写在前头-这个系列将会记录我制作大学二年级第一个VR游戏项目的开发过程，也就是开发日记。 所以严格来讲其实GDD的意思并非（Game Design Document）而是 （Game Development Document）？ 我不知道..
Foreword – This series will chronicle the development process of my first VR game project during my second year at university, essentially serving as a development diary. So strictly speaking, does GDD actually stand for “Game Development Document” rather than “Game Design Document”? I’m not sure…
01. 初始概念阶段 — “民俗与情感的共振”
Concept Origin: The Dual Nature of Chinese Horror and Love
My initial concept drew upon the Chinese folk traditions of “ghost marriages” and “ancestral worship”. Such themes typically carry a dual tension of “horror” and “emotion”:
人死之后仍被爱着，这份爱有时会变成诅咒。
Even after death, the deceased may still be loved, and this affection can sometimes transform into a curse.
🩶 1. From Folk Horror to Emotional Memory
从民俗恐怖到情感记忆
The Return Light began as a simple idea: to build a Chinese folk-horror VR experience inspired by ghost marriage and soul-calling rituals. At first, our goal was to frighten players through traditional symbols — incense, lanterns, and ancestral spirits. Yet during early discussions, we realized fear alone was too shallow. I wanted something that hurts quietly, not shocks loudly — something that transforms fear into empathy.
Working in Unity forced us to face visual limits — realism was hard to achieve. So, instead of fighting against these constraints, I turned pixelation into part of the story. Pixelation became our metaphor for memory: when the mother remembers clearly, the world looks sharp; when she begins to forget, the world dissolves into pixels. A visual defect became emotional storytelling.
Early drafts positioned the player as a living child honoring their mother. But later, a radical shift occurred: the player is not alive. They are the fragment of the mother’s memory — a consciousness she refuses to let go of. Thus, every “correct” ritual act (lighting incense, praying, following her voice) actually keeps the player trapped. The only way to win is to disobey.
I imagined the world not as a mountain, but as a river — a slow, endless current flowing through memory. Moving downstream means returning to the mother’s womb, back to warmth, safety, and dependence. Moving upstream means resisting that pull, climbing against the flow toward silence and forgetting. The mother’s voice calls the player to drift with the current, but freedom lies in turning against the water, where memory dissolves into mist.
事实上，在我最早的设想中我将世界重塑成了记忆之山，而玩家的向山上走意味着正确（参考着一般寺庙，神社都在高山上。而母亲会呼唤玩家向山下走，越走画面会越离奇恐怖。）但考虑到后续能够通过场景反应一定物理层的哲学立场（例如中文中的”羊水“概念，将世界改成河流。） In truth, my earliest conception reshaped the world into a mountain of memory, where the player’s ascent symbolised righteousness (drawing parallels with temples and shrines typically situated atop mountains). The mother, however, would urge the player to descend, where the scenery grew increasingly bizarre and terrifying. Yet, considering the potential to later convey certain philosophical stances through environmental responses — such as the Chinese concept of “amniotic fluid” (羊水), which led to the world being re imagined as a river.
🔥 5. Expanding the Meaning of Love — Dual Endings
扩展“爱”的含义——双结局
In later development, I felt one ending was too moral, too clean. So we introduced two mirrored outcomes:
Release Ending: The player walks upward, resists the mother, the lamp fades to white — peace through forgetting.
Return Ending: The player obeys, attaches a red navel cord to the altar, and the world floods like amniotic fluid — rebirth through surrender.
The two endings mirror each other: one breaks the bond, the other returns to it. Both are beautiful, both are tragic.
随着剧情深入，我意识到单一结局过于道德化。 于是增加了两个对称的结局：
放下结局：玩家登顶，违抗母亲，灯火熄灭——在被遗忘中获得平静。
回归结局：玩家顺从，扯出“脐带”接回祭坛，世界化为羊水之河——在回归中重生。
两个结局互为镜像：一个斩断依附，一个投向怀抱。 同样的温柔，也同样的悲哀。
🕯️ 6. Light as Language
光即语言
Throughout development, light remained the center of everything. It is warmth, memory, and control. In our final version, light no longer simply “illuminates” — it decides what can exist. To remember is to give light to something; to forget is to let it fade back into the dark.
Both endings return to the same scene — a shadow play. Behind the curtain, something burns. When the cloth lifts, it reveals what has always been there: a baby glowing faintly in the fire. A quiet whisper closes the story:
The Return Light evolved from a ghost story into a meditation on love and identity. I learned that horror is not about monsters — it’s about what we cannot let go of. Technically, artistically, and emotionally, this project taught us that constraints can become language, and love can be the most terrifying ritual of all.