Interactive fiction is an innately intimate form of storytelling, in both aesthetics and narrative style. But what does this mean for the reader? What could this mean for the future of independent publishing? This text examines the ways in which two examples of hypertext fiction engage readers and defy the expectations of genre.

Through DIY website design, basic coding, and platforms like WordPress, literary magazines are abundantly digital. As technology and graphics develop at a dizzying rate, publishing becomes more accessible, and forms of storytelling more diverse. We click, click, click to our heart’s (dis)content and tumble through infinite scrolls of stories. Medias, mediums, and genres are manifold and overlapping, and relying on genre to define a story and its place in the world is outdated. However, understanding experimental and popularized genres that exist purely because of our digital evolution is also key to understanding our relationships to technology. Using the short stories, “Queers in Love at the End of the World” and “Congee” as case studies, this essay will explore the innate intimacy and potential publishing role of hypertext fiction, a subgenre of digital fiction—a web-based literary form in which narratives gradually develop on screen, prompted by the “reader” or “activator’s” interactions.

The immersive sensation is first formed aesthetically, as the screen tends to have a minimalist display: a background colour, text overlayed, and occasionally small, simple accompanying graphics. The reader’s imagination fills in the blanks. Though elements of the narrative are fixed, the reader’s choice between the different “fragments of electronic text” define the narrative arc they will read and lead (Bell, Ensslin 311).

Literary critic and theorist Alice Bell defines digital fiction as writing displayed on a computer screen that “would lose something of its aesthetic and semiotic function if it were removed from that medium” (Bell, Ensslin 311). Together with her colleague Astrid Ensslin, Bell interrogates the application of literary theory “based on research in print” to digital fiction forms, to prove that while literary theory can structure an analysis and reveal plenty, digital theories are just as illuminating, and more sensitive to the unique narrative form (327). Their analyses use a structuralist approach, treating page refreshes prompted by clicking on the hyperlink(s) in the story as lexias. While any print text is automatically broken down into lexias by authors and critics, hypertext fiction deviates from most literature because the author and the reader create a sequence of lexias together, the reader choosing the sequence of the story by choosing which link to click through, and ultimately dictating slight variations in the themes and consequences of the story. Like a choose-your-own-adventure.

This element of choice creates a unique sense of immediacy; the reader, responsible for the narrative arc, embodies the protagonist in the present tense. The use of imperatives and second-person narration not only act “as a means of drawing attention to and harnessing the reader’s somewhat unique function in the text,” but invent intimacy (Bell, Ensslin 313). For example, in lyric poetry the ‘you’ traditionally functions as a thin veil masking the author’s experience or opinion (a softening of the “egotistical” I) (Morrissette). In hypertext fiction; however, the narrative ‘you’ moves away from self-absorption, and into the empathetic. Analyses of print fiction’s inconsistent alternations between first, second and third person perspectives summarise the unique power of the second person narrative: the “you” implicates a “persona—part protagonist, part reader, part author” (Morrissette 10). In this way, print writing from the perspective of the narrative ‘you’ is a parallel precursor to contemporary digital uses.

anna anthropy’s “Queers in Love at the End of the World” is a dystopian hypertext short story with a ten-second duration that captures the intense intimacy of a doomed love. The reader fills the function of the narrative ‘you,’ and chooses how to spend their last seconds alive with their lover. The first screen reads,

“In the end, like you always said, it’s just the two of you together. You have ten seconds, but there’s so much you want to do: kiss her, hold her, take her hand, tell her.”

A timer on the left of the screen creates the urgency of the scenario—and when it expires, “everything is wiped away” (anthropy). The urgency plunges the reader into the scene, time limit forcing them to think fast and act faster. The context, “it’s just the two of you together” introduces a pre-existing intimacy between the reader and the secondary character, “her,” one that is furthered by the choice of actions that follow (anthropy). To “kiss,” to “hold,” to “take her hand,” to “tell her” all together create a set of relational, confessional actions. By not specifying what the reader will “tell her,” the story gains intrigue and prompts the reader to fill in this ambiguity. Suppose you, the reader of this essay, are the hyperfictive ‘you’. The tension parallels the dystopian time limit; the context and cause of the end of the world matter less than you pressing forward into the future and making the final seconds of your life count. The time crunch and lack of information create circumstances which encourage instant closeness and investment on the part of the narrative ‘you,’ the reader-protagonist. If you choose to “hold her,” instead, you come to understand that “this is the only home in which you ever felt truly safe, the one you built in her arms” (anthropy). You and she have a history that functions as sanctuary, a personal history which is more significant than any apocalyptic backstory. If you “kiss” her, the tone of the narration intensifies, emphasising the physical intimacy that charges the story:

“You make out in the ashes of everything. Your tongue is in her mouth while the cities burn. Her fingers pull your hair while dollars turn to dust and laws that were too small to hold you blow away like old newspaper.”

Ten seconds is just barely enough to reach a conclusive lexia—a story ending that snaps shut like a jewel box, an action fulfilled. Often, it is a line of comfort, of internal monologue such as, “and yet everything is right,” or “what a powerful mode of expression” (referring to the last lexia, prompted by twining your hands together). Beyond this, the reader has two options—to restart the story or read the afterword: “When we have each other, we have everything” (anthropy). In case the narrative conclusion the reader reaches doesn’t impress the impact of empathy and the radical importance of living life intimately, the afterward restates the motive of the story—that companionship and closeness fuel us.

Becci’s “Congee” is another example of writing that not only embodies the innate intimacy of the interactive, second person narrative, but also a story which defines intimacy beyond a romantic relationship. When you are homesick, a feeling intensified by feeling physically sick and living alone, nothing holds the potential of comforting you like congee, the Korean rice dish “most often served as a meal on its own, especially for those who are feeling unwell” (Becci). The story is prefaced by this definition of congee, and redefines the food in increasingly emotional ways as the narrative develops:

“You know congee. It’s delicious mushy rice in a soup form, the equivalent of chicken soup. The best part of feeling ill as a kid was getting a hot bowl of congee to slurp on. It made you feel warm inside out – like glowing embers gently simmering in your stomach.”

At the root of “Congee” is a sense of longing which the reader embodies, and seeks to fulfill as they move through the story. Platonic intimacy develops slowly between the narrative ‘you’ and your childhood friend Allison. This, particularly, is the platonic intimacy of shared experience. By saying “you know,” the reader is gifted with a sense of familiarity across cultures that they may or may not have lived experience with. Both you and Allison spent half your childhoods in Korea, before moving to England and experiencing intense culture shock. “Queers in Love at the End of the World,” similarly assumes the reader experiences queerness tenderly, if not in daily life, at least in the bounds of the story.

In interactive fiction, the rate at which text appears influences the way that the reader will read it—for example, in a quick panic, or a slow thoughtfulness. “Congee” and “Queers in Love at the End of the World” take opposite pacing approaches which result in alternate modes of interaction. In “Congee,” the story develops gradually, as sentences on a page often appear one after the next, enacting the natural hesitations and pauses in a conversation or enacting the slower thought process of someone who is sick and foggy-brained. For example, the doorbell sounding and your thoughts are written as:

“RING RING RING RING RING RING RING
RIIIIIIING
Oh god.
They really want you to answer the door.”

Iterations of “RING” vibrate side to side. As the vibrating text gradually appears, it furthers the impression of temporal presence in the narrative because the reader endures visually at a forced pace what the protagonist is experiencing auditorily. The reader shares the experience with the embodied protagonist sensorily.

Additionally, “Congee” is an interesting case study of hypertext fiction because it offers elements of interactivity without choice. Instead of choosing one link amongst many, there is often only one, which leads you to the next sequence in the text. When the lexias are constructed like this, the feature of hypertext is less about the co-building of the narrative arc, as it is about emphasis. Hypertext can function like italics or bolds in a text, but with greater impact because the reader not only notices the typographical differences in the writing, but interacts with them. Linking phrases like “plastic bag” to reach the next page of the story result in the reader’s attention being drawn to the same details as the protagonist (Becci). At other moments in the narrative, clicking on different texts reveals chunks of inner monologue. In these moments, the choice is not so much which direction the story will go, but how much internal monologue and context you want to engage with. For example, when you are searching for congee on Deliveroo, you can click different restaurant options which elicit different responses (responses marked by parentheses):

“Nandos (You don’t really feel like that right now)
KFC (Definitely not.)
Five Guys (Greasy burger? No thanks.)
Mission Burrito (Nah.)
China Palace (Ooh. Looks promising.)”

In this list of international/British fast food and the outlying “China Palace,” you become further enveloped in the context that you live in, particularly the type of cityscape. Elements of interactivity without choice are a narrative mode in hypertext that contribute to the immersive experience of the story. In “Congee,” this element of cultural commentary especially develops and emphasises the empathy you experience through the story.

Whether we admire or distrust technology, our world has developed and is developing a technological reliance that was once the stuff of science fiction. Our brains are tapped in, and for many of us, our lives follow the pace of technology. Despite the utopian ideals of social media, our technological immersion often leaves us with a sense of disillusionment, emphasised imperfection, distorted perception, and a heightened sense of distance from others. Still, every technology has the potential to be used radically and counter-productively. Technologies that do immerse us in intimate ways are critical means of finding joy, encouraging thoughtfulness, and engaging with our digital world in sustainable forms. Literary forms like hypertext, which are innately intimate, are valuable because we tend to emulate the values of the literature we admire. Hypertext is cooperative, creative, and sympathetic.

Unlike novels, which are compact and singular, literary magazines call for a spectrum of genres, styles, and lengths of literature. They are spaces cultivated for emerging writers and forms, and “stalwart[s] against [the] homogenization” of literature (Rosser et al. 37). In a 2008 discussion on the role of the contemporary literary magazine, editors of Mississippi Review contrasted themselves with “larger presses that tend to be more homogenous,” and identified themselves as risk takers, publishing “ahead of the curve” (Rosser et al. 37, ‘About’). Today, the role of a literary magazine holds steady, but with increasing pressure to expand into digital publishing, which is both less tangible and often more accessible. Digital publishing is a process that emphasises speed and temporality through instant feedback and engagement, and as such, editor Eli Horowitz compared it with print publishing: “It’s not a matter of just shifting from one to the other—and so one’s inherently the future and one’s inherently the past… [they] present possibilities” (Rosser et al. 41). Digital publishing is a crucial element of our immersive future, not only because it contributes to so much of our daily media consumption, but because at the intersection of literary arts and technology, we are offered the opportunity to defy the elitism and expectations of large publishing houses and academic systems.

Both “Congee” and “Queers in Love at the End of the World” are stories that I discovered through word of mouth and are published on the platform itch.io, self-defined as “a simple way to find and share indie games online” (‘itch.io’). However, digital publishing is a mode and means of publishing that is limited only by the capacity of the editorial staff (not the size of a page or a page limit). This near-infinity allows literary magazines to be ever-more expansive, risk-taking, and experimental in genres too. Glitch, a themed edition of Liminal Mag, attempts to address questions such as, “Can we take a glitch and re-fashion it to suit the mood?” and “Can a glitch be a sign of disaffection, of continued existence, of intimacy?” in its own digital form. The questions are both technological and humanistic, highlighting the ways in which our immersive future and the ways in which we relate to technology are flawed, tenuous and vital. The magazine not only is exploratory in content, but forms a model for literary magazines expanding beyond canonical genres like poetry, short story, memoir, essay, and the ever elusive “cross-genre.” Glitch offers the reader comics, games, gifs, and filters as means of storytelling.

Entropy, a more popular and unfortunately recently discontinued literary magazine and writing-resource hub, helped readers navigate their website by organising their publications by genre: Essays, Fiction, Reviews, and “More.” Click “More” and find hyperlinks to poetry, interviews, games, food, small press releases, film, etc… An extensive but not all inclusive list. Many of their essays and reviews are sub-genred and tagged with more detailed labels, and if you click on these, you are hyperlinked to the archive of said genre/category—for example, “Interactive Literature” leads to a categorical collection of essays and reviews on interactive literature ranging from performance to digital publishing and hypertext fiction. Entropy’s approach to representing interactive fiction is subtler, but it does do the work of a literary magazine: it validates and legitimises the literary form through critique and inclusion.

If major digital magazines like Entropy and emerging/smaller scale ones like Liminal continue to incorporate hypertext fiction, or immersive fiction in general, it will become a more accepted literary style that pushes readers towards empathy in a digital world where disconnection is prevalent. Immersive fiction literalizes the idea of gleaning something new from a text each time you read it. You can choose new paths, and craft alternative elements of the story. In print literary analysis, it is standard to ask how poems in a chapbook complement each other when they are printed alongside each other—how do they create tension across the collective book? The same goes for a short story and a memoir that are juxtaposed next to one another. If we publish hypertext fiction in literary magazines, the concept of gleaning from a text is even more potent. Themes, ideas and connections will reveal themselves between pieces of hypertext, potentially not unlike the similarities I have illuminated in “Queers in Love at the End of the World” and “Congee,” or between pieces of hypertext and other forms and genres.

Hypertext fiction not only links elements of stories together, but links the reader to the text through immersive narration, and links the reader to the world through empathetic engagement. The potential of using hypertext fiction to engage readers in uniquely curated literary magazines is an exciting element of our immersive future and the diversification of our understandings of intimate relationships.

Emma Fuchs (rhymes with books) is a poet, printmaker and aspiring filmmaker. Emma has many homes, but she currently lives in Paris, France and dreams of endless summer. She is a poetry reader for TriQuarterly and the winner of Foundlings Press’ 2022 Ralph Angel Poetry Prize. Her work can be found in Figure 1 and perhappened mag.

Website: https://emma-fuchs.com
Twitter: @emma_fuchs
Instagram: @rhymeswithbooks

Bibliography

Mississippi Review. ‘About’. Accessed 27 May 2022. http://sites.usm.edu/mississippi-review/about.html.

Bell, Alice, and Astrid Ensslin. ‘Second-Person Narration in Hypertext Fiction’. Narrative 19, no. 3 (October 211AD): 311–29.

itch.io. ‘Congee by Becci’. Accessed 26 May 2022. https://becciness.itch.io/congee.

itch.io. ‘Download the Latest Indie Games’. Accessed 27 May 2022. https://itch.io/.

Morrissette, Bruce. ‘Narrative “You” in Contemporary Literature’. Comparative Literature Studies 2, no. 1 (1965): 1–24.

itch.io. ‘Queers in Love at the End of the World by Anna Anthropy’. Accessed 26 May 2022. https://w.itch.io/end-of-the-world.

Rosser, Jill Allyn, Speer Morgan, Marco Roth, Raymond Hammond, Todd Zuniga, Eli Horowitz, and Aaron Burch. ‘A Roundtable on the Contemporary Literary Magazine’. Mississippi Review 36, no. 3 (2008): 34–61.