Like turning away the man involved in human trafficking, even though all his papers were in order. Like letting in the wife of the refugee I’d just processed, even though she lacked an entry permit. If I am paid more, I can afford to suffer penalties for making intentional mistakes. If I process a lot of people, and make zero mistakes, then I am paid more. See, my in-game salary is based on how many people I process. I became all the more diligent, minding the rules carefully - but not out of obedience.
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Citizens are supposed to build strong families. My son died, as did my wife, and the rest of my family. I hate what that says about me, even though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. All it took was a scorecard and some imaginary context. Papers, Please showed me that my sense of compassion can be neatly overridden with the right set of pressures. How could they not know the rules? They’re so clear! I felt smug in my undeserved power as I slammed the red stamp down. I found myself feeling spiteful toward mistakes - no, not toward the mistakes themselves, toward the people who made them. I detained more people for lesser offenses after one of the guards promised to cut me into the bonus he got for making arrests. When they did not comply, I detained them. I fought back queasiness as I examined naked photographs of strangers’ bodies. I watched people in the game comply just as quietly. And then, as anger starts to creep in, the thing that always mollifies me: “Don’t.
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“She’s just doing her job,” I tell myself, as a stranger runs the backs of her hands over my breasts. I always smile when going through checkpoints, and keep my voice easy. The different kinds of questions, the typical length of lines, the thoroughness of the frisking. I can tell you how security differs, depending on where you’re flying to or from. I’ve thought that phrase many times, though with a change of pronouns. I ignored the pleas of the woman with the expired entry permit, who hadn’t seen her son in six years. My son was starving and my wife was sick, and if I screwed up, I’d be docked the pay I needed for food and medicine. I imagined floating above the planet, looking down at continents far less divided than maps would have you believe, considering the rules required for moving across a space I could easily cover with my thumb.Īnd yet I played by the rules. The farther you pull back, the more absurd it becomes. All those rules, just for the sake of walking from one side of a structure to another. I couldn’t help but notice the juxtaposition of my cluttered workspace with the scene displayed in the frame above - a clean bird’s eye view of my immigration checkpoint, with empty space on either side. By the end of the first week, my desk was an unholy mess - rulebooks, bribes, fingerprint cards, citations for oversights.
PAPERS PLEASE GAME SURGERY KOLECHIA FULL
Citizens of Kolechia require full body scans. The rules for entry become more and more complex with each day. The game describes itself as a “dystopian document thriller.” The player, wielding red and green stamps, decides the fate of would-be immigrants to the fictional country of Arstotzka. Yet for weeks, I’ve fearing the possibility of a customs agent in a bad mood.Īnd I swear to you, baffling as it is, none of that came to mind as I made the casual decision to play Papers, Please. We’ve done everything above board and legal. “I can give you all the stamps I can,” she said, “but they’ll do whatever they want.”īy the time this post goes up, my partner’s flight will have come in. All because someone in a government office decided to provide a new set of papers. He worked on the Apollo program, and later, the Shuttle. Operation Paperclip absolved my grandfather of the uniform he’d been made to wear, and brought him and my grandmother to the country they’d one day call home. The Cold War had been simmering for a decade, and the Americans were snatching up all the German engineering talent they could. He got his PhD in mathematics, and that made him of interest to the American government. But after the war, on the west side of the divide, he went back to school. His entire high school class got shoved behind anti-aircraft guns.
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Long before those papers were printed, my grandfather had been drafted into the German army, near the end of the war.
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“Operation Paperclip,” proclaims the header. My mom found those papers a few months ago, and my grandfather’s, too, though his were American. She fled East Germany in the 1950s, after sweet talking her way into the good graces of a border guard. My grandmother grew up surrounded by that war, and came of age amid Soviet occupation. My grandparents were kids when World War II broke out, born in the wrong place at the wrong time.