I never played Stardew Valley, so why did Symphony of Seasons make me cry?

I know, I know. How can one of the heads of an indie collective get this far without even booting up one of the greatest indies (arguably: just games in general) of all time? There’s a lot that goes into this operation. I can’t risk getting lost in the farms. Besides, isn’t one of the perks of marriage playing games vicariously through your spouse? It’s an unspoken connection with one’s soulmate. It’s the same reason the acronym BWTHHYBL* is seared into my subconscious, and why I joined Kelsey for Stardew Valley: Symphony of the Seasons.

Eons ago, in a past life, I was in the music business; particularly on the production side. Symphonic performances and the sheer amount of work that goes into a tour like this always astonish me. So despite Kelsey’s ringtone being my only real touchstone to Stardew, I was genuinely excited to experience the tour.

Now, this isn’t a review of the performance itself. I could gush about the gorgeous arrangements, the expert crowd work of our conductor (who’s name escapes me - apologies!), the accompanying visuals, and heck, even the stellar acoustics of the room that elevated the entire show. But instead, I want to talk about what it was like just existing in that room. I was likely one of the only few person there without any emotional stakes, so I had the absolute pleasure of observing what I can aptly describe as the best humanity has to offer.

There’s one word I’ll likely repeat throughout this piece, and that’s energy. It’s an interesting word to use when discussing a relatively mellow score for a game that’s calm (for the most part, at least). But the energy was palpable as soon as we stepped out of our Lyft and arrived at DPAC in Durham, North Carolina.

The early attendees were all politely lined up, dressed vibrantly in their theater-best with a few cosplays sprinkled throughout the queue. The energy driving the Stardew fanbase was infectious, and I quickly realized I wasn’t alone in feeling it. Theater staff lit up as the doors opened and the fandom began mingling with the local theater community. Having worked for a nonprofit theater in the past, I know how vital making those connections is. Sure, there was always a bad egg or two that made me put on the customer service face, but as I walked through the lobby and observed my surroundings, all I saw was pure, unmatched joy between fans, regular arts patrons, and staff alike.

I do want want to take a moment to show deep appreciation for the DPAC staff across the board. It would've been easy to treat this like “just another night at work,” but they showed so much care for the Stardew hardcore. Last night was surely many folks’ first theater experience, and staff across ticketing, concessions, security, and beyond made sure it wouldn’t be their last.

I’m grateful we arrived just as the doors opened. Again, because of the energy, it felt different than past theater or concert experiences. There was this constant stream of polite excitement; people taking photos in front of the stand-and-repeat, staff voluntarily helping take pics, everyone just vibing together. One fan timidly asked a merch employee if they could take a photo of the hoodie hanging on the wall. When they got the enthusiastic green light, she let out the tiniest cheer and took shots from every angle for what I assume was a friend off-site. What delighted me most was the excitement for the art of performance itself. As we entered the theater and took our seats, fans approached the stage and respectfully took photos of the instruments and orchestral staging already set up.

After a brief wait and a vote on your favorite character via QR code (I chose Professor Snail. Again, no context here. Just vibes), the lights dimmed. Timid applause filled the room as the musicians and conductor took their places. That energy was ready to burst, but there was hesitation. Seemingly out of respect for the musicians, there was uncertainty about the etiquette. It felt like this was a first-time experience for many. It was quite sweet, actually.

The conductor picked up on that immediately, and used it to build a connection. He encouraged everyone to be interactive; cheer when your favorite character pops up, shout when you notice something cool, give the performers your energy because it makes them better musicians. He sincerely deserves all the flowers; not just for his talent, but for his ability to connect with the audience as a fellow enthusiastic fan of the game.

Throughout the evening, he narrated the story of Stardew, weaving in little winks and nods to gameplay mechanics and characters that made the crowd erupt. And that eruption only grew louder and more joyful as the audience got more comfortable and truly took their place as the main character of the night’s story.

Roars. Laughter. Cheering. Again: the energy was infectious.

There was a moment where what I assume was a stellar farm layout appeared on-screen, and gasps swelled through the venue, followed by rapid, deep analysis. The number of varied conversations pointing out the expertise on display was overwhelming in the best way possible. It felt like the most bonkers masterclass in farming tips, all backed by a sweeping live score. Another standout moment wasn’t a moment at all, but a person behind me. They were chuckling throughout, not because anything was particularly funny, but because of the genuine bliss radiating through their system.

From the opening moments, I was enraptured by the energy, carrying a lump in my throat that nearly broke through several times. But it was when ConcernedApe’s logo appeared at the end that I finally broke.

Which brings us to the million-dollar question: Why did a non-Stardew Valley player, someone unfamiliar with the setting, story, characters, or music, cry at Symphony of the Seasons? Well, I think there are two key reasons.

First: the moment in time we’re living in. The outside world is a nightmare; families being torn apart, government abuse of power, genocide ravaging Palestinian families. It makes waking up and going about our days nearly impossible. Last night was a snapshot of pure bliss; a reminder of what it means to be human and the connection we’re capable of.

Second: the state of the games industry.

What’s wild is that an independently developed video game brought us all together in that room. It gifted us this experience; not just the audience and the Stardew fandom, but the conductor, the musicians, the bookers, production crew, gaffers, light crew, projectionists, stage managers, producers, instrument techs, theater staff, security, and everyone else in that building. The experience would not have been the same if even one person had been left out of the equation.

ConcernedApe was a solo developer with a spark of an idea, and that spark ignited the most profound flame flourishing into a decade-long community that’s not going anywhere.

Countless indies don’t get the attention they deserve simply due to the volume of releases and lack of bandwidth from major outlets running on smaller staffs. It’s an unfortunate reality we in the scene have to navigate. But it doesn’t help when we hear (few and far between) thoughts like “indies aren’t worth covering,” or that most of the games we feature in our showcases “won’t sell or make anything, so what’s the point?”

Well… this. This is the point.

This is what can happen when people give indies, and the journalists and creators who support indies, the time of day. None of us knows what the next Stardew Valley, Hollow Knight, Celeste, or Balatro will be if some of the most spectacular experiences out there are never given a fair shot. Yes, it’s a gargantuan task to carve out time to dig through the potential diamonds in the mines of Steam, itch.io, and consoles. Not every single game hitting Steam on the daily has the sauce, of course. And yes, it’s easy to hyper-focus clicks by covering the hot new thing of the week simply to keep an outlet afloat.

Journalists and creators need the support to afford the time and resources so they can have a bit of reassurance to dig through the depths of their inboxes and bring those spectacular experiences to light. Going a step beyond that, independent worker-owned sites need the support to continue bringing indie bangers to the forefront. I mean, damn. Writers in general just need to be paid a decent wage for the countless hours poured into research, hands-on time, and drafting.

And not to end on a self-pat on the back, but I hope when folks see our work, they get the sense that exploring outside the box is worthwhile. Yes, keep outlets float by content-driving traffic asking when Doja Cat is coming to Fortnite. But once that’s published, take a side quest and see what catches your eye. I promise you: it’s worth it. All it takes is one impactful piece to start a domino effect that can potentially ripple across the wider gaming scene.

Despite the ideas that “indies aren’t worth it,” or “they won’t sell,” it’s evenings like this that motivate us to grind our asses off and put these beautiful, unforgettable experiences in front of as many people as we can. It all starts at the root. And maybe, just maybe, one day it blossoms into a beautiful symphonic experience that breaches the bounds of gaming.

*Kelsey and I will also be attending Twilight in concert next week. +10 points if you understood the acronym from the jump.

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