Last year I woke up with the hands of an alien. Every item I grasped fell to the floor like so many grains of sand; every doorknob became a lock I couldn’t open. It didn’t hurt, but hundreds of dollars of scans later I learned my tendons were full of tiny holes, multiple ligaments were sprained, and my nerves suffered from a syndrome that sounds like a passable emo band name. It’s not unusual you didn’t feel anything, my physical therapist told me. In life or death situations adrenaline can mask the body’s sensations. My husband had just survived cardiac arrest, and in taking on our chores, I’d dislocated joint after joint and shredded tendons like fragile threads, revealing a condition I’d long suspected but hadn’t confirmed.
Of all the big and small things we hoped for during recovery, Silksong’s release became weirdly totemic. I kept telling myself that surely I’d be healed by the time it came out, even as every follow-up scan simply revealed another injury in the wasteland of constant dislocations. Silksong announcements are so elusive; maybe my husband’s condition would even be healed upon the game’s eventual release. Probably, it would never come out. I’d spent the prior years editing at Polygon, participating in the inside joke of should we update the Silksong article outline in case it’s announced? before communally deciding it was unlikely.
Two rounds of PRP injections, a rotating door of exercises and medications, and finally life looks like a withered approximation of its prior self. And, just my luck, Team Cherry’s hit sequel arrived with two weeks' notice. Indie studios pushed their games back in terror of being overlooked. Swaddled in our cocoon of chronic illness, I thought only of myself. Like a marathon runner butting up against a race she hasn’t trained for, I agitated about the lack of lead time I would have to prepare for a game this demanding. My hands, those dumb little paperweights, had only begun things like “chopping vegetables” or “typing on an ergonomic keyboard” a few months ago. Fine motor control was an event horizon I could hardly imagine, and yet.
My physical therapist told me I could play Silksong, just not like I’d played Hollow Knight. This time I had to take ample breaks for something called proper tendon loading; playing it this way would even be beneficial for my recovery. In Hollow Knight, I’d simply thrown myself at boss fights repeatedly until I found the most direct way forward. I was so fixated on boss rushing that I hardly poked around the game’s map. But exploration is what finally yielded the game’s numerous pathways and secrets to me, elevating Hallownest into the land of favorites.
As I’ve made my way through Pharloom, I’ve had to focus more on adaptability, giving up early before damaging hand fatigue as enemies whip two masks out of Hornet’s silk-starved body. I thought slowing down would dampen my enjoyment, but it’s made the game better. I notice more. I find more. I hunt for environmental clues, like deadly little arm bangles or a skeletal horse jumping over fiery ground. These novel attempts at moving forward have gifted me new regions and abilities, with the ultimate upside of flashpan moments of discovery and delight. It’s a counterbalance to the game’s punishing difficulty.
For the bosses I can’t weasel around, I lean on the humble nap. I’ve learned how to “pace,” the chronic illness community’s way of managing fatigue by planning ample breaks in advance. I give up early, hoping tomorrow it will be easier. Hornet’s moveset has a subtly different feel from the Knight’s, with her taller height, shorter dash, and toolkit. It took a few sleeps for it to sink in, but then again I am remembering how to use a controller in a very literal sense, which is to say coordinating basic walking and jumping.
My hands occasionally betray me with frissons of neuropathy that shuttle me into a knife-throwing Craw. I own an Xbox Adaptive Controller and the dongle that lets me use it with a Switch Pro Controller, and I plan on using it if I find any of these hurdles insurmountable. But an entirely new controller setup is another learning curve that will take me time to understand. I suspect a mix of both old and new setups will be the most sustainable in the long run. Mostly I’m glad to have options, and the patience to take my time figuring them out in Silksong’s world.
If doubling back bothered me, I would not be able to live in my own body, which flares and tears sometimes without warning. You can live life with this sort of condition in a state of grief, in constant fear of movement. Or you can celebrate every gain, knowing that you might not be able to consistently replicate it. The story of my guiding Hornet through the Marrow over and over — to collect supplies, fulfill Wishes, or simply uncover her dead body — is the same story as my fight to open a fucking jar. This fight started in May 2024 and, depending on which jar you ask, is still ongoing. I lived a year of having to decide whether it was more worthy of my limited stamina to hold my husband in a tight embrace or unclasp cold, tightened takeout containers to heat us up a meal. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I am no stranger to weakness that, with the benefit of hindsight, is actually immense strength.
It is pleasurable to finally pick my failures, and just as pleasurable to experience the joy of success. It’s also true that Hollow Knight’s failures are exceptionally funny. The series always had a mean streak: The Soul Master has a final round of fighting after a convincing fake out. Mirabelle the banker scams you out of Geo. Silksong’s miserly dramatics have only gotten funnier to me. Enemies that dodge your attacks more effectively? A booby-trapped bench that hurts you at a moment you really could have used healing? I have spent hours laughing, crying, laughing over the absurdity of getting stuck outside my own apartment, while holding the keys, because the gate is too heavy for me to open. Life has a mean streak.
The thrill I feel climbing Far Fields with my floating cape, beating a room of ants in Hunter’s March, or taking my first ride on the Bell Beast is even greater now, in the context of everything I have lost. It reminds me of how much my husband and I have clawed back from this tortuous phase of life, when washing our own hair felt like a cause for celebration. The more Silksong I’ve played, the more coordinated my daily movements of living have become. Meal prepping is a little easier; typing certainly is. It’s deeply imperfect– I’m in the middle of another week-long tendon deloading break after fighting a disgusting giant fly, but I would take breaks over long stretches of injury. To play a game at all is a pleasure. To play Silksong, however slowly and punishingly, is a joy.
