In Disco Elysium, you play as Lieutenant Harrier Du Bois of the Revachol Citizens Militia. He’s an alcoholic, a detective, and his head is a violently noisy place.
His wild imagination, his logical centre and his possible communist leanings jostle for pole position in the forefront of his mind, providing a bevy of interpretations of any situation or character that crosses his path.
I was only a few hours into the game when I realised why trying to follow a coherent train of thought from the manic chaos of Harry’s head felt so familiar to me. As someone with ADHD, just trying to manage Harry’s quest log brought me face-to-face with the same kind of inner chaos that Harry is only met with after a bender of such apocalyptic proportions that he forgets his own name.
Trying to tack down a line of thinking for me (and others like me) is an exhausting task, one with (at times) disheartening and existential implications.
Being unable to remember where I’ve put my keys each and every morning, or constantly forgetting why or how I’ve found myself in the kitchen is, undoubtedly, very funny. I’m certainly not above some good natured self-deprecation. I can’t help but mourn for the me who did that wandering though, the me who put their keys down somewhere extra safe. What don’t I remember from my walk home from the bus stop? I know I got from there to here, but the trip is lost time.
Harry doesn’t remember yelling “I don’t want to be this kind of animal anymore!” in his hotel room. He’s only reminded by disgruntled neighbours upon awakening. His badge, gun, uniform and police car are all AWOL, scattered to the four winds. This disarming confusion is all but familiar to me.
Seeing such a personal experience so vividly and comedically reflected back at me in Disco Elysium was refreshing in the extreme. I felt for the amnesiac detective with too much noise in his head in a very visceral way.
