Here’s why I think you should fund the hell out of ‘That Dragon, Cancer”

Let’s talk about dragons.

No, not those dragons. I want to talk about a game about dragons, that really isn’t a game about dragons at all.

The game is called That Dragon, Cancer. You may have heard of it. The game has been in development for over a year now, and is seeking $85,000 to finish the game in a way they believe it should be finished.

The game is the brainchild of Ryan and Amy Green, whose third child, Joel, was faced with a rare, aggressive brain tumor. When they began working on That Dragon, Cancer, they wanted to create a tribute to Joel by creating an adventure game that is poetic, playful and full of imagination and hope.

And they seem to be doing a pretty good job with that. Those who have been fortunate enough to get their hands on early demo builds of the game (read Jenn Frank’s brilliant post on Kotaku, for example), seem to think that despite the heavy issues the game brings up, it does leave them with some sense of hope.

To come away with a sense of hope in a game that’s about ultimately losing a child with an aggressive and rare form of brain cancer is a miracle in and of itself. Much of the game takes place in a hospital ICU, where you see what Ryan, Amy and Joel were going through as Joel was subject to various machines and undergoing chemotherapy to try to beat the cancer once and for all.

I sit here and try to think about whether or not I’d be able to even sit down and play this game. I spent a week in the NICU with my son, and while I know I’m incredibly fortunate to have had what amounts to a very not-complicated and incredibly short NICU stay with my child, spending any amount of time in the NICU takes its toll on you.

You see parents going making tough decisions to best care for their children, who have been in the NICU for months with children who have conditions that ensure they’ll be in and out of the hospital for the rest of their lives. You see parents and extended families crowded around a baby’s room, singing, crying and hugging each other as this child who was supposed to bring joy to these people’s lives takes her last breath.

It really just breaks you as a person. Not that children, especially newborns, dying is ever anything but heartbreaking and incredibly sad, but experiencing it first-hand in the NICU, seeing those families going through the most incredibly difficult thing any parent ever has to go through, knowing it could just have easily been you and your child in that situation, just makes it very difficult to deal with.

Joel passed away on March 13th, 2014. I remember seeing Ryan’s blog post that day, and just completely losing it emotionally. Why couldn’t this family get the miracle they so desperately needed? Why do babies have to die at all? Is my baby okay? Will he get brain cancer?

I was devastated for Ryan and Amy, people I’d never met. I was angry. I felt hopeless, that no matter what I did to keep my kid healthy and safe, he could be taken from me at any moment, and that’s a horrible feeling to have as a parent.

These emotions, and I’m sure many others will play out when I finally am able to play That Dragon, Cancer. But, I’m also optimistic that I’ll also experience some positive emotions as well.

Ryan and Amy (and their team of developers) built That Dragon, Cancer as a love letter to their son, who died entirely before his time. They wanted it to bring joy and hope to all those who played it, as crazy as that sounds for a game about a child who is dying. And I believe they’re going to pull that off.

If it’s very successful, That Dragon, Cancer can change the way we think about video games. At the very least, it might just change us, for the better.

That’s why I’m giving Ryan and Amy money to bring this game to market. And I think you should too. If you agree, go over to their Kickstarter page and FUND THIS GAME. $15 gets you a digital copy of the game, and there are multiple rewards tiers should you wish to give more.

That Dragon, Cancer will come out on Ouya, PC and Mac sometime in mid to late 2015.

Also, because I haven’t said it yet, Fuck Cancer.