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Splitterguy

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2020 Ranked

What a shitty year. Like everyone else, being locked inside 24/7 since March put me in a comfort food headspace. Despite the fact that I've got 30 new releases on this list, I spent most of my video game time plugging through the Mass Effect trilogy, Fallout: New Vegas, most of the Wolfenstein titles...all old favorites.

The new games that DID stick out to me this year were the ones that wrestled with the same problems we all are. Kentucky Route Zero, Wasteland 3, Umurangi Generation - even Watch Dogs: Legion and Cyberpunk 2077, spineless as they are comparative to those indie titles, *gestured* towards a late-stage capitalist crisis.

Note: there are a few itch.io/independently released titles on here that aren't in Giant Bomb's wiki, so I picked whatever I thought was their closest equivalent title and added them that way.

Still in progress, to be added later: Maid of Sker, Gears Tactics, Hades

List items

  • As someone who couldn't get more than an hour into Wasteland 2 without giving up on how CRPG of a CRPG it was, Wasteland 3 is my default choice for the most surprising game of the year: I fucking loved it.

    Like a lot of people, I'm pretty sick of apocalyptic fiction, but Wasteland 3 did a tremendous job at reminding me why the collapse of society is such a rich foundation for a roleplaying game.

    As much as we talk about the political or moral complexities to decision-making in RPGs like Mass Effect, Witcher or Fallout, they so rarely *actually* test your beliefs. More often than not, moral choices are built for fun or for narrative flavor. Even in Fallout: New Vegas and Outer Worlds, RPGs lauded for their storytelling prowess, the good and bad actors in any given situation are usually pretty clear. Outer Worlds in particular, the other post-Fallout Fallout title, goes as far as offering an objective best case scenario for its messiest moral and political dilemmas.

    What makes Wasteland 3 so interesting is that while, yes, there are some obvious moral and immoral figures, the most ethical and lasting outcome of your decisions is always in question. The biggest choices you get to make demand that you draw the line between yourself and people that you've come to like - sometimes irrevocably. Putting points into dialogue (here separated into Kiss Ass, Hard Ass and Barter) is no catchall towards victory as it is in other RPGs. The game goes as far as warning you via a loading screen tool tip that its dialogue skill checks might peacefully resolve a conflict without also leading to the best long term solution. You can't threaten a character into becoming an ally, for example, or sweet talk a violent gang into a life of lawful good.

    Wasteland 3's most difficult to resolve conflicts fulfill a promise so many RPGs make but so few follow through with. An example: in one early Mass Effect trailer, a steely-eyed Commander Shephard studies two distress calls, both from space-faring colonies in need of immediate rescue, and mutes one of them - he'd only have the time and resources to rescue one group, so the other would have to fail. But this scenario never occurs in the game. In reality, Mass Effect only demands the player make a 'it's him or me' decision once, and the context boils the decision down to what is essentially arbitrary player preference.

    In Wasteland 3, you're confronted with this exact dilemma almost immediately after traversing into the open world: an allied convoy carrying dangerous military gear has been ransacked by raiders, and the crew is awaiting execution. Meanwhile, a gang with a personal grudge against you, personally, has taken a family you've never met hostage to bait you into a rescue. The tactical decision is clear, but the most ethical decision is not. The consequences either way are long term and immediately legible.

    In gameplay terms, another element key to Wasteland 3's success is that it ditches point and click, turn-based mechanics and adds isometric 3rd person movement outside of combat and Xcom-style tactics in combat. I find that that tactile feel is necessary (at least for me!) to really get engaged with an RPG. The combat itself isn't the most wildly innovative tactical RPG combat out there, but it's sturdy and fun to engage with, particularly when the stakes are high.

    Wasteland 3 also pushes boundaries (and buttons) with its characters and story. My favorite opposing factions were a peaceful robotic commune and a cult named The Gippers, who follow the orders of Ronald Reagan's corrupted digital brain. The game goes as far as letting you just hang out with Reagan, now reduced to a sort of sun downing Max Headroom, as he proselytizes complete bullshit. A lot of the most absurd dialogue they give the Reagan A.I are actually just quotes from his presidency. I thought the bit where he talked about how America has too many trees and should cut them down for that reason alone was a joke, but - nope! That was a real thing, said here in the context of a literal nuclear winter.

    And it's all so thoroughly cinematic, even in spite of the fact that it's a game that (riddled with bugs as it is) feels duct-taped together. Conversations with some major characters will force the camera into a first person perspective for dramatic effect - the animation in these sequences is expressive, and they play with the otherwise staid conversational format in some surprising and meta ways. The incredible soundtrack, filled with folk ballads and other bits of audial Americana was collated by Quentin Tarentino's music supervisor, which is an amazing choice. You can feel the same golden bargain bin grime here as you can in Django Unchained or Jackie Brown (seriously, it rocks: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xi2TLXt3ulc).

    Wasteland 3 can feel sophomoric, but it also doesn't have the same compunctions to actually say something about America as other milquetoast pieces of big budget video game satire (hello, Cyberpunk 2077). It's one of the defining texts of 2020 for me; an ugly portrait of an ugly place during a year where American exceptionalism was a bigger punchline than ever.

  • The concept at the heart of Umurangi Generation is that there will one day be a 'final' generation, one last set of people before the world ends; sometimes it feels like we can see it from here. The game isn't explicit about its plot or the characters within it, but the *feel* of spaces disintegrating as the 9-to-5s continue - of solidarity amongst the wreckage - saturates every moment.

    As Umurangi Generation progresses, spaces shift from sunset cityscapes to urban decay, and then to warzones and wastelands. The most memorable moments are always the ones inbetween the destructive setpieces, where people recover, eat, socialize, open up shop and hope for a better day than yesterday.

    It's also a game about photography, although it's probably evident by my failing to mention anything about it in the above paragraphs that I'm too shit at photography to appreciate it. I'll say it now: Umurangi Generation is a really, really good photography game. Like Sludge Life, you spend most of your time navigating a breathing 3D still life. These spaces are optimized to ensure even the clumsiest photographer (re: me) will close out the game with some incredible shots. It's a beautiful game that way.

  • Paradise Killer possesses the most paradoxical collection of descriptors of maybe any video game: it is the flashiest game of all time, an examplar of the open world format, an 'adult' murder mystery which trusts the intelligence of its audience, simultaneously traditional (a zillion collectibles! powerups! fast travel!) and non-traditional (the collectibles are basically all two-to-four sentence found poems! the powerups are footbaths that enable you to air-dash! the fast travel is a friend of yours and it goes away if you convict her of a crime!), and *the most* vaporwave thing I've seen in, like, three years. It is a wild, wild game, and I fucking love it, so much.

  • I've always been put off by visual novels - the lack of interactivity mixed with the fussiness of visual novel animations, text speed management and, frankly, just the act of having to read a book on a laptop has always put me off.

    Wide Ocean Big Jacket is the platonic ideal of the visual novel. Dialogue is delivered via white text against a black screen and the speaking character's portrait, but all of the actions that take place between dialogue occur in an explorable (but heavily gated) 3D space. The playable sections are used to establish story beats, tone and energy that dialogue alone cannot. These sequences also give the player some room to alter the pace of a story at will.

    Structurally it's *perfect*. There are certain stories I think would greatly benefit from light gameplay elements and bespoke 3D art, and while there are plenty of games that exist roughly in the same genre, Wide Ocean Big Jacket is easily one of the most elegant.

    Of course, Wide Ocean Big Jacket only works as well as it does because the writing's there. The story follows Mord, a precocious pre-teen, her indoor-kid boyfriend Ben, her aunt Cloanne and her uncle Brad as they go camping together for the first time. All four of them, aware of it or not, are in a transitional period of their lives. Listing plot points in Wide Ocean Big Jacket would reveal that basically nothing happens in this game, but the moment in time it captures is warm and nostalgic. It's a formative trip in the way that a fond memory can become a fulcrum point for a later decision or inform a personality, the kind of trip you often find yourself thinking about but never knowing exactly why.

    Wide Ocean Big Jacket is smart, funny and lovable. Will definitely be on the lookout for more of this studio's games in the future.

  • In Sludge Life, you and everyone you know is stuck in a rotten mud bucket of a town filled to the brim with waste. There's no wealth, no good work, no good homes, no stability. So what does everyone do instead? They go on strike and hang the fuck out. Everybody's smoking cigs, tripping on mushrooms, talking shit on customers, drinking, protesting, tagging buildings - the world is miserable, but the people in it are vibrant.

    You play as Ghost, a street artist looking to become a legend. You do so by scaling buildings, tagging everything, and stealing cool shit from people. You'll make friends, enemies, frenemies, and (if you're as clumsy as I am) will rack up quite a bit of medical debt along the way.

    Sludge Life is a still life painting with an electric, acid-washed Saturday morning cartoon aesthetic. Exploring Sludge Life's mucky mini-city is addicting because the spaces themselves are so fun and fucked up - tagging everything is just an excuse to get you from one absurd character to another.

    The writing is stellar, too. I'm a big fan of similarly minded indies like Night in the Woods and Donut County, but they admittedly have a certain indie-film flavor. Sludge Life, by contrast, is all teeth. It refuses to allow the internal logic of its world to nail down any new ideas it has, which makes the entire game feel like this grab bag of hilarious ideas. I love it.

    There's an apartment building in particular which is such a stupid, amazing space to explore. One of the apartments hides a man in a straightjacket and a Hannibal Lector face mask who turns out to be your biggest fan. There's an ENORMOUS baby on the 3rd floor. There's an office workspace full of people with Pidgeon heads and human bodies typing with their beaks instead of their hands. It rocks.

    Sludge Life is a surreal yet incredibly effective portrait of what 2020 felt like. Living in America with no hope to escape...yeah! That pretty much felt like being made immobile in a bunch of sludge while some rich guy with an escape plan killed us all.

  • Brazenly surreal in its imagery and boldly unflinching in its depiction of an abusive sexual relationship, Milky Way Prince would be elevated above most video games released in 2020 even if it weren't as iconoclastic as it is, partially due to the fact that it's one of the only games to come out this year that is a complete and coherent statement.

    Please don't interpret me as burying this game under faint praise. Milky Way Prince is a moving if uncomfortable journey into and out of a relationship in which one man nearly drowns under the cataclysm of another man's psyche. In terms of structure, this is a brilliantly designed narrative game. At Milky Way Prince's onset, you're a hopeful, if awkward young dude hoping for a rom-com moment while puttering around your apartment, until you get the meet-cute moment you've been looking for. Things inevitably begin to spin our of control as you abusive partner unloads years of unpacked aggression onto you. The interstitial sequences back at your apartment away from your partner become shorter, terser, greyer. The distance between player and protagonist in these moments is extremely cool, because you have enough space to objectively identify the abuser's chaotic behavior without ever losing sight of why the player character might feel drawn to stay in the first place.

    Abuse is a tough subject, which means its a subject video games only touch with the broadest of lenses. Milky Way Prince not only dives headfirst into its difficult premise, but it invents its own surreal and utterly unique visual language with which to depict that love and suffering. Its intense subject matter sometimes proves too difficult for the visual language of the game to paint an emotional landscape over, and I sometimes felt a disconnect during certain sequences which are used repeatedly to escalate the narrative above the personal and into the metaphorical cosmic. At the end of the day, Milky Way Prince is so bold and vulnerable and alive that it doesn't much matter.

  • Spiritfarer is a game about processing a life so that death has meaning. It's 11 beautiful character studies wrapped in a management sim/2D platformer package. It's one of the most gorgeously animated games I've ever played. The demands of the management sim don't always match the joyous, redemptive, bitter-sweet energy of the story, but it's worth powering through regardless just to get to see it all.

    What I like about Spiritfarer best is that even though it looks like the best Saturday morning cartoon never made, it dives into the best and the worst of life in such an honest, human way. Every passenger you ferry into the afterlife has unique experiences they want to have for the first and/or very last time before they pass on, and all of their stories hit home. You get to know and care about everyone long before they leave you for the last time; when they do leave, it's always a gut punch.

  • As a fan of THPS since the very first title, this Vicarious Visions remake is the best case scenario for the series. It's not just that it nails the feel and exactly replicates the level designs of the originals - it supplements them with these terrific new aesthetic changes that make 20 year-old stages feel brand new. It all just works. And - hey! That's something a little different you can say about the THPS series for a, uh...decade or so!

    I have some hang-ups with the structure of the single player - specifically, supplanting the full level objectives list with stat points pickups on repeat playthroughs reduces the game to busywork - but the game feel and feature list are fantastic. I've always been more a THPS 3 and 4 guy than a THPS 1 + 2 guy, so the thought of potential future remakes in this style is incredibly exciting. If they were able to gussy up the most generic of THPS 1 stages (re: "Mall," "Downtown") and make them feel fresh, I can't imagine what they'd do with the more absurd stuff from later titles.

    Unlike Tony Hawk's Pro Skater HD Remake, Tony Hawk's Downhill Jam, Tony Hawk's Project 8 and every other half-busted attempt to kickstart the THPS series back into the public consciousness, Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 1+2 is a great foundation for the series to build on.

  • Act V and The Death of the Hired Man

    Each episode of Kentucky Route Zero is an affecting abstraction of contemporary America. It is a game urgently concerned with American delusion, the reduction of the common man to a number, and the uprooting of empathy. It depicts how we bring ourselves to wake up each morning to be punished for scraps - with no end in sight - only to do it all again the next day.

    Acts I through IV are an odyssey through American wreckage, barren landscapes where life once thrived now reduced to ashes and half-remembered stories. Act V is a ray of sunlight illuminating the wreckage. It is a poignant button on the end of the defining video game document of the 2010s.

    Unlike some other episodes, Act V is not a game in which you get to direct characters through decisions but a game in which you decide what meaning the decisions you've already made will have. We know where we are and we know how we got here. So what's next? Do we start again? Do we try something new? What did the sacrifices along the way ultimately mean? If this was the worst case scenario, then what does the best case scenario look like?

    Act V was just moments ahead of its time, that way - Kentucky Route Zero is a summation of our lives, shredded by debt as they are, and a brief, surreal history of how we got here. The system is, and always was, faulty. Act V asks us: what happens when it finally breaks? This year, it kinda broke. The answer remains ambiguous.

  • POTTERGAME (https://www.glorioustrainwrecks.com/node/11931)

    Kate B's Glorious Trainwrecks title, POTTERGAME, is an incredible piece of satirical and analytical creative writing. It's a fake Harry Potter movie tie-in, featuring stolen assets from past PS2 (?) Potter titles, but the world is jagged and senseless. Collectibles are scattered everywhere, Daniel Radcliffe's enormous digital head observes students, god-like, from a hidden backroom, and quidditch players fly T-posed through hovering Superman 64 rings.

    It isn't just that the game is intentionally jank - most of the concepts in POTTERGAME are broken versions of lazy, time consuming game design tropes or takedowns of Harry Potter fiction and its fandom; Dumbledore unceremoniously drops hundreds of every-flavor beans throughout the castle and demands you collect them. Ron spouts the phrase 'bloody hell' like a Pokemon. Every major objective in the game is some flavor of collect-athon.

    POTTERGAME also transplants J. K. Rowling's absurd and often hateful Twitter presence into the most innocuous mass media export of her work. You'll find a trans student outside of the library's restrooms criticizing the terfs that run the school. Multiple characters insist on re-iterating that wizards used to shit their pants and magic away the evidence. There is an ickabog boss fight.

    A character forcibly indoctrinated with British nationalism implies that the Monty Python series' non-pc outlook was an important ingredient to its humor; truthfully, is there a well of humor more thoroughly dried up than the Monty Python films? Have you ever heard anyone bring up the knights who say ni and genuinely felt any joy whatsoever in your heart? Something as chaotic and fresh as POTTERGAME is better by a mile.

    POTTERGAME contorts the image of the Harry Potter franchise and in doing so reveals more about the lasting impact of Rowling's work and regressive perspective than the games it mocks ever did.

  • Fuser is a dynamic music remix machine with a nearly unmatched potential for player expression. It's one of the most radically accessible products in the history of a studio famous for their radically accessible products, yet it mangles its own potential by situating that product within the format of a points-based rhythm game that feels stuck in the past. Put more simply, it is a brilliant toy and a middling video game.

    Fuser is a freeform DJ simulator in which the player can swap in instrument tracks from different songs simultaneously, manually altering the tempo and even the genre of their DJ set on the fly. At first, the player will engage with Fuser in the manner of Dr. Frankenstein; they'll find themselves building what *could* be the greatest remix of all time using disparate pieces of songs at random, haphazardly fusing, say, the acoustic guitar and drums from Dolly Parton's Jolene with the bass part from Billie Eilish's Bad Guy while Whitney Huston's vocals pierce the front of the track at an altered tempo which could be described as demonic.

    In Free Play mode, you can just sort of do this forever. At least, that's how I enjoyed the game. I would fill my track list with as many incongruous songs as I could and would slam them together until I made either something so horrible it was fascinating in the way a Lovecraftian horror is fascinating, or until I made something so hilariously brazen that it started to feel weirdly transcendent, in the way a Girl Talk song can feel weirdly transcendent.

    In my early goings with Fuser I had a lot of 'pizza and ice cream' moments - I mean, why *shouldn't* DMX's verses on X Gon' Give it to Ya play overtop of Bring Me to Life by Evanescence? Later, after I had more time with it, I started to consider the music in the game differently, finding musical parallels between them I never would have noticed in a normal context. And finding these parallels is *really* rewarding, because the game will record a little custom concert video of your remix at any time that you can download to your console so that you can regale the people in your household with your terrible creations.

    But free-flowing experiments with licensed music is only one aspect of the Fuser experience. Fuser is also a traditional, points-based music game, and this is where the game design falters. Fuser features a career mode, custom characters and unlockable tracks in the same way Guitar Hero/Rock Band did. The problem is, the joy in playing Fuser is the freedom it allows you - so where does a traditional arcade game fit into that?

    The answer, it turns out, is arbitrarily forcing the player to drop certain instruments from semi-pre-selected track lists at pre-defined tempos. Fuser has no way to determine if your live remix sounds 'good' in an aesthetic or creative sense, so it decides to score you based on the pinpoint precision of your track drops. That's...fine, I suppose, but even this meager limitation is a constraint. There isn't a "correct" way to drop Smash Mouth's All Star into Warren G's Regulate, after all, and assigning different interpretations of the funniest possible way to do that as "correct" or "incorrect" feels like the game is putting bumpers on a bowling alley lane. The apex of Fuser's potential is in its incongruity. I want to color outside of the lines when I play this game, and feel completely detached from old school game design mechanics I otherwise like when I'm playing it.

    To put it in perspective, Fuser literally allows you to open up a MIDI keyboard and record custom-made loops for any instrument and drop them into a track. Like I said, the potential for player expression using Fuser's tools is endless. Assigning point values - and subsequently correct and incorrect creative choices - to that system is inherently restrictive. Which is fine! Placing hard restrictions on 'the player can sort of do anything' is how a lot of the most influential games of the last two decades were made. I just wish this game's restrictions in its career mode weren't quite so detached from the parts of the game experience that I enjoy. This isn't like Minecraft utilizing a survival mode in which player-built fortresses are put at risk by the outside world; what Fuser does is the Minecraft equivalent of penalizing the player for crafting structures that don't adhere to gravity.

    Fuser is still an incredible piece of software in its own right, though. It is a universally enjoyable musical object. In its freeform mode, it's so fun it's *dangerous.* I have lost entire days of my life crafting Brad Paisley remixes that are so awful, so *wrong,* that they will ruin your afternoon if you heard them. I cannot recommend trying this one out enough.

  • Tell Me Why is the most linear Dontnod have ever been with their choose-your-own-adventure titles, both for better and for worse. They've never been as cinematic as they are here, and I found myself really engaged with this game's set design and cinematography in a way that I haven't in previous Dontnod titles - alternately, I also felt like my agency in the story, or even the import of my actions, only went so far in defining the direction of the plot or the characters.

    Luckily, Tell Me Why features a great story and better performances. I grew to really like Tyler (and sort of like Alyson), and even the most regressive townsfolk the duo interact with are, in typical Dontnod fashion, fleshed out, real people. I wish the core plot could've driven the drama home a bit more - too much wavering back and forth between the protagonists and their paranormal twin superpowers for me - but I was happy to see this series through to its conclusion anyhow.

  • New Horizons is an eminently likable game on the surface, but its stuffed with repetitive, stock content. Animal Crossing has been on the trajectory for years, now - it's no longer the series in which you're gifted a little life in a neighborhood full of quirky characters, but has instead become the series in which you grind social encounters, miss-able events, and crafting materials towards no particular end.

    This is what I resent most about new Horizons: you never get to know any specific character because all characters are the same. Animal Crossing touts a massive 400+ possible villagers, yet they all mindlessly repeat the same dialogue. It's likely that you'll exit a conversation with one villager only to enter an identical conversation with another. While I'm sure there was plenty of rehashed content in past titles, New Horizons has simplified its social aspects such that they've become tertiary to a series of grinds, custom designs and collectathons.

    Even if my favorite aspect of Animal Crossing has been flattened in this entry, the stuff I like less has never been better. The new island remodel mechanics add a ton of customization features that enable essentially endless play, but only if you have the proclivity to endlessly modify an otherwise static landscape - if you do, you can make some pretty incredible locales. New Horizons reminds me of Fallout 4 that way - all of the new additions are great, but they seem to have come at the expense of every part of the core experience of other games in the series, and to such an extent that the added features retroactively feel shallow. Much like Fallout 4, I ended up paradoxically resenting the shift in focus in New Horizons while also mindlessly enjoying myself with what I consider to be its lesser aspects.

    New Horizons isn't a great game - in fact, it's my all-time least favorite version of the game, save for the miserable mobile app. Still, it's a cute, enjoyable distraction, which made it more than adequate in the year 2020.

  • I love this idea. Arcade-y title in which you need to re-stock a department store and avoid customers. Getting too close to customers (realistically depicted here as hideous monster-people) triggers them to quiz you or demand directions towards products despite clearly legible signage. Thing is, you gotta help these people *quick* - customers go full screamer at the merest hint of indecision. Anyone who either worked at or visited an American grocery store in 2020 will tell you that this is a sensible and faithful portrait of the average American consumer.

  • I had this routine before the lockdowns where I'd walk ten minutes up the street to my favorite cafe, order a crepe and a coffee, and read whatever book I was in the middle of for an hour or two in the afternoon. I did this every single Saturday for two years. I was around enough that the wait staff got to know me by name, and I got to know them enough to chit chat if it wasn't busy. Those weekly trips were like meditation for me, a reward for getting through one more week at an exhausting job.

    Since the lockdowns, and lacking any meaningful support from the state, I've worried about the possible closure of that cafe. Not just because I've come to enjoy the food or the atmosphere - but for the people who run it and work in it. It's a small, home-y place in an area rotten with faux-rustic eateries that would like to charge you $15 for a mac and cheese. You don't realize how important these spaces can become to a neighborhood ecosystem until you can imagine how things would look without them.

    Coffee Talk was therefore a salve for me this year, artificially recreating a source of comfort I'd lost when I longed for it most. Coffee Talk's routine of opening up the store, greeting the regulars and getting to work amongst all the light chatter from customers felt familiar and welcome. I went as far as timing my daily sessions with Coffee Talk to correlate to the in-game day of the week. It gave me a helpful (re: constructive, non-work related) routine to add to my schedule each day.

    I have a couple of hang ups with the game's characters, who run the gamut from vampires to succubi to alien lifeforms in disguise. The writing varies in quality between one character to the next, and it spends wayyy too much time exploring the (for lack of a better phrase) racial attributes of its various fictional monsters and mythic characters. For a game featuring such a tactile, familiar base experience, the introduction of fantasy elements only distracts from the game's better qualities. The mixture of myth, Tolkein, Hollywood monsters and light cyberpunk helps give the game a unique visual identity, but it also ultimately forces it into a ton of exposition explaining how the mechanics of the world work.

    I can't deny the overall effect Coffee Talk had on me this year, though. In 2020, having the ability to overhear a warmhearted exchange between a couple of old friends was a welcome break from reality.

  • Like Man of Medan before it, Little Hope feels perfunctory in comparison to the meta-textual slasher bonanza that was Until Dawn, but the anthology set-up is irresistible all the same. Little Hope is quite a bit more fun than Man of Medan thanks to a better cast of characters and an intriguing set-up - a cast of CW original series-esque characters are haunted by doppelgangers from an alternate history version of the Salem witch trials. Stuck in an impenetrable fog, they have to navigate threats both real AND imagined.

    I maintain that this series is a *touch* too linear, and Little Hope certainly takes its time before it ups the stakes at all. But even meager narrative decisions feel impactful when the story is this fun and the performances are this good. This series is a *blast* playing co-op especially. I'm only liking these games more as the series continues.

  • Welcome to Elk, like this year's Spiritfairer, is a series of character studies in which all the characters are crammed together into a single place. Unlike Spiritfarer, this claustrophobic mesh of people's lives is the point.

    Welcome to Elk creatively depicts real stories in video game form and then introduces us to the real people who lived them via written text and live action video. As the game progresses, the living people and their fictional counterparts begin to intercede. The game is explicit about the creative license it uses with people's lives, and the tension between its fiction and its live footage re-tellings of the same events are the point.

    If Welcome to Elk drops the ball anywhere it's with the fictional A plot. I think the story would've functioned better as a whole if there was no unifying narrative at all, and the attempt to disguise the relationship between the two - which often takes the form of the fictional protagonist blaming her visions of the real world on how much beer she's had - gets repetitive. But that surreal quality of feeling alternately immersed and alienated by the sometimes twee re-enactments, only to be brought right back in by a monologue from a real person, is powerful.

  • The Resident Evil franchise has so many entries which *feel* like extreme derivations from the formula, but which always carry with them baggage from the original title. Think about it: Resident Evil 2 and 3 are linear sequels, the GameCube remake of the first game also makes perfect sense, but Resident Evil 4? 7? Even the 2 remake was a huge surprise in how artfully it was able to rejigger 20 year-old mechanics into something that felt fresh. This Resident Evil 3 remake fits in the former category rather than the latter. It's a lot more Resident Evil 2 in a compact form.

    There's a lot to like in this remake, though, because the foundation it's built upon is sturdy. The Resident Evil 2 remake possesses a beautiful simplicity and cogent intent that no other title in the series has, and if the question is 'how about another one of those?' my answer is an enthusiastic yes.

    I'll admit, though - it's got one glaring flaw. Nemesis, an unkillable Jason Vorhees type in the original title, has been stripped down to a series of chase sequences and boss fights. This is especially odd considering Mr. X filled the Nemesis role to profound effect in the last title. The chase sequences and the boss fights are all great - but why not explore the Mr. X space again? A Resident Evil title with the dynamic unpredictability of, say, the alien from Alien: Isolation, would've been terrific.

  • Phogs! is a clever, Snake Pass-like game about a two-headed noodle dog getting barfed out by a terrifying reverse-ouroboros. Just like Snake Pass, your lack of maneuverability and the unfriendly geometry of the world are where the fun and challenge lie.

    My partner and I have opted to play Phogs! in co-op, which assigns each of us one head; co-op, therefore, is wayyy more aggravating than single player. We get this perverse joy from it anywhow. Phogs! is just so loud and ridiculous that it's difficult to get too mad at it. We stayed up 'till 3:30 in the morning trying to wrap our heads around a puzzle one night, totally delirious, flinging the phogs into the sky over and over out of a sheer lack of will. Every time we reach the end of a stage, we don't celebrate an accomplishment so much as we laugh in disbelief at what we did.

  • Haunted PS1 Demo Disc

    A collection of 17 faux-PS1 titles masquerading as innocuous game demos which are in reality cursed artifacts. Each demo was developed by a different person/team, meaning the quality, tone and intent of each demo varies, but that inconsistency makes it all the better as a singular text. Some of the games aren't even explicitly horrifying - one game consists of walking around a proc-gen unicorn-vomit wasteland full of large cats. Big, weird tone shifts like that are make Haunted PS1 Demo Disc more memorable than if it were simply a collection of 'it looks like a normal PS1 game - but then, muuuurder!' twists.

  • Not unlike Supergiant's original smash hit, Bastion, Hades just doesn't really do it for me. This is one of those games where, when people discuss it, they seem to fixate on something nebulous which is exterior to the game itself.

    The reasons why it doesn't really work on me aren't that interesting, frankly: there isn't much plot, which is fine, but its characters are archetypal (naturally, considering they're all Greek gods) and the roguelike mechanics are more in the Diablo-school of incremental percentage increases to basic attacks than they're like, say, Spelunky, Binding of Isaac, or Enter the Gungeon's slot machine-delivery of weapons and tools. The characters who drive the experience do little for me as well. It doesn't really matter to me that Zagreus wants to escape Hades to spite his father - why should it? He's a two-dimensional character. Escaping Hades to learn about his past encapsulates his entire being. He has a motive which synergizes with the game design, sure, but the buck stops there. Hades is a game about a guy who wants to leave hell, and so he does. Over and over and over. That's Zagreus.

    I think it would be more interesting to unpack why people like Hades so much than it would be to sit here and complain about it. I think a pretty big - in fact, maybe the biggest reason for all of Hades' glowing praise - is its sharp, sort-of-but-not-quite anime-hunk art style. While the character models which do combat in Hades' many arenas are only passable, the imagine-Persona-but-make-it-explicitly-sexy character portraits really are something. Even to someone like me who doesn't necessarily seek stuff like this out, they're striking.

    Further, the characterization that accompanies these portraits is quick - so quick, that it fits within a single textbox most of the time. Learning about characters in Hades isn't unlike playing with a capsule machine: they appear at random as rewards, they deliver a quick line (usually a joke), and they're gone. Exchanges between characters usually last less than, say, six lines of dialogue, and six lines of dialogue is pretty much at the ceiling of what you can expect to hear in a conversation. The dialogue itself is quippy, blunt, self-explanatory, and intentionally free of nuance. The appearance of the characters and their stunning portraits - the event of a character appearing - carries greater impact than anything specific the characters have to say. The dialogue won't leave you with much to chew on in an intellectual or an emotional sense, but you'll remember, at least, who it was that delivered that dialogue.

    Structurally, the reasons Hades fails to grab me are probably also a pretty major component to its broad appeal. Supergiant does tell a story in their roguelike game, but only in fits and starts. All of Hades' dialogue and plot is contained within the pockets of its gameplay which do not contain combat - however, they're contained in *every* pocket. Pick up a new item? There's usually a bit of character dialogue there. Finish an area? There's usually a bit of discoverable expository dialogue. Start a boss fight? Dialogue. Finish a boss fight? Dialogue. Find a new item? Dialogue. Succeed? Dialogue. Fail? Dialogue.

    Yet, the narrative never once interferes with the gameplay - that is to say, the combat. In fact, the narrative evaporates during play and essentially lies in wait for the player's attention after combat finishes. It would be very easy to complete Hades without seriously engaging with its characters or plot. Thing is - and this is one of the biggest reasons I didn't really care about the game as I played through it - a playthrough in which the player really cares about the world Hades and its characters vs. a playthrough in which the player doesn't care about those things at all is probably nearly identical.

    Besides that, as I alluded to earlier, I really just don't care about games where the player's success is dependent on randomized incremental stat bonuses. It just isn't interesting to me to pick up a power up, see that it gives me a 25% reduction of damage to the front but an additional 10% of potential backstab damage. This is the same reason I bounced off Dead Cells. I so much prefer roguelikes that randomize which tools you have to work with, where the way you engage with the game is partially at the mercy of the game systems.

    And that's another reason for Hades' success: despite the fact that this game is a roguelike, and consequently heavily randomized, it's actually not that randomized at all - not really. The potential differences in combat arenas are slight - you'll see constant repetition of stage designs and enemy encounters. Powerups can operate in a variety of ways and the game might force you down a particular upgrade path, but at the end of the day, you're the one picking the weapon at the start of the run, dictating the way the game will operate. Most importantly, Hades' upgrade system ensures that, regardless of your skill level, it is going to begin tilting things in your favor the more time you invest in it. In other words, Hades is the one popular Roguelike that really, truly, *actively* wants you to see the finish line. It's neither a truly randomized experience nor a challenge run. Which is fine! I'd prefer this game over something like Dead Cells. But that heavy-handed direction undermines the best part of the roguelike experience: chaos, and your ability to succeed in spite of that.

    The end result is that Hades is a roguelike which, by its own design, mitigates the strongest and most unique components of the roguelike genre in service to its narrative, which nevertheless bows out of the way in favor of the combat. Keeping things with the ancient Greek iconography which inspired it, Hades is something of an ouroboros of design directions which endlessly swallow themselves.

  • Tetris Effect: Connected

    I feel about 20 different ways about how Tetris Effect: Connected's new multiplayer components do and don't intersect with the thematic values of the original Tetris Effect. Am I able to trace the thread that connects the traveler hauling supplies across the desert to the lone astronaut blazing a trail for humanity on the moon when I'm getting absolutely demolished by ButtCrusher69 in a multiplayer match? No. Tetris Effect transcends regardless.

  • I played all three Streets of Rage games in a row before starting this, and let me tell you what: Streets of Rage 4 *might* be the best one. It's between 2 and 4, but it's close. 4 might not be perfectly in the rough-nosed spirit of the original titles, but it's infinitely friendlier, and its deviations from the '90s club/martial arts film vibes of the originals are a lot of fun.

    I think the music's good, too! Having played through this series untouched by nostalgia, I've never found any one element form the games, score included, to *quite* meet its reputation, and the chaotic feel of the game vs. the cool guy tone don't always fit together. Taking things in a more Saturday Morning cartoon-ish direction feels like the right next step in the franchise.

  • Peril On Gorgon DLC

    Peril on Gorgon is quite a bit darker and more challenging than The Outer Worlds' main campaign. The majority of the experience takes place on an asteroid floating on the outskirts of The Outer Worlds' extreme-late capitalist universe, and despite all of the Fallout-ian secret labs and unethical corporate disasters, I very much felt the absence of color and character as a result. The DLC is so grey, so rotten with high-level encounters and so stingy with its big moments, that I'd probably place Gorgon at the very bottom of Obsidian's satirical, Seuss-ian pieces of world-building.

    The story, at least, does not drop the ball. Peril on Gorgon extrapolates on The Outer Worlds' 'Marauders' concept, The Outer Worlds' equivalent of Fallout's raiders, who were a bit of an unwoven thread in the main game. While their origin story ends up pretty much how you'd expect it would, the characters you get to meet along the way are all really strong.

    I can't say Peril on Gorgon was disappointing - if you like The Outer Worlds, it's *a lot* more of that, and I was more than happy to jump back in. It just doesn't add anything particularly fresh to a game that was already sort-of backwards-looking.

  • Anti-corporate game about space colonization and indentured servitude that's ultimately more interested in goofing on the uncanny valley between corporate advertising and humanity than it is in taking the conversation anywhere in particular. Same goes for gameplay: Journey to the Savage Planet is a colorful take on familiar gameplay conceits, but this is largely a straight ahead trip. It works more than it doesn't.

  • Everything in Cyberpunk 2077 is a paradoxical mishmash of successes and failures, of beauty and ugliness, of gestures towards revolution and corporate apologia. This is not a game with a coherent direction of any kind. It's built entirely on disparate parts working parallel to one another - it's a looter shooter, RPG, immersive sim, GTA clone and AAA narrative that all work *in spite* of one another if they end up working at all. I've played 60 hours of Cyberpunk 2077, but every 10 hours or so my feelings on the entire endeavor seem to shift. If I hadn't gotten to play this on the One X, one of the only non-PC platforms where simply playing the game at all is even possible, I imagine I'd be even more harsh. Glitches be damned - this is a muddy, confused and often frustrating entry into the cyberpunk canon.

    To match this game's energy, I'm just going to put a bunch of different thoughts here I've had while playing so far:

    > Certain pockets of Night City live up to the premise of the trailers - surreal urban corridors swimming with holograms of mountainous koi fish, a veritable sea of garbage and discarded scrap concealing an encampment of thieves, a mausoleum lit with a gaudy neon-pink cross - but many more of them emphatically do not. Discrete areas of Night City recall Witcher 3's gorgeous art direction, but the city at large is full of bland orange walkways walled off by generic steel towers. Most of this is concealed during the night, when the streets are all artificially lit, but during the day it looks more like you caught the game with its pants down.

    > Near every element of Cyberpunk 2077 is borrowed from another title, yet the game can't match up with even its oldest wells of inspiration. Most abilities players can augment themselves with (called 'mods' here) are borrowed whole cloth from the Deus Ex series, but they lack both the functionality and feel of Deus Ex, and their applications are discrete and often unnecessary. Just to be crystal clear - I'm talking about, like, *Deus Ex* here. The game from the year 2000.

    > I don't think I've ever played a video game - any video game, ever - with such a grotesque fashion sense. That was the first red flag for me. Everyone in the game sports outfits that are edgy circa the youth section at Gap from 2006. That's maybe even too much - maybe the Target youth section. It's really, really ugly. It's department store punk.

    > I get that they're depicting a world brutalized by advertisements that constantly escalate in shock value, but the humor in Cyberpunk's various tv, radio and billboard ads is bottom of the barrel. Really, really sophomoric humor. There's this one radio ad in particular in which a man pretends to cum for a soda brand and its always piercing through whatever I'm doing, sometimes during grave conversations about death and loss. It's fucking insane.

    > One major side quest aside, Cyberpunk doesn't appear to functionally differentiate between lethal and non-lethal attacks, despite constantly offering non-lethal combat options. I've failed optional objectives to avoid lethal takedowns before by hitting the button literally labelled 'non-lethal takedown.' Might be a bug, but unlike, say, Dishonored or Deus Ex, characters seem to react identically to you in either scenario, so it doesn't narratively have any import.

    > The driving mechanics are AWFUL. Every car controls like a boat. Cannot believe how sloppy it is.

    > In spite of the fact that it's literally called Cyberpunk, no video game has more deeply disregarded core tenants of the cyberpunk genre than this game. It languishes in its calculating and immoral depictions of corporations but never without also offering them an out or an option for reform. And this is without even getting to the *why* are corporations evil, another arguably essential component to its own story. This is a world where corporations supersede governments - how did society get there? Why did society get there? *Should* society have gotten there? Not every cyberpunk story explores these themes as text, but nearly all of them do as subtext. Cyberpunk 2077's relationship with its own genre is entirely aesthetic, but even on a sheer visual level I can't overstate enough how much it drops the ball.

    > On a macro level, Cyberpunk is completely disinterested in interrogating the idea of body modification and what that means for humanity or ~the soul~, which is *really* weird! This is a game that on every narrative level depicts body modification. The success of every single character in the story hinges on equipment they have to have wealth to possess and the game has no comment in any direction about any of it.

    > *light spoilers here* There are brief moments of magic that recall Witcher 3 - one side quest has you hunting a serial killer via the killer's own dreams, one features a hit gone so wrong that you end up as a pseudo-movie producer for the guy that was meant to be your target. Many more of them (I'd say 85%?) are as simple as go here, sneak past/kill guy, grab/upload thing, drop off package/pick up reward. Those needle in the haystack quests, though, are really wild. Way more than the predictable paces of the main plot, I've enjoyed Cyberpunk 2077 as a free roaming sci-fi merc sim. Sorta like a jank version of that Prey 2 trailer from forever ago.

    > It should be said that, regardless of how much he commits to his performance on a line-by-line basis, I have never once gotten sick of Keanu Reeves popping up to tell me what a stupid asshole I am. A perpetual source of joy.

    > Just rip that crafting stuff right outta this game. Fix the storefronts, too. Three times I went to gun stores only to find they sold less than half a dozen guns. I recall going to a store that was called something like 'Pistols and Shotguns' only to find that they sold neither pistols nor shotguns.

    > Night City is almost definitely designed with the idea of a GTA Online-style hubworld in mind and if that ever comes together it will be a complete disaster.

    > I think you can say all that needs to be said about Cyberpunk 2077 like this: it's a game which criticizes the wide-scale corporate exploitation of individuals and cultures made by a company which exploited their own workers. Those workers managed to tell some incredible stories in the margins regardless, but that tension tears at the fabric of the entire project.

  • At the end of 2019, I seem to remember practically anyone who got their hands on Dreams raving about how it was going to change user created content - hell, I remember thinkpieces about how Dreams level designers should've been allowed to receive financial compensation for their work like a regular marketplace - but I've yet to see one outlet discuss it in a positive OR negative light since launch. It's like Dreams didn't even come out.

    There's probably a good reason Dreams exited the public consciousness. While the tools it offers creators are exponentially more expansive than most other user generated titles, Dreams also demands you take the equivalent of a game design 101 course in order to understand how to use them.

    That gap in accessibility vs. the limited player base is a killer. If you're learned enough at game design to understand how to utilize Dreams' tools to their fullest extent - even if you learned via Dreams itself - there's essentially no reason to publish a game in Dreams. There are a ton of accessible game design tools and assets available for PC; Unity is free up to a point, even. Why spend time doing what amounts to a job for a highly limited audience and no possible financial incentive?

    The inflexibility of level design tools in games like LittleBigPlanet is a feature, not a bug. Seeing if you can't use a limited toolset to build something more complex and interesting than initially appears possible is part of the fun. Spending dozens and dozens of hours on a 10 minute-long platformer in which you have very limited control over key elements of the game seems like it would be terrible.

    All that being said, Dreams' creators have used its tools to make some truly surreal stuff. I played through a fan-made sequel to PT which starred what appeared to be Roblox characters and which featured full-on voice acting in cutscenes. There are elaborate haunted houses, Christmas-themed FPS titles, and lo-fi remakes of old classics. I highly recommend trying out Dreams up with a couple of friends (if you have easy access to it) and just booting up whatever game immediately strikes your interest. True to its word, Dreams is kind of a trip - you have no idea what you're going to see next.

  • A cute puzzler in which a lost girl reconstructs the foundation of the world around her via cartography to find her lost grandmother. This is a phenomenal conceit for a puzzle game! I'm convinced there's a dense philosophical whirlpool you could immerse yourself in considering it - that mapping the world, in fact, alters our understanding of it such that mapmaking is literally an act of destruction and alteration rather than an act of description - or, y'know, it could just be a fun game about shifting the tiles of the world around in order to get past obstacles. Dealer's choice.

    Some of the puzzles in Carto push the mechanics too hard, though. Getting stuck on a puzzle in this game is pretty frustrating, because getting stuck in a puzzle can mean shifting every minute piece of the game world in different directions and wandering through them to see if anything happened. Didn't end up finishing this game as a result, but enjoyed the time I had with it.

  • As a huge Superhot fan the idea of a Superhot roguelike sounded amazing on paper, but the core loop in Mind Control Delete is a slog. There are only so many stages this game can put on a loop before you start to realize how limited the possibilities of Superhot's mechanics really are. These games demand bespoke levels with unique challenges - it turns out, 'a half dozen dudes rushing you from every direction' does not make for a fun or compelling Superhot experience.

    It's not all bad - I still had a good time. Superhot is still fun! Of all the directions the series can take its conceit, though, this is not the graceful next step I was hoping for.

  • We should talk. is an NYU Game Center-developed title with a fantastic premise: you're sat at at a club, texting your girlfriend, chatting with patrons, maybe fucking up your entire relationship. There's a skeevy horny dude to talk to, a flirty bartender, and a hot ex-boyfriend. This is a rich variety of 'I'm about to ruin this relationship' flavors!

    You communicate with everyone by constructing sentences out of parts, custom selecting subjects and predicates from dropdown lists that read like the kinds of predictive responses you'll see in a text or email app. It...sorta works? But it also sometimes ends up with twitter bot A.I. grammar, which I think makes the whole thing better.

    This is 100% conjecture, but I get the sense that maybe the devs behind this weren't the partying type. The bartender at the start of the game is so bend-over-backwards flirty that it reads as complete fantasy - more to the point, every character escalates from playful flirting to total emotional vulnerability at the drop of a hat. I can buy it from the skeevy horny guy or the girlfriend you're fucking things up with, but man, talking to your ex is wild. Dude goes from 'heyyyy good to see you!' to 'you never allowed me to love you and I've never moved past us' in, like, three sentences flat.

    I like where things go, but trying to have a serious conversation in an extremely loud, emotionally charged space has a chaotic vibe which We should talk. is unable to recreate. It's not that these conversations don't happen at the club - they happen every single night at every single club - they just don't happen *quite* like this.

  • Carrion puts you in the role of a shapeshifting tentacle monster whose only goal is to kill and spread like a virus - and its really good at doing that! As a 'i'm a monster sim,' Carrion is second to none.

    And yet I STILL bounced off of it. I love the core feel of the game, but its also a mad confusing Metroidvania. There's not a great sense of direction for how to get from one space to the next, and lacking any meaningful shift in the combat, I felt I'd gotten what I was going to out of Carrion after only a couple of hours.

  • A propulsive, hyper-violent, combat-heavy obstacle course in the vein of Hotline Miami, but with an American Western flavor. I don't mean to reduce Bloodroots to its parts *too* much, as its got a focus and intent all its own. There's a fun revenge story at the heart of this game, and in spite of the fact that I think the combat is broadly the same as a Hotline Miami game, that combat is structured in a kind of challenge run-mode like an arcade game which makes it all stand out. I could've gone with just a bit more variety in the level design, but otherwise, fun!

  • On the one hand, it's really interesting to see Nintendo re-translate recent gaming trends into Nintendo's own, softer language. Super Mario Bros. 35 takes a premise as brutal as survival of the fittest battle royales and transmogrifies it into a fun, nostalgic Mario footrace between a few dozen people. On the other, Nintendo isn't making these games with their whole chest, and Super Mario Bros. 35 was a limited time competitive game with very limited infrastructure for long term competition in mind. With a greater set of unlockables, custom levels or even, dare I say it, multiple eras of Mario titles included, Super Mario Bros. 35 could've been an interesting spin on the most dominant genre of competitive games. As it stands, this ended up being a fun distraction, worth maybe a couple hours of mindless fun.

  • I don't own a PS5, so I only got to play a bit of this at a buddy's house. I think that's part of the function of Astro's Playroom, though, which is presumably to sell the player on the potential of the PS5 and of the Sony brand generally.

    I'll say this with as little cynicism as I can manage: as far as the mascot-isization of a corporate family of products goes, Astro's Playroom is pretty likable. This is a broadly fun platformer with a few memorable gimmicks that highlight the unique (and sure to be underutilized) functions of the DualShock 5. It's also got a little museum of Sony products that make start-up sounds when you bonk them, which is neat.

    Astro's Playroom is fine, but it leaves me thinking about how unlikely it is that a video game hardware developer will ever be able to recapture the magic of Wii Sports.

  • A pillar of the advertising for Mafia: Definitive Edition is that it remains faithful to the original 2002 version of the game. That's very funny to me, considering the jump in quality in terms of narrative and game design from Mafia to Mafia 2 and 3 is *enormous.* In every way, the original Mafia feels like a protoype of Mafia 2's finished product. Its story is paper thin, its open world is strangely non-explorable and utterly reduced to set dressing, and its characters are crude replications of genre archetypes who are only memorable insofar as their shoddy accents and braindead personalities reduce them to an accidental parody of mobsters.

    There's something really interesting, though, at the core of this game, which is that it's sort of a procedural Grand Theft Auto III. Instead of seeing the open world genre as an interesting possibility space for the player to make use of like Grand Theft Auto III did, Mafia sees the open world as just one necessary element needed to simulate the life of an American gangster. What this means in practice is that the player only commutes through the city to get to mission objectives - there's no sense of Mafia's city being beholden to the player's whims. It predates Rockstar's own L.A. Noire in that sense, producing this really enormous (for the time) fictionalized recreation of a real American city purely to create atmosphere and marry the narrative to a specific setting.

    So much of Mafia follows suit from there. While any open world cover shooter can be reduced to a power fantasy, Mafia is emphatically *not* the power fantasy usually sold to players using the open world format. Mafia: Definitive Edition features 'simulation' driving, in which illegal maneuvers on the road brings about unwanted attention by the police. The game even keeps track of whether or not you're speeding. This is not a mechanic you utilize if you want a player to feel empowered; it's a mechanic you utilize if you want the player to roleplay.

    I like the simulation element of the Mafia games, and I think they add something valuable to a genre too willing to reduce itself to a happy-go-lucky content mill the player can build upon or destroy at will. I just don't think this first game is the entry in the series that really nails the concept, painstakingly rebuilt for modern hardware or not.

  • Golf With Your Friends is better than it has any right to be, considering how jank some of its levels are. If anything, the jank is actually in its favor. These courses are weird and seemingly impossible at times (my lord that haunted house stage), and the bafflement at what was possibly going to happen next kept me going longer than I otherwise would have.

  • HyperDot is the equivalent of breaking off Geometry Wars 2's pacifist mode into hundreds of little challenge maps. I like bullet hell, so that's enough for me to jump back into it now and again. I wish this game had a bit more aesthetic variety, though - only so many blinding neon minimalist orbs you can stare at before your eyes burn out.

  • Most of the writeups I've seen about The Sacrifices series shout out their potential to steer people towards empathy or even activism - maybe that's possible, but starting the series with The Night Fisherman is a confusing choice. It's not that The Night Fisherman is *terrible*, per se, but...well, it's quite literally a word for word re-enactment of the intro from Inglourious Basterds. It goes beyond homage, like...it's beat for beat! Inglourious Basterds is a great movie, but it has a somewhat complicated place in cinema - its comical brutality and alternate history wish fulfilment make it diametrically opposed to the empathy machine The Sacrifices would like to generate. Totally baffling.

  • Moving Out is the Overcooked of moving games, except it's not *quite* as much wacky fun. There's a thin line between actual busywork and addicting gamified labor, and I think Moving Out might juuuust fall back over the line into the former.

  • I don't HATE Doom Eternal so much as I'm baffled by it. For example: who thought Doomguy should have a Doom funko pop collection in his bedroom? Who thought he should, for the first time ever, speak up so he could say that stupid line about blood and guts? It manages to find the rare, shitty parts of its prequel and emphasizes them as much as possible.

    I'm not quite sold on the changes to the combat mechanics, either. Doom Eternal's got a fun rhythm at its base, but it's also insanely complicated! I didn't have a problem with the variety in enemy types (yes, even the aggravating Marauder) so much as I couldn't stand the constant plate spinning you have to do. Use "flame belch" (stupid) on an enemy to create armor, melee an enemy to create health, chainsaw an enemy to create ammo, find sword tokens to use your one-hit swords, find big gun tokens to use your big gun, keep in mind to get 40 headshots on one specific type of demon to get the XP bonus in this stage, find the hidden combat encounters, find the keys to unlock the door to even more hidden combat encounters so that you can find a second even more hidden key to get a second even more hidden one-hit sword...Christ almighty. How on Earth does this slot in with Doom, a series famously all about hyper-fast combat power fantasies?

    Beyond what I happen to like or dislike about the combat mechanics, I think there's a gaping crater between aesthetics and game mechanics here that's non-traversable. Shotguns, big guts and skulls fit a game in which you tear enemy after enemy in half with the twitch of an eye and the flick of a trigger - when you're deep in the weeds of a combat arena, pausing on the weapon select screen to determine if it makes more sense to flame belch some armor out of the brain spider or to blow your mega punch on the arm cannon man to heal, something's gone wrong. All the worse if that combat scenario is bookended by a 1,000 word collectible explaining the politics of hell priests.

    You're given wayyy too much time to start critically picking apart Doom as a concept. The best Doom titles are pristine rollercoasters of savage violence and lightning strike tactics. To spend such a laborious amount of time endlessly explaining lore, to so deeply alter the pace of a game so that you're thinking critically always - it's the video game equivalent of eating a big mac like it's a filet mignon.

  • Of all of the games on this list that explicitly or implicitly feature progressive politics, this MeansTV title is the only one that's an out-and-out political statement in video game form. Players control unified citizens as they take up arms against an occupying police force, smashing the state and starting a revolution.

    Here's how that translates to gameplay: you and a few NPCs fight cops in a River City Ransom-style beat 'em up. It's functional, but painfully straightforward. Nearly every element of Tonight We Riot is one-note - it's hard to gin up the will to keep playing when the first couple of hours feature the same enemies, torn up cityscapes, and generally high level of difficulty as any other level.

    I think what's missing is the human element. There are a lot of games with great narratives that buoy an otherwise middling title. I want to know what these people do apart from combat. I want to feel connected to the characters who protest, and I want to see and understand why it is they've taken up arms. You lose people all the time in Tonight We Riot - I want to understand what that means to the people still fighting in the streets.

  • So, I hopped back onto Destiny 2 with 2020's Beyond Light expansion because I heard it was a great entry point for new players. I'd played about two thirds of the original Destiny 2 campaign and though, well, hey, it's on Game Pass, why the hell not? And, well...hey. I don't get Destiny! I literally don't get it. It seems like an endlessly repeated combat encounter with the same three or four enemy types. But, like, truly, that seems like all it is. I dunno! I really don't get it. And, frankly, the only person who could describe the experience I did with this game as "friendly to new players" would have to be a diehard fan. It was incomprehensible.

  • Conversation around Ghostrunner inevitably got swallowed by the Cyberpunk 2077 debacle, and I guess that's a shame, but here's the thing: for all its design flaws and its retrograde approach to the cyberpunk ethos, Cyberpunk 2077 is a much more complete statement as a cyberpunk narrative. Ghostrunner looks the part of the 'authentic' cyberpunk experience (whatever that would mean), but it gets awfully fuzzy in the details.

    Ignore the glowy neon lights and the evil corporation at the heart of this game's world and you have one agonizingly unimaginative take on a far-future late-capitalist apocalypse. Enemies are just comic book punks from the '80s with mechanical arms and legs. There's a climactic plot twist involving the use of AI that is so heavily telegraphed from the very introduction to the game that I was actually shocked when the game simply followed through with it with zero subversion to the formula. The antagonist's motivations are unintelligible to the point of laughability.

    The worst of it is the corporate propaganda plastered all over the walls, which is the most literal depiction of corporate propaganda I have ever seen in my life. Signs literally read "SUBMIT" and "DO NOT RESIST." They don't even try to characterize the dictatorial police state in this world, they straight up tell you here that you have no rights.

    What I'm saying is, Ghostrunner is unsubtle to the extreme. The final sequence of the game is a hastily re-made version of Frogger despite the fact that, conceptually, you're intended to believe you're waging a mind war via the internet. And yet: Frogger. It is he capstone moment in a game about replication, where so much has been lost in the game of telephone from William Gibson to Blade Runner all the way down to Ghostrunner that the narrative imaginary of the genre has been reduced to slightly altered iterations of identical figures and concepts.

    In a way, I guess that's pretty cyberpunk in and of itself.

  • Morkredd is a Limbo-esque co-op puzzle game in which a couple of shadow-beings roll a ball of light into, away from and through a series of contraptions within a monochrome, abyssal labyrinth.

    And...well, it's that. Like, exactly. Maybe what I wrote there sounds like a series of pretty specific descriptors, but those descriptors make up the entire play experience and Morkredd never wavers from that in any mechanical or narrative sense. There's a big Cthulu thing under the water at one point.

    I dunno - it's fine, but it's not the first game to arrive at any of its core design conceits, so it feels weirdly derivative for how unusual it sounds.

  • Like all other Ubisoft titles, this supposedly prescient game about post-Brexit England has about as much sense in it as any other meandering, map-wiping Ubisoft crap. There's so much great text on the internet about this game's depiction of collective resistance so I won't dig in here too much, but suffice it so say, in 2020, how does one make a game featuring protestors who rally against the new bloodthirsty cops in the hopes of bringing back the old bloodthirsty cops? Who protests FOR centrism??? 'I want things to change, but only a little bit!' Not your typical protest movement! All in a game which climaxes in the villain shouting the phrase "I will make London great again." Please.

    The 'play as anyone!' stuff only just barely allows for emergent storytelling. It's not expansive - it's suffocating! There are maybe, like, a dozen voice actors for NPCs in Watch Dogs: Legion, and these voices echo endlessly through the entire open world. By the endgame you'll have at least two or three crew members with the same voice actor doing the same performance of the same lines, but at least one of them will be so fucked to hell by artificial voice modulation you'll probably fire them. The side quests to recruit them repeat, too. By the time you've recruited your seventh or eight crew member you'll have done identical jobs with identical stories featuring identical dialogue at least three times.

    It's not ALL bad. Watch Dogs: Legion's dystopian London is roughly on par with Watch Dogs 2's contemporary San Francisco, which is saying something. I just wish there was more to do there. Non-combat related open world material consists in its entirety of picking up collectibles, delivering packages, tagging a few discrete walls (re: pretty collectibles), and playing darts. It feels simultaneously cluttered and totally bereft of activities. It makes Watch Dogs: Legion feel unfinished - not in a Cyberpunk 2077-y it's busted' way, but in a 'is this really the whole game?' way (which, to be fair, is also Cyberpunk 2077).

  • Steel Dawn Expansion

    I've seen positive responses to Fallout 76's latest expansion pack, which is a greater testament to how much Fallout 76 beat its obsessive player base into submission than how much Bethesda was able to turn it's biggest oopsie of the decade around.

    I will admit - it IS getting better. With each new major expansion to Fallout 76, Bethesda seems to have decided that if making a good game would be impossible, at least they could settle for making a less irritating one. Does the introduction of Steel Dawn make Fallout 76 closer to a traditional Fallout title in an MMO format? No, not really. Does it get rid of the nagging food/water survival sim elements? Yes it does!

    I'll say, at least, that it's neat that players can build and decorate their own little underground bunkers now, but it's pretty disappointing how much of the new story content is scripted single player material. To make a great, non-role playing Fallout title you'd think the emergent stories from the wasteland would be the focus, not a bunch of hackneyed faux decisions with robot people. A new explorable environment, a new enemy type or a new navigational ability would've enriched what's here far more than a dozen more trudge-y dilapidated caverns to battle in.

  • Here's something positive about this game: The Procession to Calvary advertises itself as "a Pythonesque adventure game made from Renaissance painting," and it certainly...is those things!

    Here's something negative: the adventure game format is at its funniest in the spiraling dialogue trees of Monkey Island or Double Fine's wacky, big-hearted characters. 'So random' humor is just not suitable to the (let's call it) leisurely pace of a point 'n click. The Procession to Calvary seems to assume its premise is inherently funny, and does little work to develop any kind of distinct characterization in its many characters.

    I mean, a lot of the humor in this game consists of Renaissance-era art with a speech bubble above it that says some variation of 'lol isn't this guy fucked up looking?' and that just isn't a funny joke. That's like a novelty calendar joke at best.

  • Marvel's Avengers seeks to simultaneously craft a single player, narrative-driven campaign of the size and shape of the MCU, a Destiny-like MMO-lite, and a fully functional platform for years of future Marvel content. All three of these things are in constant contest with one another.

    For one, it's going to be really hard to tell an actually meaningful one-off story if that story, by necessity of its role as a platform for further stories, *must* end with a sitcom-style return to the status quo; all Avengers must be more or less the same at the end as where they started. It's doubly hard if you consider the MCU, in spite of having similar restrictions on what it can do with its characters, still managed to move its dozens of one-off films in the direction of two final, mega-blockbuster conclusions thanks to its unprecedented size as a franchise. Marvel's Avengers can't compete in that realm. It will never be able to do that, and as a result it's always going to feel like the lesser product by comparison.

    The worse anachronism is the marriage of MCU brawler and Destiny social hub. I'm no Destiny fanatic because I find the repetition inherent to its structure exhausting, but even I can see that the Destiny games have two essential components which bring players back again and again: it's got *impeccable* game feel and it does everything it can to facilitate a gentle and accessible social space. Destiny is a game in which the repetition is acceptable because, for most players, it's the space in which they chat, enjoy some combat encounters, and maybe unlock some fun gear along the way. Avengers, by contrast, is wayyy more upfront with its narrative features. Interplay between the characters is put at the forefront for most all of the experience, and it's a lot harder to facilitate that Destiny sociability if players have to overcome the horrific bleating of MCU banter. I'm trying to imagine talking shit about work with a buddy while Iron Man does 'so THAT happened' bits, and I just can't see it.

    Theoretically, none of that should matter, as Marvel's Avengers wants to be friendlier to the single player than Destiny is. Unfortunately, despite the *very* expensive-looking blockbuster campaign they've built, I really don't think there's much of a story here. Save for the little dystopia they build after the prologue, Marvel's Avengers is a completely paint-by-numbers MCU-style experience, but a little worse. Kamala Khan-excepted, these are the most stock-standard depictions of the Avengers cast I've seen, maybe ever. Crystal Dynamics seem to have done everything they can to tick all the "these are the things [character] is supposed to do and say" boxes and done little else to characterize them. Their characterizations could only possibly work if you are already familiar with better, more personable versions of the cast from other stuff. If Marvel's Avengers were somehow your first experience with these characters, I feel confident you'd feel completely alienated from the franchise unless you were, like, 8 or 9-years old.

    The only strength they've got to lean on is the outsize role Kamala Khan/Ms. Marvel plays in the plot, but even then, her one personality trait is that she is a hyper-obsessive, Funko Pop-collecting Marvel fan, with all other aspects of her life and personality played as secondary to the consumption of Marvel products. In a series as culturally ubiquitous and globally exported as this one, it's hard not to feel cynical about that. While seeing a Muslim superhero outside of the comics piqued my interest, Khan's background, which seems to be important at the story's outset, is flattened by the weight of consumerism thanks to the game's depiction of uncritical fandom as some kind of positive attribute. We see a white guy gatekeep Khan from Marvel fandom early on, and when she proves to be the better fan by quoting some obscure comic, the only message of inclusivity there is that anyone, regardless of race, gender or creed, can purchase products from the Marvel company.

    Seeing someone's culture be re-configured to fit the shape of gaudy Marvel attire doesn't feel like meaningful representation in a vacuum, particularly when Khan's primary personality trait exhibits itself via her mimicking the aesthetics and giddily venerating a squad of homogenaic guys. I don't mean to say that meaningful cultural representation in a super hero context cannot occur - in fact, from what I've seen, the comic books seem to do a better job at interweaving Khan's background as a natural aspect of her life and personality, even with fandom being such an important aspect of the character. In Marvel's Avengers - while diversity of any kind is sadly a surprise in the greater MCU-verse and is therefore a welcome change - this depiction of Khan feels too shallow and too reverent of the Marvel brand to resonate.