Phil W. Bayles

Or: How I Learned The Difference Between Being in Love and Falling in Love

Have you got a phone? Of course you have; it’s 2020. You’re probably using it to read this.

Well, I’m giving you homework: go and play a game called Florence. It doesn’t cost much (only about £3/$3), you’ll finish it in about half an hour, and it’s one of the most beautiful love stories you’ll ever find.

You play as Florence, a woman in her mid-20s whose life has settled into routine. She stares at her phone on her morning commute and stares at the TV while she eats her evening meal. One day, after her phone runs out of battery, she has a chance encounter with a young man named Krish. After a few awkward dates, she starts to fall in love. 

They push each other to fulfil their dreams. They move in together. They settle into a routine. They start to drift apart.

It’s not a huge, sweeping story like Gone With The Wind. It doesn’t have the drama of Romeo and Juliet, the heartfelt speeches you’d find in films by Nora Ephron or Richard Curtis, or the heat and passion of Blue is the Warmest Colour and Call Me By Your Name. There isn’t any even spoken dialogue. But every moment feels so wonderfully, achingly true.

I’ve never found a story that more accurately reflects falling in love. The way a person takes up your whole field of vision when they’re in the room with you; the way food tastes better, and colours seem brighter; the way their presence lingers when they’re gone, like musical notes hanging in the air.

It perfectly encapsulates being in love with someone, which is not the same as falling in love with them. The joys and challenges of combining two lives into one space (including a visual gag that made me laugh out loud); the way that silence can feel companionable, even comforting; the feeling of knowing you’ve got someone in your corner.

It also understands how relationships can start to sour. The way words can become more pointed and hurtful. The way silences can turn chilly. The way they linger when they’re gone, like a tune you wish you could get out of your head.

The story in Florence isn’t unique, because it understands that love is not unique: it’s universal. What is unique is how it uses the language of games – specifically mobile games – to tell its story so powerfully.

Take the first date. As Krish makes conversation, you have to drag puzzle pieces into a speech bubble to make Florence reply. At first it’s awkward dragging the pieces into the right place, but as the date goes on, the puzzles get simpler. Eventually, it feels effortless. 

And that’s just one scene. Over the course of the story I used my fingers to make Florence brush her teeth, cook food, and push Krish into a music audition. Every action felt intuitive, but some of them were easier than others. Letting go was the hardest of all.

I’ve always believed that video games are an art form that’s every bit as powerful as film, literature or theatre. Frank Lantz, director of the NYU Game Centre, sums it up pretty perfectly: “Making a game combines everything that’s hard about building a bridge with everything that’s hard about composing an opera. Games are basically operas made out of bridges.”

Florence is like poetry you can play on your phone. Give it a tap, and I guarantee you’ll fall in love. 

Remember Alexandra Goldstein, my annoyingly talented friend? She introduced me to the concept of the Helsinki Bus Station Theory this week, and if you’re in any way a creative person you should listen to her wise, wise words.