To talk about Doki Doki Literature Club candidly is to spoil what makes it special. There's no practical way around that; the best advice one can give to a curious onlooker is to "go in blind." Even starting the game reveals a glimpse into DDLC's secret, with text boxes popping up to ward away the squeamish. It's a game that can and should be played without a guide, a visual novel that's strikingly competent with its writing and themes. If you have a penchant for the strange or unnerving, give it a chance—DDLC may be slow and unremarkable at the start, but I promise it'll unfold into an experience you won't soon forget.
[spoilers ahead]
Boy, what a journey! All I knew before diving into Doki Doki Literature Club was that it was supposed to be "scary", but I wasn't quite sure what that entailed. Was it a jumpscare game like Five Nights at Freddy's? Solemnly spooky like Silent Hill? Or a discordant, gut-wrenching spiral to hell like Saya No Uta? Astonishingly it's kind of a mix of all three—with plenty of humor slathered on top for levity! There are definitely some pitch black moments to jolt you from your seat (like Sayori and Yuri's deaths), but DDLC is a surprisingly funny game that prefers to amuse you more than scare your pants off. Yuri's crazy eyes best exemplify this trait: they're an initially terrifying reveal that's fairly silly in retrospect, especially considering she's just a lovesick loon that's as attracted to you as she is paranoid of her own perversion.
The best part about Doki Doki Literature Club for me—hands down—was the game's numerous one-off surprises. Stuff like the weird pitch change in music, Monika's head popping up while writing a poem, the creeping dutch tilt as you talk with Yuri, the mouse cursor dragging back towards Monika's choice, your real name drop—there are a ton of fun moments DDLC uses once and then never again. Only after I finished it did I learn the game was furtively dropping mysterious files into its own folder, a great meta-touch that shows how committed Dan Salvato is to actualizing his world. And nothing symbolizes DDLC's ingenuity better than its crowning achievement: deleting Monika's character file.
Video games are a fascinating medium due to the fact that they (most often) require player participation in order to function properly. Stories don't simply solve themselves—you have to put in some legwork to see the end, even if campaigns nowadays guarantee you a safe passage on "story mode". But occasionally, a game will use the gameplay itself to make a thematic statement. Think of the borrowed strength at the end of Brothers, Undertale's genocide route requiring pure psychopathy from the player, and a handful of brilliant others that veer too closely to spoiler territory (like Kotaro Uchikoshi and Yoko Taro's works). Mechanics like these not only reinforce the narrative in an unexpected way, but are only possible in the interactive-driven medium of video games.
Doki Doki Literature Club joins these vaunted ranks by requiring you to manually delete the game's main antagonist off of your hard drive to reach its ending. It's perhaps the most brutal way a VN love interest has ever been rejected. The idea itself induces a double take, evolving from a suspicious "wait, could I?" to a full-throated gamble that risks destroying the executable. I like how the move echoes Monika's own actions too, treating her as she treated others—despite the timeless void arguably being the game's "happiest" end. And even after this betrayal from the player, Monika continues to love them, the remnants of her code irreversibly corrupting the game to save them from its soulless, affection-starved inhabitants.
What I love about this bittersweet closure is how it rehabilitates Monika back into being a sympathetic character. She's by far the most unsettling heroine of the lot, despite never engaging in anything outwardly "scary" the entire game (I adore Yuri, but she's definitely queen freak). And yet Monika's cool demeanor is precisely what makes her so chilling; beneath those calm emerald eyes is a manipulative, cruel, and cunning schemer with the detached patience of a mortician. She argues that she's above the others simply because she can see a world outside of the ones and zeroes, but she too falls prey to the player's infallible charm, programmed to love them even after being tossed into the recycle bin. The Portal-esque serenade at the ending credits paint her as a tragic figure—and in turn, can kindle a curious, Stockholm-like fondness in the player's heart. They might come to idolize Doki Doki's maladjusted cast just as they were idolized in turn, a Newton's cradle of unrequited love bound to spiral into obsession if left unchecked. DDLC is a visual novel that boldly suggests that sometimes, falling in love can be to the benefit of no one if it is not mutual.
And in those cases, it's simply better to leave and let be.
My feelings for Doki Doki Literature Club rose from a dry amusement to genuine curiosity as soon as the game presented me its first poem. I love the idea of learning about someone via their vulnerable art—but Doki Doki's girls weren't vulnerable as much as they were plainly disturbed. And while it was indeed a disturbing experience, it was also (quite literally) a doki-doki experience, full of tension, excitement, and genuine heart. It's a game clearly born of a love for both visual novels and horror, wanting to thrill you in its own quirky, special, deranged way. For as short as it was, Doki Doki Literature Club was a great ride, one that left me only slightly worried that Monika might still be stowed away on my computer somewhere, judging me for having Nekopara in my Steam library.
(it was part of a VN bundle!!!)
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