Lighthouse: The Dark Being

"Eerie feel underpins this troubled, troubling game"

Released by Sierra in late 1996, Lighthouse quickly found itself in the bargain bins. Despite its lack of sales, Lighthouse shines—or, at least, it flickers: in parts, the game is absolutely captivating, but at other points you're left in the dark, scratching your head.

You play as a writer living on the bleak Oregon coast. An eccentric scientist tending the nearby lighthouse disappears one night amid a storm, leaving behind a disturbing series of journal entries that mention weird experiments—and encounters with a dark man.

The game leaves the rest to you to figure out. It's when you're in this confused, apprehensive, curious state that Lighthouse plays best, for it's a game that rewards exploration and imagination. The unsettling dark of Oregon gives way to airy, light hues of a parallel seaside world, the world of the dark man. As you stumble, sift, scratch out a way from here, the game gets only more beautiful and surreal.

Yet it gets harder, too. Awkward puzzles pop up to block your progress. This in itself is no problem; after all, such obstacles are a staple of the point-and-click adventure genre. Yet Lighthouse's puzzles seem fiendishly difficult, hard enough to disrupt your sense of immersion.

Granted, the puzzles are part of the reason you're so immersed in the first place, for solving them requires you to notice and pick up items—exotic or mundane—things like a cigarette lighter, seashells, pebbles, and an envelope opener. And this Myst-like sifting through surrounds works well as the primary focus of exploration and interaction. But it's a shame that when it does come time to unlock that enigmatic, alluring jigsaw box, or fly the ornicopter, or fix the broken bridge with a monster guarding it, you'll probably need a walkthrough.

But I won't harp on Sierra for at least having faith in its players. And the rewards for your labour are pretty impressive. Upon fixing the ornicopter, its long mechanical wings flap in cumbersome unison, like those of a hideous albatross. The copter takes you to a new area, as vivid and mysterious as the rest of Lighthouse's scapes, and suddenly you're compelled, once again, to throw your frustrations aside and keep on your quest. Lighthouse's non-linearity lends it a slow-burning intrigue, deepened by its uneasy mix of light and dark, breezy and unnerving, mechanical toy and organic trinket. And since it's point-and-click, you can wander at your own pace.

That a bunch of connected stills can amount to such a brilliant environment is tribute to Sierra's artists. The rich detail and the fine 3D-rendering of each image fill in any gaps left by the lack of moving pictures. From the cluttered, obliquely lit lighthouse, to the expansive beach and its pale seashells whose ridges you can feel, to the yellowing, cracked skull of an inventor who died tormented by ‘things' outside: these pictures do tell a thousand words.

Which brings me to Lyril, one of a few allies (?) that you'll meet on your quest. She really does speak thousands of words, it seems, as her long-winded narration relates the background to the otherworld. But it's her sad, halting—yet lilting—voice that shines. She has some mournful knowledge, perhaps, that she won't say? Or is it just her sad charm?

Likewise, Dr Krick, your neighbouring scientist, becomes edgier and edgier in voice as he reads aloud his diary entries. By the end, his voice trembles; his fear is obvious. That's when the baby cries. Some other weird noise now joins in with the crying. Shivers now running down your spine, you dash into the bedroom to investigate. There—a menacing silhouette, snatching something, stealing away into a glimmering portal. It's the dark man, talking in gibberish. He's daring you to follow.

Reviewer's Score: 7/10, Originally Posted: 09/03/01, Updated 08/28/06