Kieran Ferrie

I still remember the first time I held that tiny DS cartridge in my hands. The plastic felt unremarkable. The label was simple. Nothing about it warned me that my life was about to change forever. Cory in the House for the Nintendo DS didn’t just load up on my screen. It arrived in my life—quietly, patiently—at a time when everything else had given up on me. Back then, my world was gray. Days blurred together into an exhausting loop of disappointment, self-loathing, and that hollow feeling of waking up already tired of existing. I wasn’t moving forward. I wasn’t even standing still. I was sinking. Every attempt to fix things felt fake, forced, like I was pretending to care about a future I couldn’t see myself surviving long enough to reach. And then there was Cory. From the moment the opening screen flickered to life, something shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to notice. The music wasn’t trying to impress me—it was welcoming me. The visuals, rendered through the humble DS hardware, carried a strange, understated beauty. The colors were warm. The animations were earnest. It wasn’t chasing realism; it was chasing heart. And somehow, it landed. What people don’t understand—what they mock—is that this game doesn’t rely on irony. It doesn’t wink at the player. It doesn’t apologize for existing. It believes in itself completely. That confidence is contagious. As I played, I realized something terrifying and comforting at the same time: this game expected me to keep going. To finish objectives. To learn systems. To try again when I failed. It didn’t yell at me. It didn’t punish me harshly. It simply said, “Okay. Let’s keep moving.” That was more grace than I’d been given in real life for a long time. Cinematically, the game has a sincerity that modern titles are afraid of. There’s no bloated spectacle, no hyper-polished emptiness. Every scene feels handcrafted within its limits, like the developers understood that constraint can sharpen creativity. Camera framing—yes, even on the DS—serves purpose. Dialogue lands with surprising rhythm. There’s timing here. Intent. Care. And Cory himself—he isn’t just a character. He’s momentum. He walks into chaos with confidence, humor, and optimism that borders on reckless, and somehow survives it every time. Watching that, controlling that, being that for a few hours at a time—something inside me cracked open. I started thinking: “If this ridiculous, unapologetic game can exist exactly as it is… maybe I can too.” That sounds stupid. I know it does. But depression doesn’t respond to logic. It responds to moments. And Cory in the House gave me moments—small victories, dumb jokes, colorful worlds—that reminded me what it felt like to engage with something instead of just enduring it. I didn’t fix my life overnight. The game didn’t magically cure me. But it did something far more important. It restarted me. After finishing a session, I felt just a little less heavy. Just a little more awake. I started setting goals again—not big ones. Tiny ones. Finish this level. Clean this room. Get through today. The same way the game taught me: one objective at a time. People will laugh at this. They’ll call it ironic, or pretend it’s a joke. But the truth is brutal and simple: When everything else failed me, this