Where The Bees Make Honey remembers an empty adolescence
As we culturally march from 80s nostalgia to that of the 90s, a distinct focus is emerging towards era-experiences over media. Instead of Stranger Things riffing on Ghostbusters and Dungeons & Dragons we get Everything Sucks!, an elegy to middle-school right before the internet entered every aspect of life. Or there is the splintering within the sound of the 90s - garage rock, early hip-hop, and so many boy bands - while the 80s have audibly solidified as the Blade Runner soundtrack filtered through the intro to Beat It.
This is unapologetically reductive, but the point I am reaching for is that 90s nostalgia feels different from 80s nostalgia. Whether due to fatigue over being resold something that already exists or simply fewer commercially valuable 90s properties, it would not surprise me if we continue to see a move towards a nostalgia of something lived over something consumed.
Screenshot courtesy of Wakefield Interactive.
Where the Bees Make Honey from developer Brian Wilson attempts to enter this space as a reflection on life before the turn of the millennium. Your character works in a call-center, but once she was a kid in a bee costume with a boundless imagination. Before there was data mining, unregulated overtime, and the false optimism of big tech, there were VHS scanlines and instant cameras.
It was not simpler, exactly, but it was decidedly more understandable. Where the Bees Make Honey wants to reconcile where adolescent optimism transitioned into apathy. When did repetition and the sterility of modern technology become acceptable replacements for dreams and a possibility space of our own design? This question is posed not only thematically, but also within the game’s design. Each stage enters with a different agenda and structure.
At one point your character is gathering supplies around an office, next platforming as a rabbit or driving an RC car. Where the Bees Make Honey is decompiled, messy, and uncritical of itself. This is both charming and frustrating, as lighthearted whimsy as quickly transitions into ambiguous and flat digressions on work and the joylessness of adulthood. There is a tangible desire for the game to say something significant, but it never moves beyond universal messages and unaffecting metaphors.
Screenshot courtesy of Wakefield Interactive.
This is never more clear than at the game’s conclusion, where the player is given the choice to answer a ringing phone or leave their office. Answering the phones prompts your character to choke back tears as she returns to her script and the credits begin to role. Leaving the office, however, begins a long cinematic wherein your character denounces her current life and vows to do something about it. It’s a false choice not unlike the messy ending of Life is Strange, but the problem is not merely systemic but thematic. What exactly your character does once she leaves the call center and how her departure affects her is unclear, and this is Where the Bees Make Honey’s biggest misstep.
To pose a question such as “what if we could return to our childhood” requires, if not tremendous self awareness at least an appreciation for what it means to grow up and what would be lost to suddenly reverse it. Where the Bees Make Honey does not go further than suggesting that maybe things are easier when we’re children and call center jobs are psychologically traumatizing. It’s not that this message is bad, but I have to take umbrage with its complete inability to engage in any actual reflecting. Where the Bees Make Honey remembers a better time, but it also highlights that it is a time we can never truly return to. And even if we could, what would that even mean to us?
A note on the Switch version
During review of Where the Bees Make Honey I experienced significant performance issues within the Nintendo Switch version. I have been unable to test other versions to see if the issues are present across platforms, but they were noticeable enough on the Switch that if an option exists for you I would recommend playing on a different platform.