When Animal Crossing Stops Feeling Fruitful
Eventually, we all say goodbye to the virtual island life.
When the pandemic officially took hold of the country in March, I was living with my boyfriend’s family in Manila. The region was the epicenter of the outbreak; people were clearing grocery shelves in panic, and nobody could buy any face masks. So much uncertainty hung in the air.
It felt quite fortuitous that, about two weeks after the government ordered a lockdown of the entire metropolitan region, Animal Crossing: New Horizons came out.
Without meaning to be, the game became the escape we all needed from the pandemic. It delivered a laid-back island fantasy that invited you to visit everyday for something new to be happy about: a new neighbor, a visiting merchant selling rare flowers, or your native fruit trees finally ready to be picked. There was a purity to it that acted like a balm for my anxieties about COVID.
Almost two months ago, I decided to return home to my family in the province where the coronavirus cases were low. My anxiety was acting up almost daily, not helped by the government’s decision to ease lockdown restrictions despite their failure to bring the cases down.
The diversion that Animal Crossing brought me had faded at this point. I played the game everyday for about four months straight. I’d more or less fulfilled my vision of an island with small, flower-strewn paths connecting all the parks and residences I built, but by then, my visits had become a chore. There are stamps to achieve, a museum to complete, neighbors to appease, furniture to own, and so on.
For all the innocence of the game’s aesthetic, Animal Crossing: New Horizons designed its activities to be in service of a catalog of Stuff that needed completing. It feels more evident the longer I play. Past a certain point, these objects—fossils, fruits, fish, and insects—become valuable only for the amount of Bells they are worth. Not even a remote island is safe from the gears of capitalism.
A month after I moved back to the province, I lost my full-time job. The client I used to work with closely was kind enough to get me as a copywriter for the short term, albeit for much less than what I used to earn. I had a tidy sum saved up, but the uncertainty of the times guaranteed nothing—least of all financial security. Earning money suddenly became a difficult thing to even think about.
I haven’t been back in my island in more than a week. I really didn’t want to come and pick fruit every three days just for the Bells.
This morning after breakfast, my dad convinced me to pick fruits with him. We’re pretty lucky to have a yard teeming with all sorts of fruit trees: atis, suha, apple mangoes, guava, avocado, papaya, and the occasional small pineapple. I haven’t been home in the province this long since I moved to Manila more than 10 years ago, so I could understand my dad’s excitement for me to experience something he regularly does with my stepmom and siblings.
Today, we picked rambutan. We went up the roof of the garage on a stepladder to collect those red, hairy bulbs that grew in clumps at the end of spindly branches. In between tossing the rambutan into the colander my stepmom brought, we were hopping about, trying to shake off the huge fire ants that clung to our hands.
My dad picked one extra red rambutan hanging at shoulder level. With a firm pinch of his thumb, he tore the skin open and gave it to me to eat. I hesitated a beat at the thought of eating a fruit fresh off the branch—it felt wrong, almost like I was stealing—but the moment passed and I was biting into its sweet flesh.
I’m still thinking of that moment my dad passed the fruit to me. It sounds contrived, but I was overcome with a feeling of peace I knew I’d never be able to replicate elsewhere. I forgot about the pandemic and the price we’re paying for it daily. In that moment, I felt far, far away from a reality where nothing is free and everything is transactional. Not even an idyllic game like Animal Crossing was able to escape that fact. In that moment, we were on a roof and eating fruit without consequence, except for the occasional ant bite.
I’m probably not going to play Animal Crossing as obsessively as I did months ago. The motions I go through on the island feel like a burden now, which I take as a sign that I’ve overstayed my welcome there. I’ll probably be back when the seasons change, but I’ll keep my visit short.
It also feels naive to hope for more of that pocket of tranquility I experienced up on the roof this morning. It felt so wonderful in that it came unannounced and without intention. To recreate it would be futile. The best thing I can do is to write it down, remember it, and try not to keep chasing a fleeting high. Even to try once is asking too much; more so while we’re in the middle of a pandemic.
That feeling—happiness, peace, distraction, or whatever it’s called—will come when it comes. And I’m sure it won’t come dropping every three days like some kind of virtual fruit.