When entering the world of Wanderstop, players take on the role of Alta, an injured warrior who collapses in a forest and awakens in an idyllic and colorful clearing. She sits on a bench next to a man named Boro, who eventually becomes a spiritual and emotional recovery guide. Boro owns the titular Wanderstop, a tea shop nestled in the clearing.
Wanderstop—broadly characterized as a cozy game about making tea—contains endless depth and vibrant themes. Experienced gamers will expect as much from developer Ivy Road, the same team behind Gone Home and The Stanley Parable. The themes make the game a must-play for anyone in search of a heartfelt and visceral story about trauma recovery, burnout, and self-actualization. If you’re interested, I encourage you to read more about those themes elsewhere, as many writers have covered the game’s origins and the way the creators wove their own experiences into the premise and gameplay. I’ll take a different approach today and discuss something Wanderstop does just as well: story that exists purely for its own sake, to be reflected on and enjoyed in the moment.
Within the world of the game, I, as Alta, wandered the glade in search of ingredients. I planted seeds, harvested quirky fruits, and imbued the landscapes’ wonders into my tea. Travellers would mosey into the Wanderstop clearing and request unique brews. I’d make them tea and listen to their stories. They might go away, off to their next adventure. They might return later; they might not. Either way, they always left me with bits of their stories and glimpses into their personalities. Early on, I brewed a cup for a “knight” who was really just a normal guy who donned the armor to impress his son. Later, I made tea for a warrior who knew of Alta’s reputation and sought her secrets to success in the arena.
When I’d completed a particular request, Wanderstop rewarded me with a bit of lore. These chunks of story were charming and felt real and engaging enough to keep me playing. There were times when I had no pending requests, so I jogged over to Boro and asked, “What’s next?” He reassured me that sometimes, there would be nothing to do, strictly speaking, redirecting me to passive options like collecting leaves or making a cup of tea for myself.
In Wanderstop, there are no achievements to chase, no upgrades to unlock, no enemies to defeat. Its deepest reward is the story itself—quiet, heartfelt moments that accumulate not into progress, but into presence. Like a certain kind of book, its purpose is not propulsion but reflection.
How utterly refreshing. Wanderstop didn’t mince words: It asked me to slow down, appreciate the small things, and worry about ticking off that big box later. Whenever I reached such a point in the game (there were many), I found myself thinking back to reading. I’ve read a lot of books for purposes other than just enjoying the story, over the years. Maybe I’m reviewing a book for my site, The Quill to Live. Perhaps I’m trying to stay ahead of Hollywood’s relentless adaptation schedule (the inspiration for my first-ever Reactor piece). To be clear, I never mind these self-imposed deadlines, and they can spur my motivation and help me make real dents in my TBR stack. But there’s a distinct magic to books I’m able read just because, not tied to work or other factors, and that magic is amplified when the book itself seems to exist for no other reason than to celebrate the joys of storytelling, to invite the reader into a world that’s made to be explored at their own pace, as their own impressions and reflections help it coalesce and take shape in their mind.
I don’t mean to minimize the contributions of an author, editor, or artist to a particular work. On the contrary, I applaud these creators for having both the ingenuity and restraint to offer us stories that feel both satisfying and unconstrained in the same liberating way that Wanderstop does. Stories that set out to build a world, draw you into it, and invite you to think and reflect as part of the process, rather than driving relentlessly toward what happens next.
When I tried to think of examples of other stories that have given me a similar sense of wandering through a fictional world and simply enjoying the experience of being there—learning to live there, in a way, rather than racing to get to the end of the story (or set up a sequel, or a longer series)—my first thought was The Spear Cuts Through Water by Simon Jimenez. Admittedly, the book is challenging in a way Wanderstop isn’t. Spear shifts between first-, second-, and third-person narration and touches on many mysteries to which the solutions aren’t readily apparent, even after spending some time with the book. And yet, reading Spear feels rewarding in itself. Its story tells of two warriors travelling with a fallen goddess. They encounter any number of creatures and people that have a role to play in the larger fabric of the mythical world they inhabit.
Every chapter feels like a prized possession you’re meant to hold close and cherish, right up to the bittersweet ending. The book’s second-person passages can feel very challenging at the outset, but they serve to strengthen the story’s fabric as it unfolds. Jimenez constructs a world full of fable-worthy characters and beings that feel like a treat to encounter (though some treats can be sour, mind you). Spear shares Wanderstop’s passion for the act of storytelling and its desire to reward the reader with the thing they want most—an immersive tale that brings you into its own telling.
Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi also revels in story for its own sake. Both Piranesi and Wanderstop plunge you (the reader or the player, respectively) into a relatively unknown world. You’re tasked with discovering the world through the means provided by the medium. In Wanderstop, that’s interacting with the world as Alta and making tea for customers. In Piranesi, that means exploring the House (aka the world, as our narrator knows it) via the nameless protagonist. Clarke’s short but very deliberate novel relishes discovery. It showcases the unique joy that comes from details clicking meaningfully into place, and the bittersweet feeling when the resulting discoveries carry unexpected emotional heft.
Piranesi’s labyrinthine House is like Wanderstop’s idyllic clearing. You’re not there to conquer it, but to witness and marvel at what it has to offer.
Finally, we come to Max Gladstone and Amal El-Mohtar’s This Is How You Lose the Time War. The novella sees Red and Blue, members of opposing factions, exchanging letters with one another in different timelines and elaborate settings ranging from the ancient past to the distant future. The book’s power comes from the gradual accumulation of ideas and impressions, gingerly collecting over time, rather than the forceful advancement of plot.
Time War’s most glorious moments are fragmented glimpses into the disparate lives of two connected people. While a savvy reader can and will connect some dots, that isn’t the point. The point, insofar as there is one, is to enjoy the gentle back-and-forth between the two characters. In writing to one another, they question. They learn and grow. They experience their own stories in new ways, recontextualized by their letters to the other. Time War’s narrative feels like it somehow exists both within its own distinct timeline and free from time, much like the mysterious clearing in Wanderstop.
Reflection isn’t just a theme in Wanderstop and the stories I’ve mentioned: It’s a necessity, an integral part of the experience of engaging with these worlds. I found it was the joy of discovery that piqued my interest—the way these stories (and so many others) let the reader and/or player live in a world where taking part in the story surrounding them is its own reward. There’s no need to tick a box or complete a task for any reason other than the sheer happiness it brings.
Sometimes a story isn’t a mountain to climb, but instead, a vista. Enjoy the view.
