Although I’ve been aware of Journey ever since it released five years ago, I only recently got around to playing it, because I didn’t own a PlayStation until last year.

Going into the game, I knew the basics – that it was a walking sim with some light puzzles, set in the desert. However, I was unaware of many of the game’s strongest suits – its sublime soundtrack, the masterclass of game design and, most importantly, the wonderful anonymous co-op system.

It was that co-op that made my first playthrough of Journey one of the most enjoyable gaming experiences in recent memory.

In the game’s first vista after the opening title sequence, I was wandering around, exploring the nooks and crannies of the ruins, when I saw an identical robe-clad character doing the same.

My immediate reaction was to think this robed individual was an NPC, but it didn’t take long for me to see this character was decidedly not behaving like an AI, but like a human.

I began following the character around and interacting with them, curiously trying to decipher whether this cloaked figure was being controlled by a human or an AI. They tentatively did the same.

After a quick text to a friend who’s played the game, my suspicion was confirmed that I was seeing another player.

Having both come to the conclusion that the other wanderer was in fact a real person, we wordlessly set out to together solve the game’s first environmental puzzle. And then the next, and the next, and the one after that, and before I knew it, we were brothers in arms in our quest to reach the top of the distant mountain.

And indeed it was wordless, because there is no way to directly speak to your co-op companion in Journey. In a gaming age when almost every online game allows players to talk via microphone, Journey forces the players to use only the limited mechanics of the game to communicate.

Jumping, which is primarily used to cross gaps and clear obstacles, became a way for me and my partner to get each other’s attention while looking for what to do next. Singing, which is used for a number of magical actions like solving glyphs, became a way for us to let each other know our locations when we got separated.

Jumps are an invaluable expendable in Journey, as you can only stay in the air for a finite amount of time before needing to recharge. And the only two ways to recharge are by collecting magical tapestries or singing near your companion. As such, the seeds of camaraderie are further strengthened.

In addition to cleverly re-contextualizing the game’s mechanics, the anonymous co-op also provides a greater sense of empathy and emotional attachment than any other cooperative gaming experience in recent memory. Had the other hooded figure had his gamertag displayed above his head, or had we been able to directly talk, the experience would have carried a sense of, “We’re working together because this game placed us together.” Instead, it instilled a more voluntary emotional response of, “Don’t worry, buddy; I’m here for you.”

This is not some accidental achievement of the game, borne solely from my own contextualization. Instead, it is largely the result of unimpeachable game design.

Several scripted moments help narratively and visually build the bond between the travelers. At one point, companions are forced to hide behind rocks to take refuge from overpowering wind gusts, and the characters are physically forced into close proximity, as they huddle together.

Later, as the characters climb the icy mountain, their movement slows to a crawl as they begin freezing to death. Yet by staying close to your partner, the pair can find some small degree of warmth, indicated by a faint yellow glow, and movement is marginally easier. It isn’t much, and your characters are still obviously dying, but it’s enough to get the message across.

That being said, while the bond is created through intentional design choices, it manifests itself in entirely player-driven ways.

At one point in my journey, after struggling to climb an icy, windy mountain in one of the game’s last locales, I got knocked off the side of the summit, invalidating roughly the last 10 minutes.

“Well, that’s it for our run together,” I sadly thought of the time with my partner. “There’s no way they’re willing to sacrifice all that time. They’ll go ahead and finish the game without me, and I can’t really blame them.”

It was akin to the pang of absurd sadness you get when, on a long road trip, a car that had been riding alongside you for hours takes an exit. We’re merely wanderers on our own journeys, so why should I feel attached to this stranger?

And yet, after about ten agonizing seconds, I saw my compatriot coming down the mountainside, rejoining me.

“Don’t worry, buddy; I’m here for you.”

Later, I was able to repay the favor. We were in a temple with a large crevice separating the two sides. We had to use every last inch of our jump to clear the gap, and my companion didn’t have quite enough in their reserve. I jumped the gap, turned around, and saw my companion fall just short, tumbling down to some snow dunes below.

While the distance I fell was greater, this would have been a larger setback, for they wouldn’t just need to make up the lost ground to return to the temple, but without me, they’d need to backtrack even further to recharge their jump.

I didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry, buddy; I’m here for you.”

After the conclusion of the story, the game mercifully reveals the gamertag of your companion. I immediately went to send a private message to them, and before I could hit ‘send’, I received a message from them, thanking me for sharing in the experience.

It turns out it was their first playthrough as well. We chatted about the emotions elicited throughout our journey and other video games we enjoy.

The bonds formed in the game were so strong they extended past the game’s conclusion, and I now have a new friend because of it.

Throughout Journey, nearly every experience is heightened by the gorgeous soundtrack, composed by Austin Wintory.

As your hooded avatar stands alone at the game’s start, a small speck against a sprawling and seemingly endless desert, the player is met by the orchestral piece “Nascence,” which captures the sadness of solitude juxtaposed with the beauty around you. Towards the track’s end, the strings swell and the emotion goes from somber to determined as the player looks up and sees their ultimate goal, a mountain peak on the horizon.

From there, the music only builds further. Despondency, relief, trepidation, curiosity, excitement and countless other emotions; the game’s score runs the gamut in terms the feelings it complements.

Easily Journey’s most well known strength is the graphics and art design, immediately recognizable to all gamers, even if they haven’t played the game. While the pastel graphics are the furthest thing from photorealism there is, the bright colors of the sand, sun and sky perfectly convey a Saharan heat, while the mountaintops looks similarly freezing.

As wind blows around the character, sand, water or snow will cling to their robes, slowly falling off once they find some shelter or a change in temperature.

Journey does have a narrative, though it isn’t one given to the player in a conventional way. Missable hieroglyphs are scattered throughout the world, and when found, they offer cryptic images depicting your character’s civilization.

It’s clear this trek is a pilgrimage, as we learn countless others have made the hike before us. At key moments, the character will fall before visions of giant, white-clad beings, assumed to be ancestors or gods or some other venerated beings.

But what is the purpose of this pilgrimage? What are the constraints or explanations for the magic which infuses this world? And what happened to the civilization that left it in the ruins we now inhabit?

The game never gives answers to these questions, but quite frankly, the answers don’t really matter.

It’s more about the journey.