The mechanics are simple: given a block of text, ranging from a sentence to several paragraphs, you type a word appearing somewhere within the text, which may or may not affect the narrative. If it does, the screen clears and you are given a new block of text--sometimes changed only by a word or two, sometimes with a new paragraph, sometimes entirely different, and you start once again trying words. The effect is not quite EXAMINE [object], as the following shows:
The window is open, so you climb down inside. The table is set for two. >two The window is open, so you climb down inside. The table is set for two -- a surprise; you didn't think you were expected.No one would type "examine two", but the change manages to elaborate on the concept, somehow, and suggest that you have learned more about the idea. The closest analogue in real life might be a storyteller whom you are invited to interrupt constantly to explain something more fully, though the storyteller apparently declines sometimes to elucidate whatever it is. (Sometimes, a word that led to development may not later, even if that word is still on the screen.) The progress is thoroughly nonlinear--most words, if typed a second time, will reverse the effect of the first input, though that isn't always true. As a result, there is minimal need to restart even if you've sent the narrative somewhere you'd rather not, since you can undo the effects of any command (either with a well-placed word or "undo"), and a few commands can send the story back to the beginning.
This could be mechanical and fairly dull without some imagination--it could become conventional IF with only EXAMINE available--but Plotkin is up to the task. Many words yield unexpected results, and trying to manipulate the story to do something in particular is almost invariably a failure--it is more accurate to say that you discover the story as you go along. In that sense, this is closer to conventional fiction than traditional interactive fiction, since you only affect what particular story you see--you are not, really, writing the story yourself. The levels on which you change the story, though, are several; there is a wide variety of input by which you can affect what you "see". One of the more intriguing involves light, and its effect--this is one transition:
The window is open, so you climb down into dimness. The table is set for two -- a surprise; you didn't think you were expected. The cold shadow lifts a little. Yes. An empty vase, white glass, stands beside a single lit candle. A smile touches you; it feels like the first one in some time. You are arranging your flowers when the door opens. >dimness The window is open, so you climb down into dimness. The table is set. An empty vase glows, white glass catching the light of a single candle. The rest of the room shades into obscurity. You are arranging your flowers when the door opens. (You slip back into the shadow of a corner.) A figure climbs out, and lowers the door closed.
Primary among the adjustments for the seasoned IF player is losing the "goal" feeling--the need to type in the right combination of commands that will produce a "You have won" or some equivalent. That, to say the least, is not the point of Space Under the Window, and insisting on it leads to frustration; there are certainly many endings to the story, but not many of them resolve much, such as who you are and what you're trying to do. Moreover, many of them are frustrating in some respect: they seem to represent failures of one sort or another. A lost connection here, an ignominious flight from an encounter there, distrustful silence that never gets broken. Those that aren't expressly negative are at best neutral, and the player learns to appreciate intriguing twists as developments in the story rather than goals achieved. Space... is superior in that respect to other "experimental" works of IF, such as "In the End", that never quite lose the feel of "accomplish something." The mechanics are part of it--though you occasionally say things, the player has no control over the words, nor when they are said, and the effect is sometimes like a novel centered around a main character who is not always sympathetic. Not being able to exercise control over the character--yet playing in the second person nonetheless--is a strange and disconcerting feeling, and the haphazard ways that your input affects events reinforce the sense that you are witnessing rather than participating in the narrative. The result is subversive in its way--it questions the assumption that you are sent to an interactive-fiction environment to do something concrete, make an effect, rather than experience what's there. In effect, it makes the scene itself, and what happens there, more important than you, the player (though you as the player are distinct from "you", the character), since your importance is mostly to enter commands that allow you to see more. In that the setting is almost entirely fixed in one location, Space... also forces the player to appreciate the minute details that Plotkin brings out.
There are a few red herrings that I found somewhat distracting. One of the few choices you can make sends some signals suggesting it will affect the plot, but in fact it doesn't--it merely affects a certain room description. There are plotlines that simply can't be followed--it looks like they might lead to several-paragraph narratives, but they simply stop, and all input either reduces the text or sends the player down a different line. And it is best not to try to understand the cryptic bits of conversation by cross-referencing between different storylines, since the comparison yields little insight; it's ultimately more rewarding simply to regard the exchanges as cryptic and appreciate the way they change with your commands. At one point, a certain input will add to a fairly innocuous account of a woman's movements the following: "(Always careful, and always quiet. It took months before you saw past that.)" You never discover what the "months" reference meant, nor enough to say what you "saw", which certainly intensifies the air of intrigue; it's difficult to say whether Space... would be more or less satisfying with fewer unanswered questions. There is certainly intrigue aplenty in the movements you observe, all the more because they reflect a history unavailable to you. The above addition also provides a moment of insight into your own character--the scorn in the tone of that statement reminds the player that he or she is not, despite the second person, dealing with a blank slate.
The writing is skillful: Plotkin makes the scene changes reflect your input while limiting your ultimate control over what you see. (The experience is sometimes like throwing a rubber ball in the general direction of an object--we know it will change things around, but we can't reliably predict how.) Sentences and phrases are added to existing text, with considerable effect:
The window is open, so you climb down inside. The table is set for two -- a surprise; you didn't think you were expected. Yes. An empty vase, white glass, stands beside a single lit candle. >surprise The window is open, so you climb down inside. The table is set for two -- a surprise; you didn't think you were expected. The cold shadow lifts a little. Yes. An empty vase, white glass, stands beside a single lit candle. A smile touches you; it feels like the first one in some time.Again, the change is more psychological than perceptual; your character begins to perceive something differently, and the change affects later interactions. In the hands of a less effective writer, this sort of thing could feel clumsy, as if our attention were deliberately drawn to whatever it is that's affected--but, here, an inattentive player might miss the significance of the change and how it influences later developments. An equally effective example is the difference between the following two descriptions, depending on a certain input earlier on:
"I never dreamed it would." She tosses her head back suddenly. "It seemed appropriate, that's all. Here. Finally." The flame of the candle flickers uncertainly, but her voice is still steady. "...Shall we go?" "I never dreamed it would." She tosses her head back suddenly, her lips falling one more time into that wry smile. "It seemed appropriate, that's all. Here. Finally." The flame of the candle flickers uncertainly, but her voice is still light. "...Shall we go?"Not so remarkable when examined side by side, but it takes a good writer to know when to make changes minor rather than waving flags at the player that might disrupt the feel of the narrative. Plotkin's writing almost never intrudes on the structure of the story (the sequence with the flowers is one of the few exceptions), and it rewards close attention to the various paths. Perhaps the best thing about Space... is the spareness of it: the reader is left to infer details from the way various pieces of the setting flicker in and out with light changes. And there, as well, the writing is well-calculated to tell the player just as much as needed to paint the picture.
It's hard to categorize this one, obviously; some will quickly grow bored with it on grounds that not much happens, and some will be frustrated with how limited the player's control is, as if different commands opened pages of a novel at random. And the feeling of not having anything as such to do requires some attitude adjustment, true. But there is much to appreciate in Space Under the Window, notably some of the more satisfying or upbeat endings, and even without a "right" way to play it, finding a previously undiscovered narrative trail is just as intriguing as any new discovery in conventional IF. If you can set aside your assumptions for a little while, give this one a shot.