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Splitterguy

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2022 Ranked

I would put my top 5 games here up against my top games of any year, but those games excepted, I have reservations about pretty much every game on this list. I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but 2022 was probably one of the worst years for games of the last twenty years. The only year off the top of my head that produced less was probably 2014? You can feel that in the discourse, too. Most of the big GOTY discussions this year were muted.

I don't think it can all be explained away by COVID fatigue and slow-motion social collapse. AAA games have never been as huge and unweidly as they are now, and production cycles have gotten genuinely obscene in scale. They just didn't have much presence whatsoever this year. On the other hand, indies are starting to stick to trends which have become long in the tooth, so while there were plenty of hit indies, many of them are regurgitations of familiar ideas. Even Vampire Survivors, one of the year's biggest indies, is just a new version of an already existing concept.

A one-word summary for 2022 would be: derivative. In all senses of the word, 2022 was defined by games which were derivative of other, more trail-blazing titles from years past. Sometimes that means we get really interesting meditations on old classics like this year's Signalis - other times, it means we're languishing in the old, the familiar, and the generic.

List items

  • Norco is the best-written video games of the year. Point-blank. It possesses some of the best character writing, conceptual design and visual art I think I’ve ever seen in a video game.  

    Norco often gets compared to Kentucky Route Zero, another game about localized poverty and near-future dystopia. Kentucky Route Zero took up a lot of space in critical discourse surrounding narrative games over the last decade, I think partially thanks to the fact that it told a story which mirrored the social circumstances of the moment in the genre of magical realism, which is still pretty novel in gaming. I love Kentucky Route Zero, but it tells its story at a remove from its characters; so much of it occurs in the abstract. Try to find Kentucky in Kentucky Route Zero; it’s surprisingly difficult to do. 

    This is what makes Norco so magical: it’s not only specific, but it’s *hyper*-specific. I see people I’ve known in many of its characters; there’s this guy named Keith you encounter in a dive bar in this game, who’s like three inches of tech-literacy removed from discovering Infowars, that feels like so many dudes I knew from my shitty little hometown. You also encounter a club full of “white kids” who’ve paid to attend an event called “bounce night,” an inexplicable event which nevertheless proves profitable for the club owner. There’s the guy who’s out of a job at the 7-11 because he got replaced by a robot, who’s stuck in an awful situation and has come out of it badly. There’s the Garretts, an alt-right cult of dudes who got radicalized on the internet and spend their time mowing NPCs down in Grand Theft Auto. Kay, the main character, is estranged from her only parent for reasons that go undefined, but that nevertheless feel completely real – sometimes these things just happen, and they happen too late to be undone.  

    There’s also this character in Norco named Leblanc. Leblanc is a private investigator who ends up joining your party towards the last act, and he’s *incredible.* Every single line delivered by Leblanc is the best line of dialogue ever delivered by anyone, anywhere. He’s smarter than he lets on, is consistently correct in spite of how whacky he initially appears to be, and is unapologetically a human being. He also poops in a room which has a hole in the wall, facing his neighbor’s house. He’s like if Columbo lived in extreme poverty. I love him. I love him *so much.* 

    I gather that Norco has been interpreted as a pessimistic work because it refuses to give its protagonists solutions to the broad social problems which affect them. I see this take about Norco a lot, actually, and I really don’t understand it. Much of Norco’s content is just abstracted, near-future dystopian visions of our contemporary dystopian problems. If that feels bad, it’s supposed to. Things feel bad right now! We live in an era in which tragedy is an easier outcome to anticipate than hope. None of our current problems have easy solutions, and every story which explores this problem does not owe its audience the satisfaction of an ‘all will be well’ ending.  

    More than anything, Norco is a profoundly honest game, and any game which is honest about contemporary American poverty is going to feel pessimistic if you believe media owes you escapism. Norco lets you connect with a community that’s ravaged by a system defined by profoundly anti-social motives and policies. But it still lets you find those connections, even when they’re fleeting. This is not a game about giving up: it’s a game about engaging with the world as clearly and vividly as you can muster. It's a game about going back home and being honest with yourself about what’s happened.

  • My expectations for Pentiment were that it would be whacky. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but Obsidian is a big developer, and big developers just don’t get to make straight up dramas, let alone epic-scale, pastoral, historical dramas. Before I began playing, I’d guessed Pentiment would go the Monty Python direction with its depictions of history; that the very notion of exploring a life lived during the medieval era could easily be reduced to jokes about how humanity hadn’t figured out disease yet, or how peasants were dumb guys, or whatever. 

    That is emphatically not what Pentiment is. There’s still plenty of comedy in this game, but none of it undercuts the history or the characters. It’s a game that trusts its audience’s intelligence. It doesn’t take the easy way out on its premise in any sense. It’s one of the few games I’ve ever played which feels like a complete thought, which is all the more impressive considering how variable the content the player will encounter is. It takes the general shape of the game Night in the Woods, another game which manages to feel like a complete statement, but it twists the knife by adding the severe consequence of choice from a game like, say, Far Cry 2. The fact that Pentiment is able to achieve both meaningful divergent choice and coherent central themes is a major testament to the skill of the developers. 

    Pentiment is a bit like if you mashed the tropes of the Obsidian RPG into George Eliot’s Middlemarch. I don’t know if that makes much sense, but it’s also the highest compliment I could give to a game in this genre. It’s a moving and sometimes profound story about how people cannot be separated from the context of their respective societies and eras, that nevertheless suggests you can always do something, even a small thing, to push the world in the right direction.

  • The Quarry isn’t the best game of the year, but I’d say it’s the most fun game of the year. Supermassive Games have outdone themselves. The Quarry feels like the culmination of nearly a decade (!) of narrative choice-based horror excellence from the studio. The Quarry not only meets slasher genre film greats on its own level, but it even *exceeds* the classic slasher films, taking the genre away from its originary exploitation cinema mode without dulling the genres rough edges. It’s amazing, really. It turns out you *can* make a great slasher story that isn’t also sort of awful to watch. 

    I don’t necessarily think The Quarry ever quite coheres into a meaningful social statement or a truly unique perspective on its genre the way Signalis does, but it does accomplish something I think it will go unappreciated for: it’s got some of the best character writing in genre fiction from *any* medium this year. Every character in this ensemble cast, no matter how likable or unlikable, is a home run, both in terms of the script and the performances. There’s no one in the cast you’re going to get sick of spending time with in this one, regardless of how one-dimensional they are. 

    It’s funny, but the fact that the characters are all so fun to watch could easily undermine the entire premise of the game. Part of the reason why the slasher movie works is because it designs certain characters to be as unpleasant as possible. When you’re watching a slasher, you’re watching it for the violence, so certain ‘worthy targets’ are deemed necessary for the horror to work. The Quarry signals a lot of slasher archetypes in its cast, but ultimately renders even its most annoying twentysomething pseudo-teens as sympathetic and compelling in their own right. That wouldn’t work in the context of a film, but it works wonderfully here, because each and every character can either die or survive depending on your choices. It’s the best of both worlds; you don’t have to endure characters you don’t like, but you don’t lose the tension from the horror because literally no character has plot armor. Despite The Quarry’s familiar trappings, there’s really nothing else quite like it out there.

  • Signalis feels like the apex of an aesthetic movement that’s been gaining steam in the indie space for years now. Major publishers may have left behind the Silent Hill-era horror game, but indie devs sure haven’t - itch.io is *dense* with PS1-era horror games. Signalis isn’t the all-time best example of the retro PS1 horror revival – for my money, Paratopic still takes it – but it’s almost certainly the most complete and lavishly designed iteration of the concept. It is the A24-esque PS1 horror title, the “Under the Skin” of its genre, if you will.  

    2022 was a year defined by derivatives, and Signalis is an example of the ‘good’ kind of derivative. Besides borrowing the aesthetics of a broad trend in the indie space and the general narrative trappings of a Silent Hill, it also takes entire game systems almost verbatim from Resident Evil and Silent Hill; the game even opens with Silent Hill’s bizarre, “some sequences in this game may be considered violent or cruel” content warning.  

    But Signalis uses these pieces to do something very specific. Signalis is a game about the systemic oppression of the human spirit. It’s a game about how people are commodified, turned into tools, and are recycled, quite literally, for the purposes of material extraction. In this way, Signalis twists its source texts into completely new shapes. In Silent Hill, monsters are the physical manifestation of ultra-specific trauma the primary characters endure, but in Signalis, monsters are a byproduct of grotesque and cosmically horrifying labor practices. In a truly radical way, Signalis is a game about a radical action – about coming to grips with the shape society has molded you into, with all the political and cultural implications of that, and rebuilding yourself, piece by piece, until you can arrive at an end commensurate with your individual will. No small feat for an isometric indie horror.

  • Whereas many multiplayer, open world survival games succeed thanks to a multiplicity of customization options and a massive expanse of space to explore, Grounded exceeds by doing the exact opposite: it’s an open world survival game about hyper-specificity. Players pick and choose from one of four plucky teenagers who have been shrunk to ant-size, with three goals in mind: to survive, to discover what happened to them, and to finally grow big again. This is a game about surviving as a bug with opposable thumbs, and let me tell you what: that's a really difficult thing to do.

    The setting is magical: it’s just some guy’s messy backyard. The mundanity of that is what makes it so compelling. The natural ecosystem you establish a relationship with abides by familiar rules – it's just your new role in that ecosystem which is so unfamiliar. You quickly learn which bugs to consume, which bugs to befriend and which bugs to avoid at all costs. Of all the things I experienced in video games this year, Grounded gave me two unforgettable memories: encountering a Wolf Spider for the first time, and *defeating* a Wolf Spider for the first time. Look at the effect that memory has on me: I just capitalized Wolf Spider. I have been imbued with some profound and deep-seated fear and respect for the Wolf Spider. Because those motherfuckers SCARY, y’all. 

    There’s some stuff that undermines the experience, as in all open world survival games. Initially, new bugs make up the game’s roadblocks: how do I survive the anthill, how do I survive stinkbug gas, how to navigate orb weavers, etc. Once Grounded’s difficult ramps up towards the game’s climax, though, it’s at its absolute worst: for a game that’s nominally about explorating, it sure does feature hyper-difficult combat at the end! Its combat is not Grounded’s best feature, and you’re going to be doing a butt-ton of combat if you want to see this game’s ending.  

    Still, this was a terrific experience. If nothing else, Obsidian made one of the most fun and oddly beautiful open worlds maybe *ever.* If any of what I’ve written turns you off, you can actually customize the bugs to always be neutral to the player, which would be a distinct and probably very cool way to experience the best parts of the game.

  • The Frog Detective series is legitimately one of the most impressive indie projects out there. The series is so consistently funny and charming that, in spite of each game’s modest scope, the series managed to earn its own little media event with this last entry. The fact that so many huge Twitch streamers played through this was pretty cool. 

    To be clear, none of this is to say I don’t think Frog Detective 3 deserves the spotlight because it’s a tiny narrative game or anything like that – you can probably tell thanks to the placement on this list that I think it’s one of the best games of the year. Making a narrative game whose appeal lies almost entirely in its dialogue – especially one that’s supposed to make you laugh – seems *extremely* hard to do. Series creator/lead designer/writer/probably lots of other stuff Grace Bruxner is a singular talent in the industry. Her games are some of the only games I’d recommend to just about anyone.

  • Would it surprise you if I told you Kirby and the Forgotten Kingdom’s narrative trajectory is more similar to NieR:Automata than it is to anything Nintendo has ever produced? The Forgotten Kingdom is not “Kirby: Breath of the Wild” or “Kirby: Galaxy,” it’s “Kirby: The Existential Anguish of Escalatory Consumption.”  

    Everyone’s favorite pink nightmare creature finds himself on an alien planet – an alien planet which looks conspicuously like Earth – only to find it abandoned and buried in litter. Resort towns, factories, city streets, all abandoned, all overgrown, all in tribute to humanity’s legacy: trash production. 

    This is surprisingly dark social commentary in a game starring a Nintendo mascot. The Forgotten Kingdom is kinda like the Pixar movie Wall-E, that way, if Wall-E wasn’t also virulently fatphobic and driven by reactionary luditism. If anything, The Forgotten Kingdom is the more complex text between the two – it takes Kirby, whose entire identity is predicated on the consumption of things, and places him in a context in which escalatory consumption obliterated a species.  

    Also similar to Wall-E, the environmentalist messaging puts the game on shaky grounds; I am deeply unconvinced that a company like Disney or Nintendo can make an environmentalist, anti-consumerist narrative off of the back of a product which, itself, will contribute an endless amount of plastic trash as its many collectible plushees, toys, and cross-marketed products are released in stores nearby to us all. 

    I digress – I don’t want to be too cynical about a game I otherwise really liked. The Forgotten Kingdom’s willingness to actually do something with its character and its design is so, so much more interesting to me than Nintendo’s recent trend towards looking backwards at its own legacy in titles like Super Mario Odyssey. The Forgotten Kingdom feels more contemporary, more in-the-moment if you will, and it manages to also be fun as hell while doing so.

  • I wrote about why I struggled to really love this game in a piece which can be found here: https://bit.ly/3XayPEa

    This is the game I have the most reservations about on my list. Elden Ring is a fun, blockbuster epic with some terrific combat that ultimately doesn‘t add anything specific or new to a formula From Software mastered a decade ago. It’s more Souls, with lesser payoffs, over a very (very!) extended period of time. The scale of Elden Ring is incredible, but most of what I loved about past Souls games, while still alive and well here, has been diluted.

    You 'get' something in placing the Souls game in the context of an open world, but I think you lose a lot by designing a game this way, too. You lose specificity. When From Software fully has their hands on the steering wheel, you get Anor Londo. Anor Londo is a game-space in which literally every surface feels like it anticipates your presence. It’s a video game space with no ‘dead air,’ so to speak, where every moment of play is either presenting you with important information or an interesting challenge of some kind. You also get the universality of players slamming into a brick wall once they hit Orenstein and Smaug. Ask literally anyone who has played Dark Souls up through Anor Londo, and you can sit there and have a long conversation about Orenstein and Smaug, because the difficulty ramp up forces you to establish a relationship with those characters and that space. Maybe that’s a blunt force game design tactic, but it produces something that I think is meaningful, at least to me, about Souls games. 

    When From Software eases their grip on that same general foundational game design, you get something more nebulous. You get a zillion iterations of encounters punctuated by big, authored moments; you get a dozen tree sentinel boss fights but only very rarely do you get, say, a Radahn. And I don’t think there’s really that much debate to be had about which of these experiences mean more, from both a narrative perspective but also from an individual experience perspective – everyone will end up with a strong feeling attached to the Radahn fight, because it’s excellent. Will anyone remember their fourth encounter with a Tree Sentinel? Their third fight with whatever the hell Christalians are? 

    I’m obviously in the minority on this game, and I don’t want to harp on it too much considering I had a fun time with it, but ultimately this was maybe my biggest disappointment with a game this year. The discourse around Elden Ring, much like Breath of the Wild, had me convinced that Elden Ring had somehow evolved beyond the constraints of its genre, not that it had reconfigured its mechanics to better fit the conditions of the popular AAA game. I thought the series was going to start going for big swings narratively, too – hell, Washington Post’s Gene Park recently claimed on Twitter that it had the depth and complexity of James Joyce’s Ulysses, for Christmas’ sake. And it just doesn’t do any of these things. It doesn’t try to do any of these things, really. It's the same From Software game I already feel like I know.

  • If 2022 is the year of the GameBoy Advance renaissance, then I would nominate Floppy Knights as the herald of its arrival. Unlike Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge, would put a new coat of paint over the GBA games that *were,* Floppy Knights makes the GBA game that *should have been.* It’s a clever mix of popular contemporary genres, its blend of card play and tactics combat is at that Slay the Spire-level of synthesis between accessibility, depth and challenge. It is a perfectly executed version of itself.

  • At a glance, Beacon Pines feels derivative of indie classic Night in the Woods – it's got animal folks, explicit anti-corporate politics, lots of scenes in which you hang out with your buddies – but it’s very much its own, distinct game. Beacon Pines might match Night in the Woods in some of its broader themes and sometimes even in its tone, it’s got its own big ideas to explore, too, thanks to a storybook framing device which turns the whole thing into a meta-narrative about how stories are told. If you’ve ever seen the original 1970’s Superman movie, it’s kind of like that, weirdly enough. By the end, the player’s relationship to the story’s narrator ends up feeling more important than the events of the plot. 

    In Beacon Pines, the player’s primary method of narrative choice comes in the form of verbs – not, like, verbs as game mechanics available to the player but actual, literal verbs which the player collects throughout the story and deploys, mad-libs style, during crucial moments. A scene in which the protagonist is being pursued by someone might allow the player to pick between “hide,” “fight” or “flee” for example, at which point the story will branch in a different direction. 

    It sounds more straightforward than it is, as certain words necessary to achieve the ‘best’ ending are only discoverable when the player earns a ‘bad’ ending; the only way to see the best possible outcome of events in this story is to experience every possible catastrophe that would’ve occurred along the way. As a result, Beacon Pines feels more like a game about editing – or, maybe better yet, playtesting – than it feels like a game about writing. The idea that there is a ‘perfect’ ending for its characters comes as a foregone conclusion. I don’t feel like Beacon Pines comes to a strong or distinct enough conclusion about how to end a story, but I really like the general tone of the writing, and the high concept mechanic is fun.

  • Vampire Survivors is the world’s most ethical slot machine. This game is raw positive feedback masquerading as a bullet hell game. It does everything you wish a slot machine would do – it even lets you tilt the odds of a jackpot in your favor, over and over again. Vampire Survivors is a game in which you simply exist nearby to it and are ceremoniously rewarded for doing so. 

    It also steals all of its characters and artwork from Castlevania for...no reason? Other than the old Castlevania games looked very cool, I guess? Which is very funny. I don’t think it would be reductive to say that Vampire Survivors is, in its entirety, a reward mechanism with explosive spectacle – I honestly don’t think there’s much more to it than everything I just said about it here. It’s a game that does very little, very well.

  • Ambrosia Island DLC

    I deeply, deeply loved Hitman III, but one thing that game was lacking was satisfactory DLC. Unlike Hitman 2016 or Hitman 2, which offered full additional narrative campaigns, free bonus episodes, and many challenging escalation missions, Hitman III’s only paid DLC in 2021 was it’s Seven Deadly Sins campaign, which encapsulated about two hours of content for the price of a full game, and it’s ludicrously-priced deluxe edition content which cost something like $35 and had even less going on. It was totally possible to spend $70 on Hitman III DLC that would’ve amounted to less than the totally free content from Hitman 2016 or Hitman 2.  

    Out of nowhere, Ambrosia Island released this year, a full new campaign mission set in the middle of the Hitman 2 storyline. And it’s great! There’s some fun returning characters in here, it’s got some interesting new targets and a locale which evokes older missions without simply replicating them. It doesn’t have anywhere near as much going on in it as the other Hitman 3 maps, but it does a lot to balance out the content actually in Hitman 3 considering how disliked the final map of that game is.

  • Spider Heck is neat. If Multiversus is the cynical version of the Super Smash. Bros. series, then Spider Heck is its true spiritual successor: a multiplayer game which gleefully produces chaos in moment-to-moment play which nevertheless requires skill to master.

  • Working on an essay about this one which I'll eventually put on Medium, but in the meantime, my basic thoughts about Citizen Sleeper are that it has a truly amazing premise and good foundational structure, but that it's too afraid of creating friction between the player and the narrative to actually cohere into meaningful social commentary.

    The basic problem I had with it is that A. you can't actually get too sick to work without the medication the game makes you get, B. that the game's depiction of freelance labor is in a couple very specific respects actually preferable to the capitalist system its criticizing, and C. that it creates way too much distance between the world and the player character to really, truly work as an RPG visual novel; it's not especially visual.

    I’m guessing most players had a different experience than me, as all of the write-ups about this game mention experiencing palpable stress at having to juggle the game’s various timers and mandatory tasks. I did not experience stress. Without much thought or extra effort, I somehow ended the game with a surplus of resources, to the extent that I acquired all of the game’s purchasable apartments and performed all of the game’s jobs just for the hell of it. I always had the medication I needed, I always received end-of-day bonuses from my bosses at my half-dozen jobs, and I was even able to earn enough money along the way to cobble together some savings. 

    Citizen Sleeper’s structure undermines its themes. At each job you can acquire, bosses either give you bonus pay or less pay dependent on how good of a job you do during a shift. The risk/reward feels meaningful in a gameplay sense, in that it gives you something else to think about when choosing how to spend your time, but it removes meaning in a narrative sense, because it means your bosses quite literally reward you commensurate with your skill. You can even load the dice your given in your favor pretty easily so you’re always getting that ‘good job’ bonus.  

    More importantly, that’s not how labor actually works in capitalism, right? A meritocracy, in which skill always and consistently meets relatively higher pay, does not exist. Even diehard capitalists understand that hard work doesn’t guarantee you a promotion in the workplace. Citizen Sleeper is explicitly an anti-capitalist game, which nevertheless creates a gameplay system which reifies and actualizes a kind of hardscrabble, libertarian meritocracy. It feels like a weird (and honestly kind of major?) point of friction within the game’s text, because if you can succeed or even thrive within that meritocracy, especially without any material consequences of your being overworked, it would seem to validate that system more than it criticizes it. 

    In Citizen Sleeper’s hubworld, the concerns of capitalism are alive and well, but the circumstances typically produced by capitalism are only partially present. You don’t really have to pay rent most of the time, you never get evicted from the budlings you can illegally (legally?) squat in, the police don’t exist in the way real police do. This all makes the events of the game feel weightless – inconsequential.  

    From a player perspective, the major concern in Citizen Sleeper is the imminent failure of your body, but given the variety of jobs available to you, along with the total lack of gatekeeping from those jobs, it’s a problem that can always be put off until tomorrow. Further, you *cannot die* in this game. You can only lose some (but never all) of your daily allotment of dice rolls. So long as you have dice rolls, you can always earn more money, because job opportunities never dry up. Attaching the consequences of ‘planned obsolescence’ to a human body is existentially horrifying, but that concept can only go so far if you never see the consequences of it.  

    The core of the problem, really, is that Citizen Sleeper’s system of labor is bizarre and totally unlike the real world, and that makes it only partially successful at delivering social commentary. In the real world, *all* elements of the workplace are compulsory. There is no ‘show up when you want, how you want’ to it. Even app workers don’t get to decide to go pick mushrooms one day and repair spaceships on another. In Citizen Sleeper, you can always work or not work, at several jobs which you will always be welcome to do regardless of your past experience or your past performance, totally free of contracts, start times, mandatory two-week delays in pay, and all the other awful practices the contemporary worker must endure. Taken alongside the game’s potential to award you for your superiority in the workplace, the political commentary here is baffling to me.  

    I don’t really know what to do with all that! I genuinely do not see the outcomes the Citizen Sleeper’s text tells me are being produced actually being produced by the Citizen Sleeper’s systems. By the end of the game, you can join a commune, which feels pretty radical, sure, but the labor you perform for the commune produces no material change in the world – none that the player can observe, at least – and the labor you perform for basically any of the major job providers actually gets you to a stable independent income. I can measure success in a material, verifiable way when I play as a capitalist, but when I play as a socialist or a communist the outcomes of my choices are completely obscured.

  • Interior Night, the studio that developed As Dusk Falls, was founded by a former lead designer at Quantic Dream. You can *really* feel it playing through their debut; this is a game that replicates and tries to evolve, specifically, the format of the Cable TV crime drama. The plot is perfect fodder for a choice-based ‘movie game’: three brothers desperate for cash end up placing another family in a hostage situation during a heist gone wrong. The player switches between characters from both sides as they navigate the conflict. 

    You can’t overstate how important television dramas are to Ask Dusk Falls. Every narrative element in the game is generative from TV, which is both an asset and a drawback. It makes the flow of the game familiar, and easy to jump into. Anyone looking to play through a lengthy, narrative-heavy game with a partner who doesn’t like video games will find a friend in As Dusk Falls, thanks to its deft handling of the genre. On the other hand, the game inherits all of the problems with TV crime dramas, too. It’s laden with melodrama, and just like any TV crime drama laden with melodrama, it features broad characters and sometimes feels like its treading water in-between set pieces. 

    Still, any downsides to As Dusk Falls’ design is mitigated by two things: the primary characters are interesting and the story is generally well-acted. If there’s one thing As Dusk Falls cares about, it’s its actors, and you can feel that during play.  

    As Dusk Falls does come with a catch, though, and it’s a big one: the art style. The primary visuals in this game are still photographs of its actors, which are then animated in a motion comic-esque style that is itself overlayed on digital video game spaces. It always looks weird; nothing ever feels real, and as good as the actors are at selling the lines via their voice acting, their facial acting is comically overstated to compensate for the limited animation. It’s a tough pill to swallow, honestly, but if you can look past the game’s visuals, this is nonetheless a pretty strong debut.

  • I'm going to be honest: I think Sam Barlow creates really interesting premises for games, that he creates interesting mechanisms to explore narratives, but that he writes generally inhuman characters who participate in some of the most hamfisted video game narratives around. Immortality is Barlow's most ingenious work structurally, but it's got a rotten meta-plot which undermines quite literally all of the benefits of its narrative design. I thought we were getting a reconstructed history of exploitation in Hollywood with this game, but it turns out we were actually getting something roughly equivalent with an early 2010s creepypasta.

    I wrote a longform piece about this game which can be found here: https://bit.ly/3GEnLbo

  • I was let down by this one! Neon White was one of my most anticipated games this year, but I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. The core gameplay feels great but I’m baffled by its general structure, story and art direction. Everything in the game works well so long as you’re not participating in the narrative, or really, any part of the game that isn’t just the core gameplay whatsoever.  

    I don’t simply mean to say that I dislike Neon White‘s writing – which to be clear, I do dislike the writing, the characters, the voice acting, and the plot (lol) - but the game’s entire structure upsets the joy of the gameplay. In order to fully ‘complete’ a level, the player has to both achieve a set completion time for each level (fun!) and return to it later to find a hidden object somewhere, usually outside of the parts of the level you’ll see if you’re playing normally (not fun!). It would be like if a Sonic the Hedgehog game forced you to replay each level as a walking sim. I got in the habit of immediately replaying levels after I completed them to hunt for the hidden object so I could ‘100%’ the level, and I can’t recommend enough that people don’t play Neon White that way, because doing so means spending 2 or 3 minutes playing the cool, fun part of the game, followed by 5-to-7 minutes of the aimless bad part of the game. Not great. 

    Of course, there’s also the visual novel components, which generate a visceral ick response in me. I fuckin’ do *not* like the characters in this game. Plenty of Neon White’s fans make all kinds of claims about how the game’s cringe-y, embarrassing cast of characters are the way they are by intent and not by accident, but that only makes me like them less. Every dialogue exchange in this game makes me want to curl up into a ball, have someone load me into a cannon, and blast me away from my Nintendo Switch.

  • Metal: Hellsinger looks, feels and plays like Doom (2016), except it’s also a rhythm game which seems to steal the mechanics from BPM: Bullets Per Minute whole-cloth. (By the way: does anyone know the story with that? Because everyone writing about Metal: Hellsinger seemed to suggest it uses a brand new high concept mechanic, but it really does seem identical to that other game?) 

    The end result is that Metal: Hellsinger is like playing Doom (2016) but sort of worse? Having to fire in time with the music doesn’t actually alter the moment-to-moment play between this game and its source text. In fact, Doom (2016) does already almost feel rhythmic when you play it, thanks to the way enemies move and weapons function in that game. 

    I don’t dislike Metal: Hellsinger, but I do feel like it’s missing something. Maybe if the FPS mechanics were a bit more simplified and the rhythm mechanics were a little more complicated I would’ve felt differently.

  • I’m not the kind of person to enjoy escape rooms, so I say this as a huge compliment: Escape Academy is pretty fun in co-op. There’s some smart design choices here, particularly that online players can freely turn-on split screen mode to see what their companions are seeing at will, which dramatically simplifies tasks that require the player keeping tabs on specific signage and stuff like that. 

    This game’s also got this weird ‘escape room Hogwarts’ thing going on which doesn’t super work for me, though. Most of the early game’s puzzles are basically simulations of escape rooms rather than actual scenarios in which a person would need to escape. In other words, you’re not playing an ‘escape room-type video game’ when you’re playing Escape Academy, but basically a video game which recreates the context of escape rooms exactly. You’re escaping from simulated realities inside of a simulated reality. 

    Why the added layer of remove? Why not just make it an escape room game that’s actually about heists or something? It’s a video game, not a storefront at a mall. The sky’s the limit here.

  • My appreciation for this game is entirely based on its aesthetics. This game looks sharp as hell. Truly. It looks the way I dreamt GameBoy Advance games would look when I saw it advertised in magazines when I was, like, 10 years-old. The colors pop, the animations are evocative, and the stages last a pitch-perfect five/six minutes. Playing a stage in this game is like taking an espresso shot of GameBoy Advance nostalgia. 

    There’s a ‘but’ here, and the ‘but’ is that I don’t much like playing it for any more than those five/six minute chunks. There’s the fact that it’s a sidescrolling beat ‘em up, which is a notoriously dry video game genre, but I don’t think that’s what’s making me steer clear of it; I played through all three Streets of Rage games recently and had a pretty good time. I think it’s more that Shredder’s Revenge is missing, like, *one* key ingredient to really tie the whole thing together. If it was a little tougher, or faster, or more varied, maybe. I dunno!

  • This year's "My Divorce Story," a Switch game, is not on the GB wiki so I'm using the concept page for divorce in its place.

    My Divorce Story

    This indie is about the trauma of the Korean divorce system, in which you (apparently?) need to prove to the state you have a valid reason to divorce. In game terms, this means snooping on your spouse’s personal affairs without raising their suspicion, and taking what you find to a lawyer after work. 

    The ingenious part is that you don’t get to actually move your character – they start in the bedroom each day, walk through the house, get breakfast, go to work, get dinner, and go home. As your character completes their daily schedule, time progresses, so all of the decisions you make as a player serve the function of interrupting their routines to uncover more information (or to try and reconnect with your partner, despite the circumstances). This mechanic, while simple, has the effect of making you feel pulled by the sheer gravitational weight of society through all of these tasks and distractions that have nothing to do whatsoever with what you really care about, both as the player and the player character, which is dealing with the trauma of the affair and the ensuing divorce. The game aptly depicts our lack of individual power to hold steady against the social circumstances in which we live. 

    My Divorce Story unfortunately isn’t localized so much as its just literally translated, so I think there’s a lot of nuance missing for English-speaking players. As a result, the actual process of the divorce, and much of the dialogue, feels robotic; it’s too hard to really read into the emotional landscape the game is attempting to portray. I do think the core idea here is pretty powerful, though, regardless of how simple the gameplay actually is.

  • I'm skeptical of games like Tunic, which consider the nostalgia centered around early video game experiences as meaningful in and of itself. Like Fez, Tunic is a game about another game, but unlike Fez, its hook is centered around replicating its source text rather than interpreting it. Whatever meaning we can get out of recontextualizing The Legend of Zelda - I don't think we're gonna find it this way.

    Wrote an essay about this game which can be found here: https://bit.ly/3W3LZ4x

  • This is maybe the driest management sim I’ve ever played in my life. Nearly all of Two Point Campus’ systems are self-sufficient, and the parts that aren’t self-sufficient are instead annoying to micro-manage. I didn’t expect complexity from this game, but I did expect some wacky humor, and what’s on offer here is, like, ‘guy slipping on a banana peel’-level jokes. The dynamic events in the game also produce little to change the core experience. For a game this loud, it has remarkably little personality.

  • A Memoir Blue is a sincere video game which uses a structure I’ve grown sick of: the (mostly) dialogue-less, metaphoric imagery-driven narrative game. See also: Sea of Solitude, Flower, Limbo, A Tale of Two Sons, Gris, Morkredd, Fractured Minds, etc. Good games come out of this format, but too many of them are indistinguishable from one another. 

    This genre seems to be the indie video game equivalent of the Oscar-nominated animated short film. All of the games in this lineage come to the same broad conclusions about how to tell their stories, and all rely on sweeping the player off their feet using orchestral scores and loaded (sometimes saccharine) imagery. But they all do the same thing, towards the same end. Each time a new game releases in this format, the effect is further diluted. 

    In the late aughts, games that were able to tell a complete story without any dialogue whatsoever felt unique, even brave in some sense, but at this point I feel entirely the opposite. Based on the games that come out in this format every year, I don’t think there’s much more to explore in this space.

  • Another game I'm working on a piece about, which will eventually end up on Medium.

    There was a lot of hand-wringing about players and critics being unable to handle the 'friction' that Scorn intentionally creates between the player and itself, but most of those takes were overwrought. Friction is not a blanket concept; it can work, it can create value, and it can detract. It's *extremely* subjective to even discuss, because friction may not exist for one player versus another.

    Scorn got compared to the game Myst a whole lot, in that Myst is also obscure and unwilling to unpack the rules of its world to the player. But in Myst, that obscurity is present in order to invite the player to think through the operations of the game world, to obtain a mastery of its internal logic. Myst never 'punishes' you for getting a puzzle wrong. You almost never die or "lose."

    This is not the case in Scorn! It’s a game that wants you to feel afraid, vulnerable, compelled to proceed as cautiously as possible. The urgency of its design as a horror game – which includes its own host of Resident Evil-esque monsters, who rather ridiculously can fire off projectiles at you like gunfire – generates a certain kind of *internal* friction, between its ambitions as a horror game and its ambitions as an atmospheric puzzle/art piece thing. Sometimes Scorn’s tension is generated entirely by its grotseque world and the bodyhorror it inflicts on the player character, yes, but other times, the game generates tension by placing the player in a linear, enemy-filled series of hallways like it’s the world’s weirdest Half Life clone. 

    This is where Scorn’s punishment for failure really comes into play. In Scorn, combat is difficult – frankly, it’s *extremely* difficult – and the punishment for failure is severe. Checkpointing in Scorn occurs only occasionally, and sometimes before meticulously animated cutscenes in which horrible machines creak and grind their way through flesh. This point is the one in which I’m least sympathetic to the Scorn defenders: Scorn is not just an atmospheric narrative adventure, but it’s also sometimes this horror game where, in order to complete a given sequence, the player may have to trudge through visual setpiece-heavy walking sequences again and again until a perfect run through the combat portion has been achieved. Whatever tension Scorn manages to build up to that point is then dissipated and reformulated as pure frustration. Some players are more patient than others, but as a rule of thumb, having to repeat a horror setpiece upwards of 7 or 8 times to get to a puzzle – well, I’m just throwing this out there, but that’s *exhausting.* That deeply undermines any tension or investment on the part of the player, and in such a way that does not reinforce the game’s themes well enough to justify the cost.

  • Somerville is the spiritual successor to Playdead’s Limbo and Inside, another otherworldly, narrative-heavy 2D platformer with style to spare from one of Playdeads’ cofounders. It’s also the least successful iteration of the Playdead formula so far.  

    Limbo and Inside benefited from the fact that those games heavily emphasized thematic resonance over plot. Both feature a little boy navigating inexplicable horrors until a set piece conclusion is reached which ties all of the imagery together. Somerville, by contrast, is about - stop me if you’ve heard this one before – a Bearded Dad looking for a Mom and a Child in the midst of a global catastrophe. And not just any global catastrophe, mind you: a planet-wide alien invasion. That’s a big idea for a game of this type! Without the overwhelming focus on imagery and theme, the Playdead, no-dialogue format makes Somerville’s archetypical sci-fi feel too thin.

  • This clunky team-based shooter was intended to release alongside Resident Evil 8 as a free add-on to that full-price game. Over a year later, Re:Verse finally came out, and...well, frankly, it’s about as good as you’d assume a free-to-play Resident Evil team-based shooter intended to release as an add-on to Resident Evil 8 would be. It’s got finnicky shooting, limited game modes, haphazard stage design, and, I’ll admit, some fun Left 4 Dead-like ideas on how to incorporate Resident Evil monsters into a multiplayer setting. 

    I don’t hate Re:Verse, but you’re getting, like, two or three hours of play out of it, at most. It reminded me of the multiplayer add-ons from the PS2/Xbox/Gamecube era. If Re:Verse was a local competitive game, I actually think it’d shoot above its weight class, sort of like the GoldenEye remake for the Xbox 360/PS3/Wii did. That game felt like it was designed with local play in mind – Re:Verse, on the other hand, is trying its hand at a Fortnite-style battle pass, of all things, and it can only disappoint in this context. 

    Oh well. It is free, after all. Given the opportunity to play as Resident Evil 3-era Jill Valentine, I’d say it’s worth a download.

  • Trek to Yomi is an intense, tough-as-nails, Ninja Gaiden-like side scrolling action game which advertises itself as a video game inspired by “classic samurai films.” The ‘classic samurai film’ line was the part that most interested me in this game. Literally every writeup about Trek to Yomi name-drops director Akira Kurosawa, specifically, as Trek to Yomi’s core inspiration – I'm not sure if that’s comparison comes straight from the developers or if this is generative of a game preview echo chamber, but this is a loaded comparison that does not bear out in the game itself. 

    Like many of the 2022 games I played, Trek to Yomi is aesthetically derivative of something: in this case, some of the best movies ever made by one of the world’s best film directors. And it does, in fact, recreate cinematic images which feel roughly analogous to shots that might appear in a Kurosawa film.  

    But completing Trek to Yomi left me with an unanswered question: why? Kurosawa never made a movie even remotely similar to Trek to Yomi. If Trek to Yomi is to be compared to Kurosawa, the only phrase I can think of that would describe it would be that it vulgarizes Kurosawa – not in the sense that Trek to Yomi is somehow offensive, but in that it recontextualizes images from Kurosawa’s filmography in such a way that removes all meaning from its source text. It yanks the violence from a movie like Yojimbo out of context and then presents that violence to you as if it has intrinsic meaning. 

    Empathy, humanity, vulnerability, regret, and the complex pressures of the social are concepts that are inseparable from Kurosawa’s filmography. Trek to Yomi features these keystone themes in only the broadest sense; truthfully, this is a game about a dead-eyed mass murderer in the mode of, say, God of War, and not a game about a human being. It borrows elements of its source material with the same crude fixations as an exploitation film. Trek to Yomi’s real drive is to challenge the player through its difficult melee combat, but it constantly emphasizes the framing of the action cinematically, as a kind of picturesque John Wick, as if the beauty of Kurosawa’s work was in his glorification of violence.  

    Trek to Yomi is presentationally ambitious, sure, but in all other respects it’s retrograde. The more honest cinematic framing would’ve been b-movies from the same era of the type the Kill Bill movies stole from. Trek to Yomi is a celebration of intense samurai violence, not entirely dissimilar to the way the Uncharted games are a celebration of Spielbergian violence. Borrowing from Kurosawa only makes the game feel somehow dishonest about itself.

  • I appreciate that, for many players, Power Wash Simulator is a great game for when you want to wind-down after a long day. And you know what? That’s great. I can empathize with the desire to fill your free time with a time-waster. There’s a reason why projects like these can become smash hits – there’s something compelling or even soothing about simulated chores and the gamification of boredom. It’s the video game equivalent of white noise. House Flipper, a game which almost certainly laid the groundwork for Power Wash Simulator, is an excellent example of the White Noise Game done well. 

    Power Wash Simulator, at least for my brain, feels like if you added the finnicky way precision aiming works in the game Goldeneye 007 to the format of House Flipper. You’ve gotta do a lot of subtle movements with the analog sticks complete levels in this game. Power Wash Simulator is also exacting about how much grime you wash out of each level, to the point that it demands a total 100% completion rate before it allows you to proceed.  

    In other words, Power Wash Simulator adds difficulty to a game about doing chores. I didn’t love House Flipper, but I appreciated that its simulation of work included minigames which added some tactile variety to the busywork; Power Wash Simulator, by contrast, always consists of one game mechanic which necessitates precise movement on the player’s part. I don’t know how to put it – it's like they took what House Flipper was and added, like, Gamer mechanics to it. If you miss a spot – god forbid, if you *can’t find* a spot – then you’re not going anywhere. I spent *15* minutes locked at a 97% completion rate trying to find the 3% of grime I missed in a level before I got frustrated and uninstalled the game. 

    Any game that constantly demands very fine-tuned, high precision aiming on my part is intolerable to me. I don’t know why, but it makes my brain feel like it’s been set on fire. Power Wash Simulator's aiming mechanics are also not generous, which makes it so, so much worse. 

    I had a very similar experience to last year’s Animal Crossing: Happy Home Designer DLC. I just could not find a way to enjoy what this game is offering, even hypothetically. It just feels like work to me.

  • Miserable. High on Life is a game that depicts a fiction galaxy in which in all sentient beings talk, act and think like Justin Roiland characters. It is a universe of pain. Not every role is actually played by Roiland, which makes it all somehow worse. It’s off-putting to hear other voice actors attempt to emulate Justan Roiland’s babbling, non-sequitorial comedy, particularly voice actors who aren’t also comedians. Roiland is already insufferable enough, but to replicate his exact style of improv-comedy vocalization stuff across an entire 20-hour campaign through the mouths of actors who can’t perform it as naturally as he can is – and I’m just being honest, here – maybe the most annoying experience I’ve had with a video game since Duke Nukem Forever. 

    Let me walk through the opening sequence to explain what I mean. High on Life opens with an interactive parody of the Doom/Quake/Duke Nukem-era of first-person shooters. We’re playing a retro FPS that looks analogous to a Wolfenstein 3D or a Marathon or something, except it’s got this joke where a supporting character keeps interrupting the gameplay to ramble on about how the villain is the main character’s ex-wife or something. OK, sure, whatever. We cut back to the real-world to see our protagonist’s sister, who is rendered sort of like a Second Life character, offer us a line of coke. She proceeds to snort the coke, which is weird, because her entire character seems to be a stoner joke, and the whole idea of her character moving forward is that she’s unusually chill for a person experiencing traumatic violence and intergalactic culture shock. Next, we look up to see we’re in our character’s bedroom, which is plastered by A.I.-generated art. Just, straight up A.I. art. With the wonky-looking composition and semi-coherent text and all.  

    Soon, the game proper begins, and we meet our first gun, a chattering Justan Roiland character who makes jokes about how your breath stinks when you hold the gun up to your face, and how it feels good to kill people, and how the violence in the game is actually morally justified because the game gives you no other options. This joke – the talking gun – this joke is the foundational attribute of High On Life. The idea that a gun might have a personality is its most important feature. This, more than anything, surprised me, because it’s such an exhausted bit throughout video games at this point. It’s truly not that different from the talking sword in Baldur’s Gate II, or the talking gun from Borderlands, or the talking gun from Shadows of the Damned, or the talking gun from Cyberpunk 2077 (it’s actually a *LOT* like the talking gun from Cyberpunk 2077, specifically). You’ll note that none of these games rely on this bit as a foundational aspect of the game experience, except for Shadows of the Damned, which *basically already made a game around this concept.* 

    High On Life is in many respects a parody of video games as a medium, but it seems to be parodying a version of video games that no longer exists. It seems to believe that seeing a character snort cocaine onscreen is going to shock players (I’m trying to imagine the person who is scandalized by the cocaine scene in this game, and I cannot do it). It presents itself as subversive, but all of its jokes are, generally, *the most* overdone jokes in video games. Far Cry: Blood Dragon already exists, and it is *very* similar to what this game is doing. Unlike Far Cry: Blood Dragon, High On Life assumes video games are still locked somewhere in the 1990s. All of the humor is predicated on the way video games desensitize us to violence, where people are still booting up Grand Theft Auto III to run over all the civilians, and where Quake is still the normative first-person shooter experience. It’s almost shockingly retrograde. 

    But then there’s a bit early on in which you encounter an annoying child the game heavily encourages you to shoot to death, which unlocks the achievement “Fallout doesn’t let you do this!” And again, I felt that weird dissonance with where the jokes were coming from. Fallout is literally the only blockbuster gaming series in which you *can* murder a kid, right? The second game had that childkiller perk which made everyone hate you. It’s a confused joke designed to shock you which is nevertheless not as shocking as the thing it’s parodying. The joke only makes sense if you’ve only played the Fallout games that *didn’t* come out in the ‘90s, which don’t let you kill kids – but this game is all about ‘90s video game tropes, and the game it’s parodying *did* let you do that in the 1990’s. I find this confusing. 

    There’s also the matter of the game’s visuals, which are their own headache. When I saw all the A.I. art at the beginning of the game, it occurred to me that the entirety of High On Life looks like it’s “Non-Fungible Token: The Video Game.” The whole fucking game looks like Bored Apes Yacht Club was digitally melted and remolded into a first-person shooter. It’s got the same agonizingly bright and incompatible color pallet, it wallows in its own visual filth, and there’s this weird pseudo-intellectualism which underscores the whole thing, a kind-of self-indulgent, ‘it‘s funny that we’re pointing out how dumb our own idea is’ comedy which neatly folds back into the abrasive artwork.  

    High On Life emanates with loser energy. It’s so anxious for you to like it, so unwilling to just shut the fuck up for two seconds, so desperate to shock you – but so much of it is overfamiliar, and nearly all of it is overdone. Like I said: miserable.

  • Multiversus is a graceless Super Smash Bros. ripoff that bashes together whichever fictional characters are owned by the Warner Bros. Corporation instead of classic video game characters, like Nintendo did. There’s basically nothing interesting to say about it. I mean, I could sit here and pick apart the way that its ramshackle combat accidentally creates an excellent point of comparison against the finely tuned, gorgeously animated Smash Bros. combat, but even then I feel like that would be giving undue attention to a game explicitly designed as an opt-in advertisement mechanism for a multi-media conglomerate. 

    Multiversus cares about courting younger Fortnite players more than it cares about suceeding the Smash Bros. franchise. You can tell, because Multiversus’ feature set is fucking *razor thin.* It does very little to fully execute on, let alone innovate from, Smash Bros. success; it does, however, feature the same broadly cartoonish aesthetic of Fortnite, with a similar pay-to-play model, and a battle pass designed to insert itself into your daily routine. 

    I’m extremely skeptical that it’s possible to play this game in any critical capacity without focusing on what the game intends to do to its audience: like Fortnite, it’s a game designed to trick younger players into spending money on it over an extended period of time, all the while keeping Warner Bros. various brands in the psychology of its playerbase. I was disappointed to see the number of gaming outlets spit out credulous articles praising the game absent of context. There is nothing beneath the surface here except the branding exercise. 

    Multiversus releasing the same year that Fortnite was sued by the FTC for, essentially, bilking children out of their money for digital cosmetics, feels significant to me. The ecosystem Multiversus is tapping into is exploitative – like lootbox economies, it's *explicitly designed* to be exploitative. Any conversation about it that doesn’t center this fact has, in some sense, missed the point.