I really enjoyed this game and am, in fact, going through another play through.
The script is well written, the characters heartfelt, the social challenge of keeping a town together after tragedy...hard but worth the effort.
I found myself wary at first, as I was looking into the lives of these characters. My heart broke for some of them as I saw relationships strain. I could relate to Angela and Connie...to some degree, having recently gone through a car accident in real life and having to pick up the pieces.
The good news for me, is that this game began to heal me. Through Connie's courageous actions of trying to help her sister put things back in order, I felt my heart begin to open once again and through tears, I was able to help a community try to repair.
While I don't agree with every philosophy in the game, I was willing to listen to the characters to see how I could possibly help them feel better and succeed.
I would give this game 4.5 stars. As I don't care for the swearing and some concepts. But that's truly my opinion.
The game, characters, and the situation everyone finds themselves in is very real and now it's up to you, a hand tied angel/ghost, and brave little Connie to help a town in need.

Closer the Distance is a quietly powerful narrative-focused life simulation developed by Osmotic Studios and published by Skybound Games, and it immediately sets itself apart by centering not on heroics or survival, but on grief, memory, and the fragile bonds that hold a community together after loss. The game opens with the sudden death of Angela, a young woman from the small coastal town of Yesterby, and instead of following a conventional arc of mystery or recovery, it asks the player to inhabit Angela’s lingering presence. You are not alive, not entirely gone, and not able to act directly—an unusual perspective that shapes every part of the experience. From the outset, the game makes it clear that this will be a slow, emotionally driven journey, one that values empathy and observation over control or spectacle.

Gameplay blends life-simulation mechanics with narrative choice in a way that feels deliberately restrained. Rather than commanding characters outright, you gently influence the lives of Angela’s loved ones and other townsfolk as they struggle to cope with her absence. Each character maintains daily routines, emotional needs, relationships, and internal conflicts, and your role is to subtly guide them toward healthier choices or meaningful interactions. You might encourage someone to reconnect with family, pursue a long-neglected passion, or simply rest when the weight of grief becomes overwhelming. This indirect control can feel disempowering at first, especially for players accustomed to more assertive management systems, but over time it becomes one of the game’s strongest thematic tools. The lack of total control reinforces the reality that healing cannot be forced, only supported.

The town of Yesterby itself plays a crucial role in grounding the experience. Its environments are thoughtfully designed, with soft, muted colors and an autumnal palette that reinforces the game’s reflective tone. Homes feel lived-in, workplaces feel routine-bound, and communal spaces quietly echo with the routines of everyday life continuing despite tragedy. The camera allows you to peer into homes with a dollhouse-like intimacy, emphasizing how private moments of grief unfold behind closed doors. Ambient sound design—wind through trees, distant waves, rainfall—adds to the sense of stillness and emotional weight, making the town feel less like a backdrop and more like a shared emotional space shaped by collective loss.

The characters are where Closer the Distance truly shines. Each individual in Angela’s orbit is written with nuance and care, carrying their own regrets, unresolved tensions, and coping mechanisms. Angela’s sister struggles with identity and abandonment, friends wrestle with guilt and missed opportunities, and other townspeople grapple with how one death can ripple outward in unexpected ways. Dialogue is natural and understated, avoiding melodrama in favor of quiet honesty, and strong voice acting gives each character emotional texture. Moments of warmth, awkward humor, and small kindnesses punctuate the heavier themes, making the cast feel authentically human rather than symbolic stand-ins for grief.

Choice and consequence are woven subtly into the experience. The game does not frame decisions as “right” or “wrong,” nor does it always provide immediate feedback. Instead, outcomes emerge gradually through changes in relationships, emotional states, and long-term personal trajectories. Some people may heal, some may stagnate, and others may grow in ways that are bittersweet rather than purely positive. This ambiguity enhances replay value, as different priorities and interventions can lead to markedly different emotional conclusions. Importantly, the game respects the idea that not all wounds fully close, and that progress often comes in small, imperfect steps.

Mechanically, the game can feel slow and occasionally opaque, particularly when juggling the needs of multiple characters with limited opportunities to intervene. Some players may find the pacing overly deliberate, and the hands-off nature of interaction can lead to moments of uncertainty about whether your actions are truly making a difference. Yet these frustrations feel thematically intentional, echoing the real-world helplessness that often accompanies grief. The experience asks for patience and emotional engagement rather than optimization, and players who approach it with that mindset are likely to find its rhythm deeply affecting.

Ultimately, Closer the Distance is less concerned with traditional gameplay satisfaction and more focused on emotional resonance. It is a game about listening, watching, and caring from a distance—about understanding that presence alone can matter, even when words and actions fall short. For players willing to engage with its subdued pacing and emotionally heavy subject matter, it offers a rare and meaningful exploration of loss, community, and the quiet resilience of human connection. It lingers not because of dramatic twists or mechanical mastery, but because it captures something deeply personal and universal: the slow, uncertain process of learning how to live with absence.

Rating: 8/10