A Review of Consume Me: The Rise of the Personal Game and the Shifting Meaning of Eating

Consume Me is a game with many peculiar facets, in more ways than one. Developed by the Chinese American developer Jenny Jiao Hsia and her collaborator AP Thompson, it won the Seumas McNally Grand Prize—the grand prize—at the 2025 Independent Games Festival (IGF). Despite winning at the most prestigious indie game festival in the global game scene, there is not a single instance of this game being reviewed in domestic game media. Setting aside, of course, Korea's game webzines with their interest only in industry discourse, even among the more than 1,000 Steam reviews, Korean-language reviews number a mere three. Why has this happened? According to Metacritic, seventeen outlets reviewed Consume Me, including major game media such as Edge and Eurogamer, as well as general-interest papers like the Guardian. Yet in Korea uniquely, almost no criticism of Consume Me arose at all.

This is, above all, perhaps because Consume Me was a personal game—one that transformed Jenny's own story, to a certain degree, into a fictionalized game situation. Of course, given that domestic game journalism has developed within an industry-centered grammar, this response may, in a way, be only natural. Korean game discourse has long developed around industrial elements—market size, platform competition, business models, updates, e-sports—and as a result, a critical language for reading games at the level of personal expression or performative experience was relatively hard to accumulate. Yet individuals who had been developing small games survived within the market from the late 2000s on, switching their weapons little by little to Flash, Unity, HTML5, and so on, and this became the occasion for a democratization of indie game development.

Anna Anthropy, who in 2012 wrote a book titled Rise of the Videogame Zinesters, regards games in it as a tool of artistic and personal expression and emphasizes the message that anyone can become a creator.[1] As the accessibility of game-making tools increased, she argued, one could make games expressing personal experiences and emotions even without programming skills. She explained this current by way of the "zine" movement, the self-publishing culture of the past. The book's subtitle is "How Freaks, Normals, Amateurs, Artists, Dreamers, Drop-outs, Queers, Housewives, and People Like You Are Taking Back an Art Form." Jenny, who developed Consume Me, was no more than a sensitive teenager—keenly attuned to dieting and good at drawing—but on entering the NYU Game Center and meeting a partner who could shore up the programming, she became able to turn her own autobiographical story into a game.

Consume Me takes as its material the obsession with dieting that Jenny experienced during her high school years. The player takes Jenny's position and, through puzzle-form minigames, must hit calorie targets when eating, and when these are exceeded, must meet the calorie target through exercise, household chores, and the like. But as the chapters progress, the tasks and events imposed on Jenny pile up. In Chapter 2, she has to save money for a date with her boyfriend, which has to be covered by helping with chores and getting an allowance from her mother. In Chapter 3, a rival appears at school and she must win the contest against them, while at the same time the calorie-management figures rise. And in Chapter 4, she has to keep up a long-distance relationship with her boyfriend, where sending messages or making video calls all mortgages what little free time remains in the day. Before long, exercise gets pushed back, and laundry, cleaning, walking the dog, studying, and the rest are easily neglected.

* A mealtime scene from Consume Me

The progression of Consume Me unfolds, on the whole, through this form of dieting and time management. Up to this point, the method differs little from existing game mechanics. But the developer's mechanical framing of the act of eating, and the attitude with which the game brings itself to a close, show a difference from games faithful to genre grammar. Generally, the act of eating in games has been keyed to the grammar of reward systems—the recovery of energy, growth through buffs, and so on. But in Consume Me, the act of eating leads to guilt and to self-censorship through calorie calculation, and this expands into the psychological anxiety of Jenny, the protagonist within the game.

Another interesting point is the hand-drawing-based visual style of Consume Me. Jenny's expressions and gestures within the game, the shapes of the food, the interface design—all maintain a doodle-like exaggeration and cuteness, which keeps the player from viewing the in-game situations only through an excessively tragic or pathological lens. Jenny is engulfed in anxiety as she endlessly calculates calories and fails at self-management, but the game does not reproduce this only in a heavy, depressive way. Rather, Consume Me maintains a somewhat comical, self-deprecating distance while making us observe self-loathing and obsession. This mode of expression seems closer to having the player follow, for a moment, the wavering performative structure of a human being than to pushing them into cheap pity or self-pity.

The mealtime scenes of Consume Me proceed as simple minigame-style puzzle-fitting. The foods appear in forms like Tetris blocks, and through these you must fill Jenny's stomach to the brim. But there are always a block or two's worth of cells you can't fill, and this lowers Jenny's satiety figure. To make up for it, you can get by—buying a one-cell block, a cheese topping, for $3 at the shop and then fitting the puzzle. Only, this cheese topping is very high in calories relative to its block size and also high in price, so it can't be used often.

The player therefore always has to keep low-calorie but high-priced vegetable dishes and the like stocked, expensively, at the shop, and for this must perfectly help with the mother's chores to top up the allowance. But if you stay faithful only to chores and the act of eating, time runs short for studying, exercising, and dating the boyfriend, so rigorous planning and time management according to schedule and events become necessary. Yet Consume Me shakes up this time-management system by inserting, midway through the schedule, random events the player can hardly control. The ideal body, diet, and self-management the player pursues are, at a glance, set up as in-game goals, but the game continually inserts points at which this ideal body and self-management are bound to fail.

Even without recalling the rhetoric of failure[2] from Ian Bogost's famous game-theory book Persuasive Games, this game has made us retrace that process of failed self-management we have experienced countless times in daily life. The failure one comes to experience in Consume Me can be seen as closer to a device that makes you experience how unsustainable modern society's self-management ideology is, rather than simply meaning a failure of self-management.

Strictly speaking, however, Consume Me does not use the extreme rhetoric of failure of works Bogost cited as examples in Persuasive Games, such as September 12th or McDonald's Videogame. The game's ending, in several events, makes you traverse back and forth between a procedurality and causality so rigidly close to our lives and a humanity whose outcome cannot be known. Moving into Chapter 3, Jenny's boyfriend Oliver goes into a brief long-distance relationship, and here the game decreases the relationship between the two by –3 each day. Chatting by message recovers +2 in the relationship, and a video call recovers +5, but message chat consumes one hour and a video call two hours. Since the free time given in a day is only two hours, the player always has to invest at least about an hour in chores, studying, exercise, and so on, and spends the remaining hour on message chat with Oliver.

Yet despite this investment, repeating only message chat will inevitably drive the two's relationship toward catastrophe. After many twists and turns, on moving into Chapter 4, Jenny faces a situation where, after a consultation with the college guidance counselor, she has to settle on a target university and write an admissions essay. Since this demands still more time, Jenny tearfully confides the situation to Oliver. At this Oliver kindly replies, "Our relationship isn't a video game. Do I look that petty to you? Even if you don't contact me for a week or so, I think our relationship is fine. So focus on writing your college admissions essay."

* A video-call scene from Consume Me

In this way, Consume Me shakes up the trap of the mechanical pattern inherent in the game's procedural rhetoric (or rhetoric of failure) itself, foregrounding the strengths of the personal game. In the end, at some point in this game, the player comes to realize that it is hard to sustain this mechanical self-management mechanic perfectly. In that process, Jenny, the protagonist within the game, comes to realize for herself that she cannot perfectly accomplish dieting, romance, exercise, college admissions, and friendships all at once. And then she arrives at the conclusion that, because life goes on anyway, she has to live on somehow. This shows, in a way, the process of "self-compromise" by which our lives are always sustained—something with a face very different from the procedurality of the digital game.

To show how the mechanical face of a game's procedurality can be supplanted by the I-novel-like individuality of the modern novel, Consume Me pushes the player into a structure of agency. The philosopher C. Thi Nguyen has explained games as an art form of "temporary agency," in which the player temporarily borrows another structure of agency.[3] Just as the I-novel put the interiority of the modern subject into language, the personal game makes the system that constitutes the contemporary personal subject playable and makes us think within it. And after internalizing the player into thoroughly following the system of procedurality, it arrives at an ambiguous ending that defends humanity by deftly twisting, through the flaws within that structure, the point that our lives are not composed of procedurality alone.

In fact, the first time I played Consume Me was at BIC in 2019. At the BIC held the year just before COVID broke out, I was serving as chair of the jury, and the Consume Me I played then was a game dealing only with the current Chapter 1—that is, the eating disorder Jenny had experienced. That incomplete build was somewhat closer to a social impact game than the present one, and the individuality did not protrude much. But after five years of development, the Consume Me released on Steam returned, with added volume, as a more composite personal game combining romance, college admissions, friendships, and more. To be sure, the clear problem-framing of the eating disorder was somewhat diluted, and the density of closed obsession that the early demo had possessed was also reduced. Yet over those five years of development, Consume Me changed, beyond a simple social impact game, into a personal game encompassing the structure of life as a whole—romance, college admissions, friendships, labor. The commercialized Consume Me became a far richer and more playable game, but precisely because of that richness, the suffocating sense of self-management that the early demo had shown was somewhat eased. If the early Consume Me was a game that pushed the player into a single obsessive performative structure, the finished Consume Me came closer to a game that shows the fact that, even within that structure, the human being can never, in the end, be fully proceduralized.

* The various weekly goals and self-management system of Consume Me

So why, then, have such personal games rarely emerged in contemporary game development culture? The explanation that large-scale game development, being collective creation, made personal expression impossible, and that only with indie games could solo developers or small teams finally speak such stories aloud—this, I think, is only half right. The game is a medium required to have a structure of agency that makes you play it in a particular direction, and a system transparency in which a clear purpose of play must be set. In other words, that the medium of the game has long been designed in a way unsuited to expressing "personal experience" corresponds, I would suggest, to the other half of the explanation. Compared with the media of literature and film, which relatively quickly accepted an individual's depression, desire, obsession, and trivial emotions as objects of expression, the game long developed its systems only around victory, mastery, conquest, efficiency, and clear goals.

In other words, the game needed a simplified rationality for clear goals, calculable values, optimizable choices, and the like—and the personal game, using various rhetorical devices, is expressing, little by little, the eating disorders, depression, self-loathing, anxiety, and obsession that had been hard to express in games. For this reason, the personal game does not stop at being merely a game that handles a personal story. Consume Me, by twisting the structure of agency granted to the player, depicts the ordinary individual—the wavering human being—who experiences emotional depletion while enduring repetitive obsession, self-surveillance, and the failures that follow from imperfect choices. If the modern I-novel discovered the interiority of the modern person, the contemporary personal game makes playable the very performative structure of the contemporary human who lives within the logic of self-management and optimization. And Consume Me, by ceaselessly inserting contingency, failure, and emotional wavering into that structure, shows the fact that the human being can never be fully proceduralized.

[1] Anna Anthropy, Rise of the Videogame Zinesters (Seven Stories Press, 2012).

[2] Ian Bogost has noted a rhetoric of failure whereby a game developer, through the design of mechanics, deliberately inserts a process of failure into the game, making the player experience failure and thereby arrive at an intended realization. This rhetoric of failure is recognized as a game-specific rhetoric difficult to realize in other media. Ian Bogost, Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Videogames (The MIT Press, 2010).

[3] C. Thi Nguyen, Games: Agency as Art (Oxford University Press, 2020).