheless took some parting gifts from the game, like these thoughts that I’m putting to text as well as the soundtrack that is equally avant-garde and beautiful.
There are a couple of songs from the soundtrack that have been consistently difficult to enjoy, namely a few folksy, bluegrass hymns that are traditional to the Appalachian region. I’ve only been to Louisville once, so I can’t claim to know the culture of those “hollers,” but at least one aspect of those mournful, richly cultured mountains comes through in this video game: the idea of grief. It’s tough listening to the songs, and every time I listen to the tracks on my phone, I dutifully skip them because they’re so soulfully piercing that I just can’t get through a couple of seconds of each song without crying, and who wants to cry, right?
Well, I lost my 17-year old baby kitten on the morning of February 16, 2026, and the past two weeks have been the roughest time of my life. I say that without exaggeration. Her name was Miss Kittee, and my mind keeps going back to that John Donne poem about “for whom the bell tolls,” and I need to voice my sorrow and the legacy of Miss Kittee in some way. I mean, I’ve been fortunate to express my grief of her memory with my friends and family, and they’ve offered words of condolence and sympathy, which has been incredibly nice. As with any death—and I’ve been through friends who have perished through suicide, accident, old age, illness, even murder—there were a lot of thoughts & emotions wrapped into Miss Kittee’s passing. “If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were…”
Miss Kittee was hospitalized on the Friday night before. She had been acting strange for about a week up to that point, and then two days before her hospitalization, she stopped eating. I couldn’t risk my senior kitten starving herself, so I rushed her to the emergency room. In the days leading up to her hospitalization, she was also perching herself in odd places throughout my home. I had read in a New Yorker essay about the strangeness of grief that cats (and likely other animals) will wander to unusual places to succumb to death, and though I denied this was what was happening, the signs in hindsight are now evident.
The doctors placed a feeding tube down her nose, and she was fine for a couple of days. The medical director there believed from Miss Kittee’s bloodwork that she may have contracted an infectious disease called mycoplasma, which is transferred via fleas. We had been battling with fleas for several weeks after a new outdoor kitty started appearing in our yard, but we were struggling for success, which, truthfully, didn’t concern me so much at the time since we had struggled with fleas in the past, and we eventually overcame. I would apply ointment, and I would brush her fur. She had such coarse fur, so it was easy for the fleas to nest in her coat. Eventually, her blood sugars dropped dramatically while in the ICU, which meant Miss Kittee was not responding to the food the doctors were force feeding into her stomach. She was not producing the necessary nutrients on her own, and even if she managed to survive this ordeal, what might her quality of life look like at her age? I made the decision. It still haunts me, of course.
My therapist conveniently went on vacation at the time, so I was left to my own devices for about two weeks. Meditation didn’t really work, but I was finding some success in leaning into the grief, which my therapist confirmed was the right thing to do when she finally came back from vacation; it felt like the longest two weeks of my life. A couple of nights of drinking also allowed me to weep more intensely, more cathartically, but last night was a tipping point.
After skipping these tunes for six years, I decided last night to intentionally listen to the hymns from Kentucky Route Zero and think about Miss Kittee. I listened to all of the tracks. I listened, and I sobbed, and I understood… something. It’s hard to articulate. A lot of Kentucky Route Zero also features these ineffable experiences that just don’t translate well into a review, which this post most certainly is not, mind you, though I recommend playing the game if you want a head start on confronting concepts of grieving and acceptance. It helped me out, at least.
The clip that I’ve shared is a bit of a spoiler. It takes place at a point in the game following a devastating flood that claims many lives, and the mourners gather to bury some horses and remember the perished in their community. They sing in unison in that soulful manner that I imagine can only be found in the hollers, and as they sing, ghosts of the deceased appear among the mourners. Throughout this scene, the player controls a cat, in a way, that is following a glowing insect, which is the player’s true controller. It’s a hint that Conway is still with us, the only object that glows with the same timbre, signaling that Conway hasn’t entirely disappeared from our memory. Or maybe he’s been reincarnated. The game never definitively says. And the cat joyfully plays with this little insect.
One of my friends said that I will reach a point in my life when I will look back on my time with Miss Kittee with fondness and a profound appreciation that I had the opportunity to live through such a mystical moment in this cosmic tempus with her, to earn her love, and to feel her expressions of affection. That point in my life seems so far away from me, and I feel so alone in this singular experience that will never be captured again in the infinitesimal gravity of this universe. I thought I would know grief after playing a video game, after losing my friends & family, after losing my precious baby girl — but I think I’ll truly understand grief when I reach that stage of love and acceptance in the distant future, when memories of Miss Kittee will make me smile again.
Lyrics from “I’m Going That Way,” performed by Emily Cross, Nikole Beckwith, Theo Karon, Walt McClements, Anna Ialeggio, Alex Rose, Alina Cutrono, Thomas Carroll, and Ben Babbitt (of The Bedquilt Ramblers):
I’ve heard of a land of joy and peace and wonderful light,
A beautiful place of mansions fair, and skies so bright.
For all who believe the Savior dear forever shall stay,
And having been saved by Grace Divine, I’m Going That Way.
I’m Going That Way, I’m Going That Way.
Yes, dear, the Savior I adore is with me each day.
I’m clinging to Him, and never to stray
Just singing His praises all day long, I’m Going That Way.
Oh, glorious news I’ll tell and sing, as onward I go.
For those who are still astray in sin, my Savior may know.
I want them to sing that praise above some beautiful day,
For glory to Him who died for me, I’m Going That Way.
I know I shall meet Him at the gate when trials are past.
I know I shall meet Him face to face in glory at last.
Oh, I believe that when we meet, “Well done,” he’ll say,
For trusting his so redeeming love, I’m Going That Way.
I’m Going That Way, I’m Going That Way.
Yes, dear, the Savior I adore is with me each day.
I’m clinging to Him, and never to stray,
Just singing His praises all day long, I’m Going That Way.
