The heavy snowfall feels like a comforting form of blindness, a chance to create my own path. Road signs are hidden or simply absent, and honestly, in this weather, it’s hard to tell the difference. Thankfully, Easy Delivery Co. provides a map – a map that gives me just a little less information than I actually need.
My first delivery involves visiting a cat at a flower shop. The feline shopkeeper stammers, saying, “My speech isn’t so good these days.” Instead of thinking of the quirky character tropes that often fill games like this, I’m struck by the simple truth: this cat has difficulty speaking. The cat hesitates and struggles to find the right words.
Instead of dismissing it as a standard game quirk, my mind jumps to a memory of my dad warning me, as a teenager, to be careful around town and avoid trouble. I vaguely remember telling him I argued with some stranger. His response was a story about a “a lad who used to come in the shop” for years. One day he got in some trouble, lost badly, and “isn’t the same anymore”. I bring it up because this character – this small, animal character handing me a plant – projects a sense of sadness. Perhaps it’s the intense weather dominating everything.
Or maybe the cat has suffered a stroke, I ponder. In short: Easy Delivery Co. crafts a world, a space, where I genuinely wonder if a small animal character has experienced something profoundly difficult. This is Steam quote worthy.
The trees and streets appear lifeless, yet the birdsong is cheerful, though tinged with a sense of weary routine. In contrast, the plant in my truck is vibrantly green. I deliver it to its designated location, receive payment. For a moment, I expect a friendly animal to appear, offering a congratulatory message or a helpful tip. Something simple with a touch of added challenge.
But, the challenge comes in a different form. A warning sign appears: Seek Shelter. The storm intensifies. I hurry back to my truck and wait. Partway through the next delivery, I notice I’m completely alone on the road. Which is a good thing, because all I can see in my rearview mirror are boxes, empty cans, pizza boxes. Birdsong. Tires. Rushing wind. Clattering wooden bridges.
Day blurs into night. Sleep is nonexistent, replaced by stimulants. I take a detour to empty my inventory of empty cans. I briefly contemplate moving to better simulate the experience of fishing around under my seats for empties. But, it’s too cold for role-playing games. Too cold for pranks. Too cold to grin widely, lest I taste the frozen runoff from my feline nose.
Tutorials are accessed through a cluttered desktop-style menu, and the text is delivered in a “soul-crushing employee wellbeing”-style dialogue we all love. I think this is an integral element of the game, though I’m not sure it needs to be this finely tuned. It works for me.
How does that saying go? “What’s your dream job?” “I don’t dream of labour, thanks.”
Really? I do. That’s why I’m here.
I dream of fascinating tasks, complex in their details but straightforward in their metrics of success and failure, so all-consuming that they prevent me from thinking about anything else. I long for labor so intense that it invades my dreams. I crave a labor worth pushing my body to its limits; a labor that is never fully mastered and never ends, but allows me to find comfort in my pain.
Don’t you too? That’s why we’re delivering plants. While the estimated playtime is only five hours, perhaps that means we’ll be left seeking something more. Nevertheless, this expansive and insightful small world is captivating. The snow falls heavily outside, weighing down on everything.