What little narrative exists implies a grand backstory with an air of surreal mystery that tantalizes the imagination. Although narrative cues are few and far between, a plot eventually emerges to those who apply a little imagination. What seemed to be a magical mystery as a child is still quite magical, although less a mystery than I once believed. That place is the deserted and abandoned island of Myst where, through your wandering, you must uncover clues to its creation and its past. This explorer is you, who stumbled upon a book with the power to transport the reader to the locale its pages describe. Somewhat like this review, Myst tells the story of two brothers and their father through the eyes of an impartial explorer. Despite its age, Myst is truly captivating. I was enchanted, and my eyes hardly wandered from the screen. The plot seems simpler now, and the puzzles less esoteric, but the haunting sense of wonder still kept me fascinated from beginning to end. What was over ten years in the making came to a close: I learned the secrets of Myst. Over a decade later, I beat Myst in about four hours, alone, without a single hint. Myst had secrets to tell, and I would be damned if I never learned them. With no omnipotent Internet at our sides, we spent weeks trying to decode the arcane mysteries of that island. I remember sitting in front of the television (we had the game for Sega Saturn), aiding my brother, who was at the helm, whenever and however I could, and my father stopping in to offer wild theories and potential leads. Myst imbued my childhood with a sense of haunting wonder that never wore off.
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