We are entering Week 3 of social isolation, and I have regressed. The plush yellow duck of my youth has waddled out of storage and into my bed. Real pants are a distant memory. And all I want to do is play Myst, an immersive adventure computer game from the 1990s that I was obsessed with when I was 11.

Myst begins on a mysterious island, on a dock next to a sunken ship. As you traverse Myst Island — encountering riddles, age-worn letters and magic books that transport you to new “ages,” or levels of the game — you also unravel the story of Myst, which concerns an olde tyme teleporting family that loves drama. But the game’s real draw is its meditative atmosphere.

Much like in real life now, the player rarely encounters other people in Myst. It’s just you, an old windmill, an old library, an old lighthouse, an old rocket ship and several old clock towers. The gameplay involves clicking and occasionally dragging objects, but mostly wandering around befuddled. The soothing sounds of flowing water, crackling fires, flipping pages, groaning wooden elevators and satisfying mechanical clicks and whirs ought to be marketed separately as a sad-girl white-noise machine.