When it comes to a game like Balatro, it’s difficult to determine a time in which you’re sufficiently capable of compiling your thoughts in a succinct manner. The Rogue-Like genre as a whole is prone to this nebulous sense of completion. Have you beaten the game only after completing a single run? Do you need to have unlocked everything to satisfy the urge of completion? Or perhaps it’s a matter of overcoming the game’s most brutal difficulty, surmounting that most unrelenting of challenges, scraping just over the edge and breathing a hard-earned sigh of relief now that there are no more worlds left to conquer. Ultimately, I suppose, the end point is just whenever you’ve felt the experience has been sufficiently exhausted, and you feel good walking away from the game more than satisfied with the time you’ve put in. I guess that’s primarily been the reason why I’ve delayed in chronicling my thoughts on Balatro—I simply cannot stop playing this game. Is it ironic or appropriate that the best word I can find to describe this poker-inspired deck-builder is “addicting?” Both I suppose, but the immaculate design behind its inspiration is even more pronounced when you consider how it utilizes the aesthetics and familiarity of the casino favorite, all while eschewing the pretense of gambling in favor of strategy and chance.

The lightning-in-a-bottle conceit of adapting the well-worn rules of poker as a baseline for your exponentially-evolving game is the simplistic sort of genius that rarely comes around, and makes everyone else immediately question why they didn’t think of it first. There’s a cool coziness the atmosphere of the game hones in on, invoking a kind of ethereal setting somewhere between time and space. The endlessly droning soundtrack and hypnotically psychedelic backdrops, obfuscated by the omnipresent filter of the game’s aesthetic CRT scan lines, pair well with the overt lack of objective the game possesses, compelling you to continue playing Blind after Blind in what can only be compared to the seductive prison the Eagles first imagined in Hotel California. Likewise, the intricate pixel art of the playing cards (as well as the score-manipulating Tarot, Joker, and Planet Cards central to the game’s overriding mechanics) are equally bewitching in their appeal. They very conscientiously capitalize on the compulsive nature of collectable trading cards, appearing primarily in packs you buy from the shop visited between each Blind, and purchased with the winnings you earn from successfully overcoming these ever-increasing challenges.

Those unfamiliar or otherwise intimidated by the poker proxy premise of Balatro should fear not, though, as the intuitive simplicity of the base mechanics are picked up easily, most especially thanks to the informative UI which remains ever-present while playing. The developer of the game was so kind as to include a succinct explanation accompanying every card in the game, detailing precisely how it affects cards played in easy to understand, and even color-coded, language. Additionally, the base point value for all the various hand types you can play are laid out and constantly available for reference, as is the remaining number of cards in your deck, conveniently displayed with the corresponding ranks and suits to boot. At all times, all the information you need to strategically assemble your highest scoring hand is made available to you, excepting the actual projected total score your hand will play. That information is reserved until you commit to playing the hand itself, building up a glorious sense of anticipation as to whether your napkin calculations were good enough to see you through to the next round. Each card played fires off one at a time, crescendoing their escalation into the same stratospheric projections each Blind balks at you with. The various jokers synergize with one another, each picked for their particular effectiveness at boosting the specific hand type you’ve chosen to play. The more stacked in your favor, the better your odds at matching the house.

The challenge doesn’t cease with just the increasing score requirements either. Each level (or “ante,” as the game flavors it) culminates with a required Boss Blind to defeat, each applying some unique handicap you need to keep in mind when shaping your deck. If you’re relying primarily on high value face cards to attain your high scores, alongside synergistic jokers to further boost those cards, you’re going to struggle against The Plant, who debuffs every face card in your deck for that round. If you’re relying solely on one hand type to accrue all your points you’ll need a plan in case you encounter The Eye, which won’t score the same hand type twice. Sometimes all it takes is an exceedingly large Blind to block your progress, operating as a check if you’re not scaling your deck proficiently between Blinds. The grind of the game therefore becomes one of self improvement, provoking you to learn the game better as you go along, recognizing more and more which jokers and card enhancements are going to push you towards a win, and which are likely to disrupt the strategy you’ve been cultivating so far. As with other games of the genre, no two runs are the same, and even though certain builds are clearly stronger than others, you need to be flexible in your play and willing to lean into whatever strategies the cards you’re given are most pliable to.

All this effusive prose may still be insufficient in communicating the miraculous allure of Balatro’s conception. Broad genre descriptions and colorful portrayals of aesthetic and atmosphere only go so far in conveying the intoxicating success of this seemingly simple title’s concoction. The simple presentation is an ingenious veil for a richly complex gameplay matrix, which returns on investment the engagement you want to put in. It’s equally rewarding for those looking to maximize their scoring efficiency through an ideal roster of multiplicative Jokers as it is for a casual player looking to throw out some hands as they melt into the transcendental ethos of the game’s immaculate vibe. Balatro takes on the addictive properties of poker and transforms them into a force for good. It strips away all the predatory elements of gambling and risk, and instead introduces agency and reward for the player, empowering them to capitalize on their earned knowledge of the game, while still supplying the euphoria that comes when all the stars align and luck be a lady. The thrill may eventually dissipate, but unlike other, similar games, I expect the relative quickness to start and proven mechanics of Balatro will make it appealing to pick up for just another quick run every now and then. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway, as another quarter of the clock falls away from the wall and into the endless vortex of green felt and shuffling cards—a veritable cosmos of casino iconography, from which I am unable to pull away.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

By the time you roll the credits on Battle Network 6, it’s evident that the series has reached its conclusion. Previous games have always left the player on a triumphant note: having defeated the latest world-threatening evil, Lan and his friends celebrate, secure in the knowledge that, should such another menace disrupt their beatific adolescence (as they so often do), Lan and Mega Man will rise to the occasion and thwart their schemes again—and in the process, work up a much-deserved appetite while frantically forgetting his homework, as ever. But Battle Network 6 ends a bit differently. In addition to the routine celebration we get a scene of all the characters looking towards their future, finally having graduated from elementary school and considering where they’d like to be in twenty years. It would seem that development did not begin with this intent of denouement in mind, but regardless, a conclusion for the series was always inevitable, and the provided closure for the characters is appreciated, but insubstantial. The bittersweet feeling you’re left with is more the result of a want of a proper conclusion, the hollow sentimentality lingering in your chest as you ponder how impactful such a culmination should feel after six consecutive entries. The hastily constructed epilogue is in part to blame, providing details of the characters’ futures without actually giving us the satisfaction of seeing these ambitions come to fruition, but the relative disappointment of this final entry derives more from the totality of the experience leading up to this lackluster finale. While it never feels like a bad game during its duration, and certainly greater than the series’ nominal low points, the experience nonetheless fails to conjure the same spirit and personality which has propelled the franchise up to this regrettable end.

Conversely, one could argue that this is the pinnacle of the franchise, from a gameplay perspective at the very least. With five entries preceding it, refining and expanding the various mechanics of the series, would that not be the logical result? But for all this provides, the inclusion of all these features often lacks cohesion, resulting in a series of systems which theoretically synergize together, but in practice often render one another moot in the vast majority of situations. The primary example is the titular new draw: the Cybeasts. The story this time centers around these near-mythical titans of the net, uncontrollable behemoths sealed away during the early era of the age, yet conveniently never mentioned before despite establishing a link to a similar beast from a prior title. In order to prevent their rampage, Mega Man must absorb one into his body (somehow), and thus take on its attributes in combat. This new transformation gimmick exists alongside the preserved transformation gimmicks of the previous games, refined and rebranded as the Cross System. These two mechanics can operate in tandem to give Mega Man’s Beast Mode the elemental effects of the respective Navis of the Cross System. The increased power level and flexibility these powers supply can be rewarding, but the flash and spectacle that accompany them more often disrupt the flow of combat and delay the completion of most encounters. On top of that, the two systems contradict one another when it comes to deckbuilding, as the various Cross Navis encourage you to include corresponding elemental chips to multiply their damage, while the Cybeast’s power demands non-elemental chips to unlock its full potential. And while this theoretically should reward a diverse composition of varied chip types, the Beast Mode’s powers trump that of the elemental Navis even when combined together. Although this newest mechanic initially appears exciting, evolutionary, and engaging, it proves to be quite unnecessary, and even tedious, in most situations in the game, and even ends up clashing with the retained transformation system of the previous games.

But perhaps this underwhelming combination of ideas has more to do with a lack of thematic cohesion rather than their mechanical failings, as in spite of their nominal flaws, both the Beast Mode and Cross Systems do present situationally rewarding gameplay. The draw of these colossal titans is ostensibly the spectacle of their gargantuan nature, but despite a relatively convincing backstory, their presence feels incongruous to the aesthetic and environment of the cyber world rendered so far. Thus, it necessitates a complete change in setting for the story, a completely new destination for the series, comprised of largely uninspired locales with often bizarre theming that threatens the fragile credulity of this already fanciful series. The biggest culprit here comes in the game’s fourth scenario, the second new overworld destination you can travel to about halfway through the game. Revisiting a concept from the series’ third entry, the centerpiece of this area is a cybernetically-enhanced tree, only instead of operating as the central computer of a hospital, its function is to pass judgements as an artificial intelligence programmed to hand down the most perfect verdicts as an unbiased arbiter of justice. The Judge Tree, as it’s called, operates as the nucleus of this order-obsessed town, combining together principles of legalism and environmentalist imagery to create an Orwellian vision of a technologically-incorporated justice system. All this is just a bit too heady for a series like this, even before it’s revealed that the Judge Tree is the product of one of the prosecutors who still actively participates in trials alongside the program he invented to hand down verdicts. The game clearly has no interest in the drastic moral questions all this brings to mind, as it’s solely designed as a smokescreen for an unsurprising villain reveal partway through the scenario. Still, the philosophical implications linger for anyone aware enough to ponder, and the quandaries they present are uncomfortably discordant to the straightforward dichotomy of conflict the series has always committed to.

The other areas of the game suffer from the inverse of this contrivance: overly simplistic design and theming. In addition to Green Town, the Sea and Sky themed areas offer little more than their names imply, seemingly serving only a single function for the entire city, consisting of an aquarium and weather center respectively. These kinds of singular identities for a destination aren’t necessarily unknown to prior entries, but by the sixth game in the series you’d expect things to improve, or at least resemble some of the more distinct and memorable examples of the past. Battle Network 6’s locales just feel so bland, so by-the-numbers. They lack the signature personality which propel the previous titles, hampered further by the distinctly uninspired villains and Navis who terrorize these places. The first two scenarios don’t exhibit this issue nearly as much as later chapters, as both Blastman and Diveman sport memorable character designs and fairly benign dungeon scenarios which, at the very least, remain in line with the straightforward and contained design of previous entries. It’s towards the latter half of the game things get tedious, especially when the main antagonist is initially revealed to be a former friend of the franchise. You go the whole game expecting, or at the very least hoping, that there will be some sort of satisfying explanation for this sudden motivational reversal. Their characterization up to the climax feels sloppy and inconsistent from what was established before, and you think maybe there could still be some magical explanation that’ll put all the pieces into place when you get to the end. But the shoddy writing is exactly that, and the explanation you’re given is just some contrived backstory that doesn’t gel at all with how this character was previously presented, and it’s clear that the story was only taken in this direction to create some forced dramatic conflict. It’s perhaps the biggest disappointment of the entire game, which itself was struggling to deliver the same level of flavorful presentation of prior games thanks to the muddled execution of everything from its narrative to its overwrought battle mechanics.

But it’s not all bad, and in fact, Battle Network 6 excels in areas many might find redeeming enough to more or less forgive the procession of poorly-considered narrative conceits. For one thing, the chip variety and code synergy between chips has never been better. Even from very early on in the game, you have a host of options in terms of how you want to build your folder, with a plethora of viable codes that allow you to combo chips together quite easily. On top of that, a new feature is introduced to make Program Advances far more reliable in combat, tagging together two of the three needed chips for an Advance so that they always show up on the Custom Screen together. Combined with the already handy Regular Chip feature, you’re practically guaranteed to get a Program Advance almost every battle. Many of your early chips this time also exhibit a significant power increase over prior entries, further assisting in trivializing the game’s transformation mechanics by allowing you to end most battles instantaneously with the right draw. The Battle System as a whole remains a paragon for the series, retaining all the beneficial features and mechanics developed over the last five games while continuing to find new ways to tweak certain elements to keep combat engaging and rewarding. Once again they expand on features introduced in the prior entry, allowing you to take control of ally Navis and learn to battle with their unique properties. While the Liberation Missions they were contained to in 5 were not carried over, you can now utilize them across the whole of the net, with the only restriction being that you need to start off from a specific area each time you enter. This limitation is actually a lot more discouraging than you might think, and it makes wanting to use each Navi to clear specific hazards across the net something of a chore, but it’s nice still that they found a means of retaining this fun feature in a way that still demands situational application.

Speaking of returning features, Battle Network 6 finally brings back side quests via the Request BBS, a much-beloved feature absent from the last two games. Side quests are an important mainstay of RPGs, as they can assist in the world-building and reward systems of a game while also helping to break up the pacing of a very direct and unceasing narrative. They do impose some odd limitations on it unfortunately, creating scenarios in which you’re able to accept certain jobs before you even have access to the area you’re meant to accomplish it in. And as with the previous games that featured this system, you can’t unaccept a job after you’ve committed to one, so you can end up unintentionally locking yourself out of completing jobs for a while. It’s slightly annoying that the jobs system still has some kinks, but ultimately I’m just glad to see it back after getting axed from the previous two titles. That’s about it, though, for truly positive praise of the game. Sure, there’s still an abundance of cromulent features rounding out the experience, but those are largely returning mechanics with little to no additional refinement from the last game. Smaller changes which might otherwise go unremarked are appreciated, such as an indication of an upcoming boss fight allowing players to recognize where they should save before starting a cutscene, but tiny refinements such as these hardly make a game, and ultimately pale in comparison to a lot of the game’s more unwieldy decisions.

I feel like a lot of the bitterness here stems from the fact that Battle Network 6 marks the end of the series. The most prominent qualms reside in the game’s poor characterization, rushed conclusion, and generally awkward theming, with the gameplay being more or less sound—no better or worse than in any other title, at least. But because it’s the end, and because things seem to fade out on a whimper, the dissatisfaction of the experience compounds, leading to that lingering sense of disappointment. While writing has never been a strong suit of the series, the personality imbued into the world through the story’s characters and perils has always been its lifeblood. Sure, the immersive and rewarding battle mechanics are what keep you playing, but it’s the flavor and presentation of this unique setting that hooks you to begin with. In certain ways, Battle Network 6 does deliver a satisfying conclusion for the series. It’s clunky and doesn’t really land with all the emotional weight it intends, but in a way that’s kind of par for the course. The Battle Network series as a whole is somewhat clunky, inconsistent in its quality across all six titles, with numerous peaks and valleys within each individual game determining the ultimate outcome of the experience. By that metric, Battle Network 6 is sort of the perfect Battle Network game; an encapsulation of all the enduring charm and squandered potential each entry possesses regardless of how terrific the final result ends up. What’s good remains good, and what’s bad is, well, not unheard of for the franchise. And although 6 manages to trip at the finish line, half-heartedly giving us some emotional closure for the characters we’ve grown to love over a lengthy series of games, it still possesses the unique attributes and heart which has been pivotal for the series since its unforgettable inception.

In Pikmin 4 we are finally given a name for the core principles which have defined the gameplay and design of the series since its inception. Dandori: a Japanese word referring to the arrangement or planning of certain tasks. The development team first began using this term to identify the central philosophy of the series during the creation of the previous title, but with Pikmin 4 the concept of Dandori has become not only an explicit, in-universe ideology, but an integral strategic tenet in mastering several of the game’s structural additions. What Pikmin 4 offers more than anything else for the franchise, aside from the expected refinement of established mechanics, is a wealth and variety of interpretations of this newly ordained ethos, supplying the player a consistent stream of exciting and unexpected twists on the familiar Pikmin formula, building upon the unique foundations of each entry in order to deliver a truly masterful successor which can comfortably describe itself as a culmination of everything to come before it.

The beginning of the game is an unfortunate low point that belies the grandeur and ease of play to come. The story this time is actually a wonderful evolution for the series, positioning you as a new recruit tasked with rescuing various castaways stranded on the planet as your primary objective, as opposed to ship parts, treasures, and fruit being the principle collectibles. The issue comes in how long the game takes to actually get started, bogging you down with a constant deluge of character introductions, narrative cut scenes, and tedious tutorial segments, one after another for your first hour of playtime. These aspects are necessary, to an extent, given how many different mechanics the series has developed and refined by this point—not to mention onslaught of new mechanics introduced with the addition of your space dog comrade, Oatchi. By the end of the game, Oatchi’s wide-ranging powerset will largely trivialize many of the game’s more daunting challenges. Combat, multi-tasking, and puzzle-solving blockades are generally circumvented thanks to the ridiculous utility Oatchi is able to provide. The crucial factor that prevents Oatchi from completely ruining the game, however, is the fact that he’s always fun to use. No matter how overpowered he gets by the end, Oatchi remains an invaluable tool in keeping your Dandori on track. Because of how designed the game is around completing multiple tasks at the same time, Oatchi is never so almighty as to erase the need for Pikmin entirely—just mostly.

Once the endless tutorials have ceased, Pikmin 4 truly opens up and starts to blossom. It’s no question that this is the best looking entry for the series yet, if not outright one of the most gorgeous games on the Nintendo Switch at large. The picturesque scenery is brought to us through a new behind-the-shoulder perspective, rather than the top-down view we’ve been used to for the past three games. The theming of the new areas is a lot more varied than in previous entries, with the Serene Shores and Hero's Hideaway particularly standing out as vast, elevated regions set within a sandy beach and modern household respectively. This second example somewhat confuses the lore of the Pikmin series up to this point, as the house appears fully functional despite the apparent absence of human life, but it’s such a novel environment to explore it's hardly of much concern while you’re playing. It’s also a fitting destination for the game’s first climactic conclusion. Much like in Pikmin 2, the initial mission you’re tasked with completing is easily accomplished by about the halfway point of the totality of what the game has to offer. Unlike in Pikmin 2, though, the culmination of Pikmin 4’s initial ending has a lot more narrative weight and sense of accomplishment behind it, even if it doesn’t exactly end on a particularly challenging note. Included in your charge of locating and rescuing all the various castaways stranded on this planet are the Dandori-obsessed Leaflings: castaways who have been converted into leaf-covered zombies by Definitely-Not-Olimar-Why-Do-You-Keep-Asking. Each Leafling poses a Dandori-centric challenge for you to complete before they’ll allow themselves to be rescued, in the form of either so-called Dandori Challenges or Dandori Battles.

These new mechanical additions are actually little more than the respective Challenge and Battle modes of the previous games snuck into the main campaign of this latest entry. The genius of it, though, is that these changes in gameplay help break up the pacing by encouraging you to apply your organizational skillset towards different objectives utilizing the same tools at your disposal. When you’re navigating the overworld, your main focus is on exploration, gathering various resources and treasures while building a path forward and clearing obstacles for future excursions. When you approach a Dandori Challenge, your focus is geared towards efficient time management and optimized task completion—the heart of the Dandori principle. And in Dandori Battles your strategy should be most effectively aimed towards disruption, as the goal becomes not only to bring back as many items to the ship as you can, but to prevent your opponent from doing the same in as many different ways that you can. These new infusions are presented alongside another much-anticipated returning feature from a previous game: Caves. In addition to hosting the various Dandori Challenges and Battles, Caves exist as yet another means of recontextualizing the core gameplay of the Pikmin series under new restrictions. Once again, the hard limit of previous games has been removed, leaving you with an unlimited amount of time to complete the various missions assigned to you. But as was the case in Pikmin 2, the inherent limitations present in caves replace that need for an overarching peril, providing the requisite challenge these games demand so as to supply the most satisfying deployment of your stratagems and skills.

The biggest difference for the caves in Pikmin 4 is their bespoke design, in contrast to the randomly generated layouts of Pikmin 2. The latter, while functional, could occasionally result in some dubious enemy and obstacle placements. The curated design of 4 means that each floor is carefully crafted, and its puzzles are all distinct and logical. They retain the challenging ethos of 2’s caves, in that you’re limited to the Pikmin you bring with you into the cave and passageways are often narrow or filled with hazards, making the management of your squad a more attentive task. The difficulty balance has also been noticeably tweaked, with some of the more vindictive hazards having been toned down considerably. Combined with the game’s more forgiving disposition towards combat as a whole, the caves of Pikmin 4, while not explicitly easy, simply have so many approaches in their problem solving that there’s rarely an equal level of tension one got in their original iteration. This is more apparent when it comes to the later, more boss-centric caves, while the consistently creative puzzle-centric caves remain unencumbered by the overpowered tools at your disposal. Oatchi, as previously mentioned, is certainly one of the overtuned factors contributing to the trivialization of combat in Pikmin 4, but the excessive accrual of Ultra Spicy Spray, not to mention the litany of powerful items at your disposal easily purchased from an in-game shop, are equally degenerative when it comes to undermining the threat of combat as a whole—with no real incentive not to rely on them, unfortunately. It should be emphasized, however, that these issues are more a side effect of fun new mechanics, rather than poorly designed tools that simply break the game completely. Early on, when your access to these tools is limited, and the focus is less oriented towards combat, it’s not even a problem to be had. Only towards the end, mostly just in the post game areas really, are these overtuned mechanics an issue. Fortunately, the latter portion of the game does offer several challenges which can’t be merely circumvented by your insurmountable arsenal.

The first of these additional challenges sees you once again taking control of Captain Olimar, using the maps and enemies of this game to echo the ship part-collecting endeavor of the first game, complete with a hard time limit to add pressure and challenge. On its own it’s a trifle—a brief encapsulation of the drive which initially motivated the series, bundled with all the conveniences developed across each game—but its value is all the more pronounced when taken as a reprieve from the divergent style of gameplay culminating in this latest entry. In addition to this are the Sage Leaf Trials, a hardcore Dandori Challenge Cave comprised of 10 floors, each one infinitely more difficult than anything found in the main campaign. This is where any regret regarding the base game’s breezy disposition is entirely mollified. After taking on the first floor, and initially clearing it with exactly zero seconds left, it was clear I was in for a truly unforgiving gauntlet testing the breadth of my Pikmin prowess. The reward for clearing these ten trials is substantial, but the glory of conquering these Herculean tasks is a worthy prize in and of itself. The Pikmin games are at their best when harmonizing strategy and tension around the inviting aesthetic the series is known for. With the reintroduction of caves and the return of the hard time limit in Olimar’s Shipwreck Tale, Pikmin 4 already maintained this ethos of the series, but the intense challenge of the Sage Leaf Trials supplants even this, resulting in an exhaustive collection of the ultimate Pikmin experience.

If only the rest of the post game were as brilliant as those two additions. The two remaining areas after clearing the main story aren’t bad per se—they’re perfectly satisfactory—but the narrative setup comes across a bit contrived, and the theming of the new areas doesn’t impress like the previous destinations of the main game. The final cave of the game also highlights Pikmin 4’s overreliance on returning boss fights as a source of challenge, regurgitating familiar battles in watered down environments thanks once again to the unmatched power your arsenal of combat options has become by this point. Even the final boss feels lackluster after everything that’s come before it, built around predictable attack patterns and vulnerability cycles, utilizing various elemental hazards as attacks regardless of whether or not it makes thematic sense for this enemy to wield those powers. Again, like the late game areas as a whole, this fight is perfectly serviceable. It checks all the boxes of what you’d want out of a final boss, including the reasonably challenging gauntlet leading up to it. It just doesn’t culminate in the way previous games did, or serve as a satisfying cap like the Shipwreck Tale and Sage Leaf Trials already did. In some ways, Pikmin 4 would feel more perfect with just those two segments serving as the game’s conclusion. The relative disappointment of these latter two areas is never subtractive, however, their biggest crime being the lack of denouement they provide in light of the opportunity to do so for this most grand of Pikmin titles.

The innumerable additions Pikmin 4 brings to the franchise are monumental in their refinement of all the ways in which the series has evolved since its debut over twenty years ago. The controls have never felt as intuitive as they do here, with some of the more complex mechanics having been mapped to a single button now, and further customization available via item mapping on the dpad. In addition to Oatchi, the two new Pikmin types functionally break the game without robbing the experience of its thrills. In addition to the aforementioned Shipwreck Tale and Sage Leaf Trials, the newly introduced Night Missions are another contained addition that helps break up the pacing of the main game by providing a twist on the typical gameplay structure. But ultimately, it’s not any one of these singular additions that make Pikmin 4 the ultimate game for the series, but rather, the culmination of every defining iteration seen so far packaged in a stunning beautiful, seamlessly playable, exhaustively inclusive triumph that makes it the unassailable opus of the franchise.

A Good Game is a title that can be described as having amenable qualities that either satiate or fulfill a player’s expectations based on an established familiarity with the genre, or perhaps just the medium overall. A Great Game is often something that exceeds expectations, subverting or reinventing familiar mechanics, and therefore distinguishes itself as an archetypical pillar of exemplary assets and execution. A Special Game is something else entirely—something which defies conventional measures of quality. Bayonetta is a Special Game. Immediately, the stylistic distinctions and fluidity of gameplay identify the experience as such, setting Hideki Kamiya’s hack-and-slash successor apart from even its comparably distinguished spiritual predecessor. What keeps Bayonetta so distinguished are often the qualities which keep it compelling when all the mounting frustrations of the game threaten to derail one’s enjoyment of the experience entirely. Such persistent detriments would surely sink any other arbitrary game of repute, let alone one which is merely merited as “good.” It’s what makes Bayonetta a Special Game, then, that allows it to rise above the guile. To rid itself of deserved criticisms, by way of its inimitable charms. An ineffable blend of sensual charisma, exuberant spectacle, exhilarating combat, and a strong vision of character allows Bayonetta to offset its somewhat convoluted nature, setting aside rote metrics of quality so that all that’s left to linger are the unique aspects which determine its special status.

The first element likely to captivate a player is the game’s brazen tone and sense of humor. The characterization of Bayonetta as this excessively sexual, otherworldly being of magic, equipped equally with an arsenal of flirtatious quips as she is effusive ammunition, gives the game a tenacious air of unending camp. The absurd grandeur of Bayonetta’s demonic powers—using her hair as a conduit to summon maleficent beasts, or manifesting various torture devices to dispatch enemies while assuming various suggestive poses—exemplifies the awe-inspiring nexus of extravagant flare, seductive lure, and farcical extremity which combine to create the irresistable appeal of Bayonetta’s creed. Just as you’re ready to assume you’ve hit the game’s ceiling for maximalist scenarios, you’ll be thrown into a motorcycle level where you’re running over hordes of biblical angels, or a boss battle where you’re surfing around a kaiju-like deity, or fighting on top of a giant cruise missile transporting you to the game’s final area. Even the standard bouts of combat maintain this signature sense of flair, encouraging you to embrace its undulating nature, as you weave in and out of combo streaks, gliding around mobs of enemies in effortless evasions of their attacks, triggering the primary combat mechanic responsible for engineering the game’s satisfying rhythm of fluidity.

Witch Time is the central conceit around which Bayonetta’s buttery combat system is designed. Essentially, it is a dodge mechanic that slows down time temporarily, allowing you to extend your combos and pile on the damage in situations where you’d ordinarily need to evade or recuperate. As long as you keep timing your dodges correctly, Witch Time effectively allows you to continuously rag doll your foes about until they’re defeated. Alongside your powerful Wicked Weave combo finishers (towering extensions of Bayonetta’s arms and legs manifested as demonic hair creatures), the combat feels intuitive and in a constant flow. Even if you’re just incompetently mashing buttons instead of executing calculated strings of inputs, the gameplay feels immensely rewarding. There are certain secret arenas hidden within the various levels of the game intended to test your capabilities at felling enemies in a minimum amount of attacks, but without a dedicated space to practice and learn specific combo patterns, these can be rather difficult to approach. It’s very clear that the core system of combat designed for Bayonetta is absolutely overflowing with potential for creative expression and personal approach, but at the same time that potential feels just out of reach without a more comprehensive system to digest these various techniques. Even the weapons systems, which boasts an opportunity for more distinctive playstyles, ultimately feels somewhat arbitrary to a novice playing through the game for the first time. It’s more than likely that there are more nuances to both the weapons system and overall combat that I simply failed to pick up on, but the perceived lack of distinction still led me to feel that the game’s fantastic combat system is perhaps less intuitively complex than it initially appears. It’s never not amazing to play, however, and any potential excess of mechanics doesn’t sour the overall experience too greatly.

This sentiment unfortunately does not extend to the actual levels encounters take place in, though, as the spaces you explore are sorely devoid of place and personality alike, more often functioning as vaguely European-themed hallways connecting one combat encounter to the next. Vigrid, the fictional city in which the story takes place, remains as much of a foggy mess to us as the clouded memories of our protagonist wandering its barren streets. It apparently exists as an intersection between the heavenly plane and the underworld below, due to the overwhelming significance of its holy presence according to the convoluted backstory the game provides. The whole of the narrative for Bayonetta feels like contrived nonsense, marred by a trite amnesia conceit that’s further muddied by an excess of lore attempting to paint a grandiose image of a centuries-old conflict between light and dark. If the central characters of the story weren’t so compellingly depicted, the whole facade would quickly fall to pieces. As for the setting itself, it’s never evident where exactly you’re going or why, or what even distinguishes the latest level from the one before it, unless there’s some unique gimmick, typically involving some kind of annoying hazard you have to navigate around. There’s nothing to explore in these copy-paste environments, as even when there are secrets to be had there’s never any satisfaction in uncovering them. Each area is merely a waiting room between fights, one right after another until you reach the end, which is only evidenced by the fact that you’re fighting some kind of boss. This listless sense of progression is mirrored in the game’s overall structure as well, haphazardly plodding along towards some uncertain climax. For as great as the gameplay and personality of the game is, it constantly feels wanting for a sense of direction.

As mentioned, though, if a game retains enough of its unique charms, fatal flaws can often be overcome. There’s just enough about Bayonetta to be quite unlike anything one could compare in its nature. The roots of its hack-and-slash gameplay are obviously well-founded in the genre, and it’s by no means the first game to be brazen and sexual in its presentation. But the way in which it melds these elements together, marrying exemplary combat systems with the stylistic characteristics of its protagonist, keeps one’s thoughts hanging on those qualities in the face of its recurring frustrations. Beyond its asinine narrative and occasionally convoluted mechanics, Bayonetta feels plagued by its use of insta-fail quick time events and wickedly punishing boss fights, many of which are capable of retaliating with little to no notice, often destroying not only your combo strings, but any decent chance of getting a good score for the level as well. However, in spite of how unfair or uninspired certain aspects of the game end up feeling, it’s never not fun to play. The fundamentals are just too good to be dragged down, and the character of the piece too distinct to ignore. Bayonetta is not a Good Game. Bayonetta is not a Bad Game. It’s something else entirely.

Unique; Distinct; Inimitable.

Special.

The squandered potential of Battle Network 4’s departures and innovations sees its just due in this immediate sequel, shedding the majority of its hostile design principles while continuing to reinvent the core gameplay formula around progressive new concepts, in harmony with the overarching spirit the series has maintained across five mainline titles. The promising Double Soul mechanic introduced in the last game is realized to its full potential here, partnered alongside a congenial new party system and a more tactical gameplay structure nestled within the familiar trajectory the series primarily promotes. Even the fumbled Dark Chip concept quickly forgotten in 4 proves actually enticing here, fleshing out the mechanic into an inviting risk/reward system actively interwoven with the main narrative of the game, and affected by the central mechanics core gameplay is built around. Most importantly, though, is how the game weaves its fundamental designs around an engaging plot and cast of characters, filled with new and familiar faces alike, whose personalities excel at investing you in this most ambitious adventure for the series so far. The experience isn’t so ideal as to be completely free of the tedium and annoyances which by now can be seen as signature flaws of the franchise, but the fundamental evolutions of the gameplay, in tandem with its robust narrative and endearing band of allies, are such that it is an effective culmination of all the major tenets the series has thus far built for itself—both good and bad.

The primary battle system the series is known for remains intuitive and strategically complex. The combination of turn-based, deck-building combat executed on a gridded battlefield remains a winning formula, particularly as the various new mechanics continue to build upon this strong foundation in engaging and innovative ways. Although mainstay functions such as Program Advances were severely limited in this entry, incentives for conscientious deck-building are further encouraged by means of the returning Double Soul mechanic and the new party system present in the game’s premier addition for the series: Liberation Missions. These advanced tactical challenges lie at the heart of the game’s narrative, tasking you to free various areas across the net which have been occupied by an evil organization known as Nebula. Liberation Missions shake up the traditional Battle Network gameplay by employing tactics-style stratagems to clear tile-oriented objectives of increasing size and difficulty. Each new Liberation Mission gives you a new team member to operate, often a familiar Navi opponent from a previous Battle Network title, who has been persuaded to assist you in freeing the net of this latest tyrannical threat. The unique opportunity to operate other Navis is a first for the series, and with it comes an increased variety in playstyle, as they all have unique properties and powers to utilize when it comes to battling. Although you still battle with the same chip folder you use with MegaMan, each Navi boasts a unique chip only accessible to them once per battle, typically a very powerful attack with a code associated to their name. As you expand your chip library, it makes sense then to keep in mind synergistic builds for operating not just MegaMan, but all the allies you’ll eventually partner with, as a balanced deck is the key to pulling off each Liberation Mission in the least amount of turns, earning you the greatest reward at the end.

The conclusion of each mission also rewards you with the corresponding Double Soul of the most recent Navi recruited to your cause. Just as in the previous game, Double Soul imbues MegaMan with the associated properties of the Navis he has formed a special bond with, effectively emulating the power-copying ability intrinsic to the original MegaMan games when defeating the various Robot Masters. It continues to be a very motivating mechanic that accelerates gameplay, enlivening the endless combat encounters of the game by offering a wide range of opportunities for quick kills and combos when effectively helmed. The mechanic enjoys a greater sense of implementation here thanks to the continued presence of the respective Navis throughout the game via Liberation Missions, solidifying their character-motivated attribute of a personal bond having been formed between MegaMan and his teammates. While less important than the mechanical functionality of the gimmick, the efforts taken to intermingle gameplay and story is one of the stronger components of Battle Network 5’s presentation. You miss out a bit on the running narrative previous games maintained of Lan’s struggle to balance childhood escapades with daring pursuits of evil antagonists, but it’s largely mitigated thanks to this entry’s more sober disposition. A more dramatic narrative engages us from the outset of the game, carrying with it the most plausible sense of threat the series has thus far seen. When first journeying onto the net after Nebula has begun its occupation, there exists a sense of menace unknown to the series outside of the Undernet, which has always possessed a kind of cartoonish gloom in contrast to this. Even after you’re able to liberate these spaces, there remains a kind of inhospitable feeling in their design. Unfortunately, that lingering dread is not so much a result of immersive storytelling, but rather, the unrelenting bugbear of discommodious level design.

The series has been somewhat inconsistent with this recurring issue, progressing and regressing across various titles, but appearing to exist in some form or another in almost every entry. Battle Network 5’s labyrinthian interpretation of the net is a marked step up from its predecessor, but still lacks integral elements of clarity and ease of navigation, as well as distinctive identities for the various spaces associated with real world counterparts. The amount of backtracking the game requires often compounds this frustration, as you’re often asked to head deep into the net for a particular objective, only to then be taken back to the real world before going back to that same place on the net, with no means of quickly traversing there via some easily accessible shortcut. Between this, and the game’s tendency to reuse already exhausted dungeons for additional story beats, the obvious padding of the game and stretching of assets becomes quite obnoxious. It’s not even logically implemented, in that you could return to each of the major areas for some new challenge or relevant narrative moment. One of the dungeons is inexplicably reused for three separate events, while another serves as the last location you need to check for an inane story quest which in no way points you towards relitigating a prior dungeon as the necessary objective. Even Liberation Missions suffer from these frustrating conceits, as although their layouts suit the tactical mission structure in which they’re introduced, the vast spaces which previously served as a battlefield end up as little more than hollow hallways for the rest of the game. It really undermines the sense that you’re “liberating” much of anything when all that appears after you return are a handful of NPCs with nothing but meaningless dialogue to offer you.

The game in general suffers from a want of engagement outside its core narrative. There’s still the meager interactions of trade quests and quiz characters to interact with, but the absence of more definitive side quests hurts the whole of the experience in the grand scheme. It is a very good thing, then, that the base game is fundamentally compelling enough to more or less make up for the lack of these features almost entirely. The core gameplay has never felt better for the series, with an array of synergistic chip types pairing with the revitalized Double Soul mechanic to make combat feel consistently fresh and exciting throughout the game. The mechanics of the game meld with the story and characters in a way that is most satisfying, all while introducing an unexpected evolution for the series that further emphasizes its tactical fundamentals. As a final note of merit, the game’s soundtrack warrants praise, as it highlights the previously unmentioned strengths the series has always had for melodic compositions on a console notoriously remembered for its abysmal sound quality. Many of the tracks are new mixes of familiar themes, balancing the soundtrack between more whimsical interpretations of nostalgic motifs and sinister new accompaniments for the darker tone certain segments maintain. Battle Network 5 is an overall outstanding entry, notwithstanding the few remaining issues the series insists upon in an effort to puzzle and provoke the player as a means of challenge. The confident strides the game takes in advancing the series are too successful to be hampered by these frustrations, however, with the impressive amalgamation of narrative and gameplay being a particular coup to set this entry apart from its noteworthy predecessors.

After the New Play Control! versions of Pikmin and Pikmin 2 showed how precision aiming can improve the experience of tactical organization and management inherent to the series, an entry on one of the touchscreen-based handheld systems of Nintendo would seem a no-brainer. In a way, that is eventually what we got with Hey! Pikmin, but its design philosophies are so removed from the core conventions of the series that it’s hardly comparable to the image that comes to mind when one says “Pikmin on the 3DS.” The great irony here is that Hey! Pikmin is a 2D platformer, one so committed to this divergent identity that it refuses to utilize the stereoscopic 3D capabilities of the hardware, despite the obvious array of opportunities in both the numerous cutscenes seen throughout the game as well as to add a sense of depth to the design of the levels, if only for the sake of more immersive aesthetics. Setting aside any misplaced expectations, though, the prospect of a side-scrolling Pikmin platformer isn’t inherently off. In fact, much of the baseline mechanics of Hey! Pikmin’s design congruently suit the congenial spirit of mainline games. It’s never really enough to justify itself, however, as beyond the relatively commendable translation of throwing mechanics and squadron management from the console games to the handheld, Hey! Pikmin offers shockingly little in terms of new or interesting interpretations of the core ideals, and feels far too drawn out and lethargic for how simple it ultimately is.

Hey! Pikmin’s primary issue is just how needlessly slow the whole experience is. From overly long load times, to the stodgy controls and movements, and the constant interruptions of cloying cutscenes introducing new batches of Pikmin several times each level, everything feels designed to arbitrarily moderate your pacing. While the intent is clearly to maintain the more relaxed and methodical nature of the series through the restriction of movement, the lack of flexibility takes so much of the control out of the player’s hand that the whole of the experience more or less feels like you’re on rails. Sure, there are secrets to be had by uncovering alternate routes and hidden exits, but so many levels are designed around pushing you forward without a way to backtrack, often requiring you to replay a level entirely in order to get to the secret items. Rarely are these items generally worth going for either, as only occasionally do the puzzles around them challenge you enough to merit interaction. Seeing as you don’t need all the treasures to beat the game (as is tradition with Pikmin) the satisfaction in recovering these items really needs to be its own reward, but due to the nature of simply obtaining an object as soon as Olimar is close enough, you often don’t even need the assistance of the Pikmin to obtain many of the items, rendering the very nature of the gameplay moot more often than not.

The novelty of collecting treasures has also somewhat run its course now. There’s still the occasional joy in collecting an otherwise ordinary item and seeing its humorous name cataloged, but the tedious nature of collecting makes it all feel so played out this time. It doesn’t help that the motivation to collect these treasures now is rather contrived. The mission here is to convert all the objects we find into enough “Sparklium” to fuel the ship, a kind of nonsense objective designed with only enough veneer to attempt to justify the conventions of artifice. It’s even more meaningless after you realize the set amount you’re tasked to obtain can’t even be used until you rescue the Sparklium Converter from the final boss, which itself can’t be accessed until making your way through all eight sectors of the game in a linear progression of uninspired, forgettable levels. Giving the player more agency when it comes to providing a path forward was always a strength of previous Pikmin games, so to restrain the player so severely here is quite the odd choice. You don’t even have control over the Pikmin you can use in any given level, as they’re all encountered along the way, with any you keep alive by the end going off to a separate location to slowly harvest small quantities of Sparklium while you progress in the following levels.

And yet, it’s difficult to bemoan Hey! Pikmin as being outright awful. It’s not a good game by any metrics, but it’s largely acceptable on multiple fronts, and even has a handful of positive qualities in need of acknowledging. The implementation of the 3DS’s dual screens for platforming and navigation is far more comprehensive than most titles on the console, or even its originating predecessor. The levels, though simple, are pleasantly short, and their straightforward design allows for a relaxing, if uninspired, progression through the game. And, aside from being egregiously slow, the actual feel of the platforming is responsive and positive, ensuring that you’re able to traverse the levels with relative ease and little dysfunction. Beyond that, though, it’s hard to see any further qualities for the title. Hey! Pikmin generates the majority of its good will by virtue of not being actively discouraging to play, but at the same time it does little to inspire the player to engage further with its gameplay beyond the hollow proclamation of asserting your completion of the game. It’s such a shallow endeavor, evidenced very early on, and never improving upon its meager offerings even as you near the end. At best, it’s a serviceable distraction, peppered with barely enough charm and intrigue to sustain short bursts of your attention, such that you may, theoretically, pick it up enough times in passing curiosity to complete it. But the belabored pacing, threadbare mechanics, homogenous level design, and scarce framing all but undermine its mediocre framework, resulting in a game that just narrowly passes for “playable.”

If a proven formula and iterative design principle are the backbone of a successful franchise, then experimentation and creative digressions are the life blood which keep a series intriguing and innovative. The simplified platforming fundamentals of the Kirby series were established with his introductory title on the Gameboy, which was then immediately innovated upon with the introduction of his iconic copy abilities in his second game on the NES. Subsequent games continued to refine on these basic gameplay principles, with such inventions as animal companions and fused abilities being at the forefront of later entries. But it’s with Kirby & the Amazing Mirror, however, we can observe our first true digression for the series. The straightforward level-based progression of prior titles is turned on its head for this GBA outing, replacing the comfortable structure of the established formula for a more open and adventurous approach to completion. Over the years, the term “Metroidvania” has been designated as the most accurate term to describe the style of gameplay exhibited in Amazing Mirror: a side-scrolling platformer set within a large, interconnected world, with progression designed around gated areas unlocked via collected powerups. With the myriad abilities Kirby has access to throughout his adventures, along with the flexible nature of the series’ level design functioning within a more connected setting, it’s no wonder how well this structural deviation suits the familiar philosophies of Kirby’s typical adventures. The only surprise, then, is just how naturally this new approach fits within the established ethos of familiar Kirby gameplay, and how satisfying it feels to get lost in the labyrinthian escapades of this finely-polished excursion.

A vast playground of interconnected spaces is not Amazing Mirror’s only innovation for the series, though. As is heavily depicted on almost all the advertising and art for the game, Amazing Mirror is built around its functionality as the first Kirby game capable of cooperative multiplayer for the main game. With or without the companionship of up to three additional friends, you have a total of four distinctly colored Kirby’s embarking on this journey, free to explore the sprawling map of the Mirror World without restriction from the other players—a feature even most modern multiplayer games can’t implement. The likelihood of having four people with the game and the requisite link cables to all play together was quite slim back in the day, but the capability alone was impressive for the time. The gameplay itself doesn’t particularly suffer from relying on the computer-controlled partners. They more or less bumble around the world independently of you, neither helping nor disrupting anything, but are constantly available for you to call to your position from anywhere on the map, which is most useful when tackling each area’s required boss fights. It’s not the most elegant feature from a single-player perspective, but it’s quite evident that the intent was always to prioritize multiplayer functionality for this mechanic, which has been made all the more feasible thanks to the online implementation of the game on Nintendo’s online services. But whether you’re playing by yourself or with a handful of friends, the cooperative feature of the game is occasionally handy, and more importantly, integral in evolving facets of the series’ core appeals.

The majority of those inherent appeals are retained and refined for the series’ seventh major entry, capitalizing on the beautiful sprite work implemented for Kirby's Nightmare in Dreamland on the GBA and expanding its assets further with the introduction of new enemy types and several new copy abilities to go with them. Combined with all the returning abilities, Amazing Mirror offers more than 25 different power sets to play with, many of which offer useful utility through either enhanced movement or the ability to open certain passageways. While there are certain abilities that simply offer less value than others, the balancing is such that most of the time your preference will come down to personal playstyle, as the objectively best abilities are made to be rare, typically locked behind a mini boss encounter. Some personal favorites include Hammer and Sword, for their continued functionality when swimming, Burning and Wheel, for their fantastic mobility and satisfaction to use, and UFO, for being insanely powerful and clearly the best ability of the bunch. A close second, though, is the new ability Smash, which is obtained from a bout with Super Smash Bros. antagonist Master Hand, who logically gifts Kirby with all the powers of his Super Smash Bros. moveset. It’s a really fun cameo, and the various powers you get offer the most interactions with progression roadblocks to boot. I suppose that’s not unexpected, though, when you consider that almost every significant obstacle is cleared by either the smashing power of the hammer or cutting power of the sword.

It seems like something of a missed opportunity, that the majority of powers aren’t actually able to help you with progression throughout the game. As previously mentioned, most areas you need to access usually can be opened with the Hammer ability, or perhaps more commonly, Burning to blaze through similar block barricades. Most of the abilities commonly available to you don’t actually assist in progression in any way, because the actual obstacles implemented for progression are so limited. The game is also littered with one-way passages as another means to block off certain paths for progression. While not inherently problematic, the sheer number of these passages, combined with the inability to know you can’t go back until after you’ve gone through the doorway, can often lead to some frustrating situations. If you’ve managed to locate the map for the particular region you’re in, you can see one-way passages marked on there, but there will definitely be times where you’re wandering blind searching for the room with the map, caught in a series of dead end loops and cycles that spit you back at the beginning with no new knowledge gained of how to progress. By far the most regrettable component of Kirby & the Amazing Mirror is its poor map design. It’s still functional in that the information it provides is invaluable in navigating your way through the eight distinctive areas and all the confusing passageways you need to access to wind your way through them all, but the layout is needlessly obtuse, sometimes indicating a pathway forks to the left, when in reality the doorway is located in an upper corner on the right side of the room. Fortunately, there’s a number of easy ways to regain your bearing should you ever get lost, including a number of bridging pathways that connect you to other sectors, as well as an always-accessible function to return to the main hub where you can quickly travel to any of the sectors you’ve managed to connect via interlinking mirrors.

These few drawbacks and slightly underrealized potential shouldn’t overshadow the ambition and overall success of the game, though. It cannot be overstated how innovative the multiplayer implementation for this title is, regardless of how practical the actual execution of it was at the time. The functional capability of independent, cooperative exploration of the vast interconnected map in Amazing Mirror supplies a far more rewarding foundation for a multiplayer experience than the majority of comparable side-scrollers. Again, even if you play the game without actual companions, the overall experience is not hindered. Kirby & the Amazing Mirror is still a fantastically realized and thorough experience outside of its heavily advertised new feature, thanks mainly to the other major component that distinguishes it from previous Kirby titles. While comparisons to the Great Cave Offensive from Kirby Super Star have been made, Amazing Mirror offers a more robust realization of the premise that smaller title first introduced. The numerous abilities available to play with remain a joy, especially as the world you explore feels more like a playground than ever before. The convoluted layout of the world is perhaps a bit too obtuse, but it does engender a welcome element of challenge Kirby games typically lack. Functionally, navigation becomes a puzzle you need to solve to complete the game, and while the tools you use to find these solutions can occasionally be subpar, ultimately, they get the job done. Amazing Mirror excels thanks to the simple charms and baseline accessibility it maintains as part of the wider ethos of the Kirby series as a whole. However, it’s the innovative distinctions that make it genuinely special, splicing together the proven qualities of the series with amenable design principles divergent from the norm of similar platforming titles.

I have to be one of the only few people in the world that has played this game to death. As a result I have a Guinness World Record for fastest completion of this game.

Here’s the thing: I’ve seen this game appear in a lot of people’s ‘Worst Star Wars Games of All Time’ lists. Yes, this game is incredibly flawed; the voice acting is awful, the graphics are very basic, the controls can be hit or miss most of the time especially the camera and there’s no sense of progression. Not to mention the game has two separate plots going on, one of which it puzzlingly abandons half way through the game.

Having said all that, I really enjoy this game. For the most part, there are no game breaking bugs or glitches. The controls all work for their intended purpose, there’s a lot of combat moves not a lot of people know about and as someone who used to speedrun this game, I find the levels somewhat fun to explore and mess around in.

Personally, I’ve always found the combat somewhat satisfying. It’s not groundbreaking or revolutionary, it’s certainly no Jedi Academy when it comes to lightsaber combat, but it gets the job done. I actually think this is one of the few Star Wars games that has implemented blaster deflection really well.

For me it’s underrated and certainly not worthy of being in any top 10 worst Star Wars games lists.

Brevity is an underrated element in many games, it seems. The instinct is always to make the vision bigger, longer, more intense, if ever the resources allow for it. The logic appears to derive from the idea that players will always want more from a game that’s good, and more content is, in and of itself, a positive quality when considering the value of a title. There’s sound reasoning to be found in that line of thinking, but what it misses out on is the incomparable satisfaction that comes with finishing a tight, immaculately refined experience, which is both confined and complete without need of additional frills. There’s room in the world for both of these approaches (no one discipline is considered superior to the other), but so often we see developers lean into the attractive lure of the outsized, exhaustive experience irrespective of a more condensed alternative. As a bold swing in a new direction for its studio, as well as remaining one of the more memorable titles exclusive to its generation-defining console, Sucker Punch’s Infamous frustratingly falls into these pitfalls over the course of its protracted playtime. What begins as an incredibly satisfying open-world action game is quickly encumbered by the monotony of its limited world and systems, exposing both to be sorely underwhelming after their initial luster has long worn off.

The first hour or two of Infamous is where the appeals of the game feel most apparent. Although your initial powerset is limited, the sudden and abrupt nature of combat keeps engagements exciting and improvisational. Exploration is similarly inhibited, but the initial thrill of freely navigating Empire City’s innumerable rooftops and elevated tracks maintains its exuberance throughout the first section of the game, before becoming a tedious chore as traversal space expands without really evolving. Additional areas are only really distinguished by the different enemies you’re fighting now, the different environments blending into one another and desperately wanting for more distinctive landmarks and more memorable interactions. The different enemies aren’t even that distinct, though, as the rain of bullets constantly unleashed upon you feels no different coming from the Reapers, Duskmen, or First Sons. There are small differences in their capabilities, but those distinguishing qualities are present predominantly in the Conduit leaders you occasionally encounter, with further differences largely coming down to how much damage their ceaseless salvos overwhelm you with.

You’re intended to mitigate the presence of hostile enemies in the area by doing side quests to reclaim territory and help the city, but the repetitive scenarios and lack of substantial reward isn’t enough to really make doing these missions more worthwhile than furthering the main story objective, which often comes with the added incentive of a new power to play with instead of what meager offerings the countless side quests can emptily offer. At best, you’re likely to get a handful of Blast Shards for your trouble, a hollow collectible that slowly upgrades your Battery Core, which isn’t that impactful after a certain point as you’ll be constantly recharging it anyway during combat. They function better as a compulsive collectible, one of the very few things you can actually interact with in the sprawling overworld, the other being collectable sound bites that give you some more context for the game’s perfunctory backstory. Aside from fighting hordes of enemies and taking on side missions (which mostly consists of fighting enemies as well) that’s all there is to do in Infamous’s expansive open world. This simple loop of sparse gameplay seems reasonable while the map is still manageable, and the enemies aren’t yet so numerous as to be unreasonable. But your arsenal of ways to interact with these meager scenarios never really scales with the expansion of their presence, despite the metered stream of new abilities to assist in traversal and combat you receive.

Cole’s lightning powers are the most evident appeal of Infamous, and it's never any wonder why. Even through the somewhat clunky controls attempting to aim your shots, firing bolts of lightning at your enemies is a blast, and the acceleration that comes from riding across power lines is a strong basis for enjoyable conveyance. The issue doesn’t even necessarily come from the lack of intuitive additions to these powers, as upgrades like the Shock Grenades and Megawatt Hammer give you viable options in combat, while the ability to glide is a logical addition to the Induction Grind for vaulting across rooftops as your primary means of navigating the city. The issue is that these upgrades don’t offer enough to compensate for the lack of creative scenarios plaguing the latter sections of the game. It’s as if these tools were designed as fun ideas first, instead of the appropriate answer to a problem supplied by the game’s obstacles for progression. Instead of refining these obstacles around the player’s growing skillset, they’re just multiplied and intensified as barriers, halfheartedly attempting to match the player as events progress, only for the result to actually elicit exhaustion and frustration from their inundation.

The other clear selling point of the game is its karma system, based around the titular idea that you can be a force for good in the world, or allow power to corrupt and pursue evil ambitions. For a superhero origin story, it’s a compelling hook. Combining the agency of an open world environment with an action system that weighs your misdeeds and rewards you with unique abilities tailored to the specific outlook you choose to take on seems like an intuitive marriage on paper. The severe flaws of the karma system are dramatically apparent, though, just by virtue of its rudimentary, binary nature. Your small actions such as attacking civilians or restraining opponents instead of killing them is never impactful enough to actually encourage you to play towards a specific ideology, while the big decisions which can ostensibly alter your meter in one direction or the other are often shallow representations of good versus evil actions. The first scripted choice is a good reflection of this, where you’re tasked with either helping civilians access a supply crate of food, or killing a bunch of them and keeping it for yourself. There’s no material advantage to getting these supplies, you can’t actually use them in the game, so it’s ultimately just a negligible moral decision for how you want to characterize Cole, one which is in no way equivalent in its polar ends. Beyond this, the only practical reason to invest in the karma system is for the unique powers you can unlock via specifically aligned side quests. You have to invest consistently, though, as you only retain access to these powers if you remain steadfast in your alignment—not that you’re able to deviate that much anyway after you’ve committed to a certain direction.

You have to be willing to forgive a lot in order to enjoy the potential qualities of Infamous while playing it. Even for non-mechanic related elements, such as the story or atmosphere, the execution feels shoddy and half-baked. Just as with everything else, these elements initially appear promising. The mystery of the Ray Sphere and the tragic duality of its destruction also being the catalyst for gifting Cole his powers, is undercut via convoluted developments and a needlessly overwrought twist thrown on to the end. Likewise, the depressing mood of the city quarantined from the rest of the world is fitting, but quickly becomes a bore as the monotonous environments and droning soundtrack sap any semblance of life from spaces intended to be explored. It is truly a shame—an ironic fate—that Infamous’s undoing is simply extended exposure to the same qualities which once inspired excitement and intrigue in its opening segments. Clearly, the foundation for the core gameplay loop is fundamentally sound. It’s simply the lack of evolution as the game goes on, the inundation of staid mechanics stretched out over too ambitious an outing. So many of these issues would be less egregious in a more contained title. The predominant fault of the game, then, more than any individual flaw, is the prevailing desire to expand the scope of the title beyond its fundamental means. Although an admirable flaw, it is nonetheless a debilitating one, souring the first impression of an experience with obvious potential for greatness.