In the beginning, every level in Umiro is drained of its kaleidoscopic splendor, its cityscapes shrouded in shades of monochrome. But these spaces aren’t based in reality; instead, they are the fuzzy recollections of Huey and Satura, a pair of students overwhelmed by a mysterious bout of amnesia. While outwardly a puzzle game, Umiro also tells the tale of lost memories, expounding on this narrative through places familiar to the duo—conjured up from the deepest, most inaccessible recesses of their minds.
Memories are intrinsic to architecture
Through these locations, Umiro reveals that memories are etched into every brick and stone laid in these towns and cities, turning them from mere constructions into mental cityscapes. More than just a space for people and objects to exist in, many places are, in fact, the receptacle for and a reflection of human consciousness. Philosopher Edward S. Casey elaborates on this in his book, Remembering: A Phenomenological Study, characterizing a “place” as a physical location with which we hang and preserve our memories—a linguistic distinction from a “site”, which would be devoid of such memorable cues. A generic building lot, for instance, is considered a site, only transforming into a place when a distinctive house or a unique landmark is erected upon it. In turn, he suggested that memories are so intrinsic to architecture and places that they almost resemble locations—albeit one that doesn’t exist in the physical realm.
Umiro is a game built upon these ideas, as it presents hazy scenes that are abridged, and even exaggerated recollections of the students’ hometown. From the grandeur of the town center’s fountain to immaculately manicured lawns, these landmarks would become the focal point of these psychedelic levels, even as more inconsequential details are diminished. On one floor stands a museum they had visited in a past school trip, furnished with sculptures and marble; another room is embellished with full-length windows, brightening a once gloomy space. These are, after all, what’s most memorable to the duo. And upon solving their puzzles—by directing them towards crystals tucked away at corners of the level—colours will surge through these initially washed out scenes, transforming them into a more complete bricolage of spaces that were home to the students’ memories. As they make their way across the once ashen planes, the colours swells in intensity, trailing after their footsteps and gradually seeping back into the landscape. It’s as if the duo are recalling the imprints they have subconsciously implanted in their own versions of the cities.
Perhaps more closely tied to Umiro is the veritable concept of mind or memory palaces, famously employed by Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock Holmes in the recent BBC series. Accompanied by wild gestures, he would revisit vast quantity of information feverishly in his expansive mind. While ostensibly a string of incoherent ramblings, he’s actually tapping on a mnemonic device that relies on exaggerating spaces, objects and features in this location. These serve as visual cues with which to retrieve information from, strung together as anchors through its space.
The sequential structure of this dreamscape is reminiscent of a mind palace
Instances of complex memory techniques had dated as far back as ancient Rome. As noted by Frances Yates in her work, The Art of Memory, this is probably all the more crucial for a period that has little devices and tools for note-taking, with orators performing incredible feats of memory when they have to recite long speeches with unfailing accuracy. According to her, the most straightforward manner to remembering is to imprint upon the memory a series of loci or places; you would have to go through the rooms of your mind palace and its associated objects in a sequential order. Take for instance a list of grocery items; you can imagine a tomato tree in the middle of your hall, wet wipes on a grimy grand piano, and a pool of broccoli in your backyard—strange sights that would leave an indelible impression. In fact, the more peculiar these memory images are, the better, so that they can stand out amongst the deluge of data in our brains.
Of course, Huey and Satura weren’t consciously trying to memorialize their daily goings-on, but Umiro takes inspiration from this mnemonic device when telling its story. In particular, Satura often retreats back to the vaguely familiar but distorted memories of their school, due to an accident that took place at the chemistry laboratory. As she steps through the rooms in the school—the classroom, the library, and finally the laboratory itself—the sequential structure of this dreamscape is reminiscent of the aforementioned mind palace. Moreover, the school ground’s most prominent features, like the unnaturally ethereal school gates and the imposing building, mark an unsettling mix of trepidation and relief as she ventured closer to the source of her trauma. These are landmarks she recognize but still find perplexing, an inexplicable emotion like that of deja vu.
As a puzzle game at heart, Umiro tends to latch on common puzzle elements, such as winding paths and obstacles—the latter being obvious analogies to delayed memory functions, coming in the form of multihued flames and raven-black orbs. When you consider how one of the many causes of memory loss is often clinically described as the interference—or “blocking”—of certain neurotransmitters in the brain, it’s clear how the use of obstacles plays into the vernacular of Umiro’s spaces as well, while hinting towards the real cause of the students amnesia. What follows is a journey of recovery, as they delve deeper into their mind palace to unearth what they’ve lost.
It’s necessary to examine not only what’s remembered and lost, but also how these memories are being framed
Some of the dominant themes in Umiro are anxiety and guilt, so while exploring how the game interweaves both memory and space, it’s necessary to examine not only what’s remembered and lost, but also how these memories are being framed. Like a tapestry of their consciousness, the students’ emotions also shape the phantasmagoric places they’re in. In the later chapters, Satura’s crushing guilt brings both of them to increasingly hostile environments, and even to places they don’t recognize. In fact, half of the third chapter takes place in a darkened cave, fraught with perilous obstacles and jagged crystals, which Satura quips about disliking immensely. In his book Space, Place, Memory and Imagination, Finnish architecture professor Juhani Pallasmaa wrote that “landscapes and buildings are also amplifiers of emotions; they reinforce sensations of belonging or alienation, invitation or rejection, tranquillity or despair”. Sights of ruins, like that of a dilapidated building, reminds us of lives that were disrupted and lost, and can draw powerfully evocative memories. More than just an obvious omen, the lack of buildings or man-made objects also points to Satura’s growing isolation from Huey. It thus makes sense, too, that upon existing the cave, they stumble upon a Shinto shrine—an overt cry for forgiveness and a telling sign of their heightened emotions.
Space and memories are so entwined in each other that, when taken together, can capture meaningful and deeply personal images of grief and loss. In Umiro, these spaces enunciate the students’ memories with compelling resonance, while their emotions—confusion, paranoia, guilt and relief—can be felt reverberating in these places, and throughout its entirety. Through these compositions of buildings, objects and arteries, we are guided towards some of their most affecting memories. We participate in their tireless attempts to excavate some of these buried thoughts from their own minds—all to make sense of where and who they are.
Heterotopias needs your help
We are currently trying to fund the next step in the Heterotopias project: The Continuous City.
A unique and beautiful book of analogue photography of game cities, showing the urban spaces of games in an entirely new light, it can be pre-ordered now on unbound.
By doing so you’ll be supporting both the book itself and the future of the wider Heterotopias project, making sure we can continue to commission and publish work like the piece above.
Thank you.
In the beginning, every level in Umiro is drained of its kaleidoscopic splendor, its cityscapes shrouded in shades of monochrome. But these spaces aren’t based in reality; instead, they are the fuzzy recollections of Huey and Satura, a pair of students overwhelmed by a mysterious bout of amnesia. While outwardly a puzzle game, Umiro also tells the tale of lost memories, expounding on this narrative through places familiar to the duo—conjured up from the deepest, most inaccessible recesses of their minds.
Through these locations, Umiro reveals that memories are etched into every brick and stone laid in these towns and cities, turning them from mere constructions into mental cityscapes. More than just a space for people and objects to exist in, many places are, in fact, the receptacle for and a reflection of human consciousness. Philosopher Edward S. Casey elaborates on this in his book, Remembering: A Phenomenological Study, characterizing a “place” as a physical location with which we hang and preserve our memories—a linguistic distinction from a “site”, which would be devoid of such memorable cues. A generic building lot, for instance, is considered a site, only transforming into a place when a distinctive house or a unique landmark is erected upon it. In turn, he suggested that memories are so intrinsic to architecture and places that they almost resemble locations—albeit one that doesn’t exist in the physical realm.
Umiro is a game built upon these ideas, as it presents hazy scenes that are abridged, and even exaggerated recollections of the students’ hometown. From the grandeur of the town center’s fountain to immaculately manicured lawns, these landmarks would become the focal point of these psychedelic levels, even as more inconsequential details are diminished. On one floor stands a museum they had visited in a past school trip, furnished with sculptures and marble; another room is embellished with full-length windows, brightening a once gloomy space. These are, after all, what’s most memorable to the duo. And upon solving their puzzles—by directing them towards crystals tucked away at corners of the level—colours will surge through these initially washed out scenes, transforming them into a more complete bricolage of spaces that were home to the students’ memories. As they make their way across the once ashen planes, the colours swells in intensity, trailing after their footsteps and gradually seeping back into the landscape. It’s as if the duo are recalling the imprints they have subconsciously implanted in their own versions of the cities.
Perhaps more closely tied to Umiro is the veritable concept of mind or memory palaces, famously employed by Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock Holmes in the recent BBC series. Accompanied by wild gestures, he would revisit vast quantity of information feverishly in his expansive mind. While ostensibly a string of incoherent ramblings, he’s actually tapping on a mnemonic device that relies on exaggerating spaces, objects and features in this location. These serve as visual cues with which to retrieve information from, strung together as anchors through its space.
Instances of complex memory techniques had dated as far back as ancient Rome. As noted by Frances Yates in her work, The Art of Memory, this is probably all the more crucial for a period that has little devices and tools for note-taking, with orators performing incredible feats of memory when they have to recite long speeches with unfailing accuracy. According to her, the most straightforward manner to remembering is to imprint upon the memory a series of loci or places; you would have to go through the rooms of your mind palace and its associated objects in a sequential order. Take for instance a list of grocery items; you can imagine a tomato tree in the middle of your hall, wet wipes on a grimy grand piano, and a pool of broccoli in your backyard—strange sights that would leave an indelible impression. In fact, the more peculiar these memory images are, the better, so that they can stand out amongst the deluge of data in our brains.
Of course, Huey and Satura weren’t consciously trying to memorialize their daily goings-on, but Umiro takes inspiration from this mnemonic device when telling its story. In particular, Satura often retreats back to the vaguely familiar but distorted memories of their school, due to an accident that took place at the chemistry laboratory. As she steps through the rooms in the school—the classroom, the library, and finally the laboratory itself—the sequential structure of this dreamscape is reminiscent of the aforementioned mind palace. Moreover, the school ground’s most prominent features, like the unnaturally ethereal school gates and the imposing building, mark an unsettling mix of trepidation and relief as she ventured closer to the source of her trauma. These are landmarks she recognize but still find perplexing, an inexplicable emotion like that of deja vu.
As a puzzle game at heart, Umiro tends to latch on common puzzle elements, such as winding paths and obstacles—the latter being obvious analogies to delayed memory functions, coming in the form of multihued flames and raven-black orbs. When you consider how one of the many causes of memory loss is often clinically described as the interference—or “blocking”—of certain neurotransmitters in the brain, it’s clear how the use of obstacles plays into the vernacular of Umiro’s spaces as well, while hinting towards the real cause of the students amnesia. What follows is a journey of recovery, as they delve deeper into their mind palace to unearth what they’ve lost.
Some of the dominant themes in Umiro are anxiety and guilt, so while exploring how the game interweaves both memory and space, it’s necessary to examine not only what’s remembered and lost, but also how these memories are being framed. Like a tapestry of their consciousness, the students’ emotions also shape the phantasmagoric places they’re in. In the later chapters, Satura’s crushing guilt brings both of them to increasingly hostile environments, and even to places they don’t recognize. In fact, half of the third chapter takes place in a darkened cave, fraught with perilous obstacles and jagged crystals, which Satura quips about disliking immensely. In his book Space, Place, Memory and Imagination, Finnish architecture professor Juhani Pallasmaa wrote that “landscapes and buildings are also amplifiers of emotions; they reinforce sensations of belonging or alienation, invitation or rejection, tranquillity or despair”. Sights of ruins, like that of a dilapidated building, reminds us of lives that were disrupted and lost, and can draw powerfully evocative memories. More than just an obvious omen, the lack of buildings or man-made objects also points to Satura’s growing isolation from Huey. It thus makes sense, too, that upon existing the cave, they stumble upon a Shinto shrine—an overt cry for forgiveness and a telling sign of their heightened emotions.
Space and memories are so entwined in each other that, when taken together, can capture meaningful and deeply personal images of grief and loss. In Umiro, these spaces enunciate the students’ memories with compelling resonance, while their emotions—confusion, paranoia, guilt and relief—can be felt reverberating in these places, and throughout its entirety. Through these compositions of buildings, objects and arteries, we are guided towards some of their most affecting memories. We participate in their tireless attempts to excavate some of these buried thoughts from their own minds—all to make sense of where and who they are.
Heterotopias needs your help
We are currently trying to fund the next step in the Heterotopias project: The Continuous City.
A unique and beautiful book of analogue photography of game cities, showing the urban spaces of games in an entirely new light, it can be pre-ordered now on unbound.
By doing so you’ll be supporting both the book itself and the future of the wider Heterotopias project, making sure we can continue to commission and publish work like the piece above.
Thank you.
Share this: