Night in the Woods perfectly encapsulates how it feels to live as a socially awkward neurodivergent person in the rural-ish northeast US. The northeast, especially New England, has this air of minding their own business; sure there's pockets here 'n' there with some more outgoing personality; Jersey and the eastern portion of Mass come to mind, but other states have jokes within New England such as Vermont, the joke goes "In Vermont, they speak two languages; English, and silence." Despite that however, there's immense difficulty getting around and doing things if you have social anxiety like I do. Mae's seemingly incoherent or childish responses to different social interactions seem to mostly stem from anxiety, trauma and a yearning for a time since passed.

I played this a year before moving down the coast to the Mid-Atlantic, and the difference in culture within a country people lump together as "Murican" is pretty staggering. It feels like everyone has someplace to be, the food is similar in a homely sort of way but largely completely different dishes; most people don't know what a good chowder looks like, and chili is relatively uncommon, and hardly ever hear about anyone making stews; things that are staples of New England diet for being easy to make, cheap, hearty, and most importantly warm during the Autumn and Winter seasons. Speaking of seasons, Night in the Woods is largely associated with Autumn, and for good reason, it nails the feeling of it better than any other game I'm aware of; at multiple times during both playthroughs I found myself vividly able to imagine the feeling in the air, or the smells.

The general art direction, sound design, overall presentation is fantastic, I yearn for more games with bold, simplistic 2D art that somehow convey texture in such a masterful way through use of its soundscape in conjunction with the wonderful color design.

During my first playthrough, I found myself crying a little at a couple points in following Bea around and hanging out with her. There's a lot of subtle conversational interactions too that really struck home, both in the forced delays between some messages so you cannot just mash through them, emphasizing the time and pace of a conversation (extremely underrated in video game writing in general, any game confident in its writing should be confident enough to tell the player to read, especially when that's the main focus anyways.) and in the exact grammar used. It's not without the occasional typo or grammatical error but I find those easy to look past. I found Mae and co's pleas easy to empathize with, seeing bits and pieces of that in the people I love. I clearly remember saying about 2/3 or so through this playthrough, "Thank god I don't relate to Mae. She needs a hug."

I would come to eat those words on my second playthrough in 2020, without getting into it 2020 was a very low point for me. As I waded through the game a second time, this time following Greg, it kept hitting me; "Oh no.", I said, rather shakily. "Oh God." I said, tearing up. I saw much of myself and my life in Mae, in about the same time frame it took her as well. It hurt, it hurt a lot, and it broke me. That weekend I'd also decided to spend all of it offline except for contacting my ex to talk for a little bit before bed. I used the time to immerse myself fully in the pain I felt playing through it, watching my life and anxieties play back like a slow motion train wreck. Yet throughout all of it, the fact I saw that in there was comforting to me, a reminder that I exist and should keep existing. I didn't really cry much during this playthrough, except near the beginning when the realizations dawned on me; but when the credits rolled I spent a good half hour or so straight gently sobbing by myself.

The game makes its point the clearest imo when you hang out with Bea, because if "Proximity" means anything to you, you already know why. Despite the rather abrupt second-to-last chapter, the sheer impact of Night in the Woods changed my life, twice, for completely different reasons. I'm scared, but that's not such a bad thing.

At the end of everything, hold onto anything.

If you've ever been a depressed and aimless 20 year old overwhelmed by a life that isn't what you expected or wanted, you can probably relate to Mae Borowski.

I have a fondness for the idea of games that are more like places where you can hang out (I think it’s Animal Crossing’s best idea), and this game feels that way. The town of Possum Springs feels genuinely inhabited, and Mae's relationships to her friends feel as real, loving, difficult and damaged as real friendships are. The writing deftly handles the way that relationships drift and decay and can never return to what they were, but importantly, they retain the potential to blossom in different and possibly better ways. People can’t stay the same forever, so it’s nearly impossible for their relationships to.

One thing I love about this game is how gently and unexpectedly it approaches difficult subjects. It's a game about decay and loss, but it's just as much a game about hope and community. Ultimately it's about the necessity of hope and community in the face of despair, anxiety, fear, and a world that often seems terminally ill. It's also one of the only games I know of that's overtly about the damage caused by capitalism, the way it makes everything homogenous as it crushes individuals under its heel. The nihilism of capitalism has infected the town, as it infects everywhere, and the environment it creates affects everyone in one way or another.

But, also, the strengths of Night in the Woods don't stop at the narrative. Just in terms of play, this game is really fun! So many things are satisfyingly interactive. Leaves blow in your path as you frolic in autumnal delight. Telephone wires bow and twang in an incredibly pleasing manner as you balance upon them in the fresh morning air. You can jump up and down on your neighbor's car for no reason, and you’ll want to, because everything in this game feels so good. There are fun little minigames about moving furniture or smashing light bulbs or looking at stars with a cool old dude or hanging out with your mom. I’d also be remiss not to mention it’s the funniest game I’ve played other than Butterfly Soup. Night in the Woods proves that a charming and generous sense of play is no less engaging than dense mechanics.

This is a game I fully expect to return to occasionally for the rest of my life.

It's difficult to pinpoint what Minecraft does so differently that other games, before or after its inception, can't seem to be able to remotely capture. Regardless of how many years have passed since its Alpha days, booting the game up and spending those first couple of hours building dirt houses and digging ridiculously autistic tunnel systems still represent some of the most magical and captivating moments I have experienced in a videogame. A maverick trail-blazer of game design, Minecraft disregards any previous notions of what makes or breaks a game, and instead plops you into an indifferent and artifical world without any seemingly narrative context and invites the player to fill it with life and personality by leaving his permanent mark on it, starting right off the bat by having you punch wood out of trees and that totally making sense.

Either a stroke of genius or just pure luck, the combination of cutesy and colorful lego like aesthetic with the occasional lonely and scary desolation nature gives Minecraft a surprisingly introspective atmosphere, making grand statements about human labor and wilderness conquest out of simple moments like finally finishing that perfect wooden balcony as you watch the square sun rising and "Wet Hands" starts to play. The tangible and real threat of Minecraft's permanent item loss and unwillingness to throw the player a bone or hold his hand, turns the mere idea of exploring the outskirts of your comfy man hole into a cautious adventure that has you feeling a sense of joy as you catch on your way back the familiarity of your ever evolving house on the horizon, and turns a simple detour that leaves you lost in the woods at night into a dreadful nightmare that has you frantically searching for a light source inbetween the trees as you dodge a horde of zombies and skellies.

While there is some truth to the criticism that "there's nothing to do" in Minecraft, which can be attributed to its low skill ceiling and diminishing returns as you run out of goals and ideas, the devs have been intelligent enough to not mess with the core appeal of the game with its inumerous updates over the years, and that's letting the player find his own fun, be that building a giant castle at the top of a mountain, building a minecart track that crosses a lava lake in the Nether, conquering The End and beating the Ender Dragon, or simply exploding enough TNT at once to crash the game.

I still can't decipher Minecraft after all these years. All I know is that I keep coming back, be it with a group of friends, or by myself. I still find its quiet and randomized world to be beautfiul and imaginative. I still love how the animals and enemies look and sound. I still can't get over how perfect and effective its oddly sad soundtrack is. I still get a stupid grin on my face when I manage to make the simplest of redstone mechanisms work. I still shit my pants every time I fall into a sense of safety around my home base and suddenly hear that dreaded hiss behind me as I watch my work explode. I dunno, it's a very good game.

Hyper Light Drifter is a metaphor. It is also a supremely playable action adventure. It is not both equally - the expression of its theme comes first. Hyper Light Drifter is a rumination on how one chooses to dedicate their life towards causes that better the world while cognizant of their own looming mortality. Any evaluation of the game as an action adventure only makes sense within this context.

Hyper Light Drifter was lightyears ahead of its discourse. Pre-release interviews asked the developer about its combat systems. Comparisons were made to 2D Zelda games. Players complained about the lack of text or dialog. I myself bounced off this game when I tried playing it closer to release. Now that I’ve played a few art house indie games (and Bloodborne), I realize Hyper Light Drifter is the kind of game others (like GRIS) market themselves as and fail to be - that Hyper Light Drifter is about something, down to its very bones.

Everything in this game world is built around the insurmountable presence of death. Corpses of giants litter and create the landscape. Plants have retaken machines of war. People hunt each other for cruel and petty gains in a small and crumbling world, survivors and drifters nursing wounds and grudges. Hyper Light Drifter is deft enough to understand death is made real by the lamenting survivors and the anticipatory fear of the doomed. Context is everything, and context is the throughline of how the Drifter is crafted.

In a game without words or dialog, every movement of the player character becomes scrutinized in the search for their soul. He can dash, but he cannot run. He can slash wildly, but only thrice. Between delays in the Drifter’s combat animations and the way he reluctantly arises from a moment of quiet, his demeanor is solidified as deliberate, capable, and tired.

The Drifter routinely coughs up blood, politely dampening the sound even when alone. He winces to hold his breath before injecting a healing tonic. The Drifter will not draw his sword in front of civilians, but will play soccer with children. He’ll toss coins to the downtrodden. The only people who will talk to him, (or is it more accurate to say, who he chooses to talk to?), have experienced significant loss. By implication, these conversations lead to imaginings of how the Drifter is able to empathize with these people, and why he is on his journey.

All the while, Anubis quietly, radiantly beckons to the ruins of the underworld.

I can understand the impulse to say that Hyper Light Drifter does not have a story, but I would posit it is more accurate to say it does not have a plot. The Drifter is dying. He has a goal he must accomplish before this happens. Along the way, there are people who do not ask for help, but on whose behalf he takes vengeance. As players, we cannot choose any other path for the Drifter to take, but the gameplay reinforces the feeling of this world demanding hard choices.

Every facet of the game’s combat forces the player to make interesting choices. All upgrades require the same difficult-to-obtain trinkets. These trinkets are just obtainable enough to afford a single purchase at a time, and just rare enough to forever second-guess which purchase is right. The health bar has an unchanging five segments, and many common enemies can deal two marks per hit. Health items must be scavenged, the Drifter unable to hold enough to ever feel safe. After taking three damage, a conundrum arises. Do you risk taking one more hit to get the most out of your tonics? Or heal early to be safe, and possibly regret needing it later?

Boss fights are challenging. Their healthpools are massive, and the Drifter is frail. Victory requires perseverance and precision, using the Drifter’s limited tools in the face of much more elaborate and devastating abilities. Together, these elements create miniature dead-ends that emerge from player choices. Perhaps you arrived at a grueling combat encounter with minimal health and tonics - do you teleport yourself away to regroup and fight your way back, or rise to the occasion to avoid the risk of returning in worse condition?

Continually forced to make difficult choices with incomplete information and an uncertain future necessitates an adoption of a certain philosophy. These circumstances cannot last. You will find more trinkets; no purchase is worthless. You cannot win without conserving your first aid kits, as you cannot move forward continually assuming the worst. You cannot fear death, (or the permanence of your choices), forever if you want to accomplish your goals. You are forced to believe in your own improvement and ability. The Drifter will try again as often as you need him to.

Because the Drifter follows Anubis willingly.

I was profoundly touched by the ending. Lore-wise, I had no idea what was happening. But the emotions were earned and real. Of what it's like to fight your own body and lose. The gravitas every decision accrues when there won’t be time for another. The dignity that comes from living with a chronic illness, after pain has long since lost its novelty and yielded to the pure focus required for the smallest of tasks. The ending did what all good endings should do - punctuate the purpose of the whole experience in reverberating clarity.

The context of the ending crystalizes what kind of man the Drifter always was. Why a frail man fought monsters and murderers so much stronger than himself. It could never be for his own gain, for there is no cure for death. There is only the creation of meaning through a life lived deliberately, by creating a better world he will never see. All conveyed so subtly I can forgive anyone for missing it.

Hyper Light Drifter is one of the few games where I role-played my actions to routinely let the player character rest. There is no benefit to doing so. But his journey is hard.

Echo is so dark, so poignant, so emotionally enthralling and draining that a casual recommendation feels like reckless endangerment. I have no idea how anyone is “supposed” to react to this story. I don’t know that I want anyone to experience some of what it has to offer. I investigated Echo on a lark, then lost a week of my waking hours playing it. Echo is so profound and fresh and real that it changed my perspective on the nature of games, and where good games can come from. I respect it so much to say I love it feels wrong.

I’ll start by saying this is the first visual novel to demonstrate to me why “visual novel” is a legitimate gaming genre. I’ve played some Phoenix Wright games, and they’re great! They have a lot of reading, but also enough interactivity with that reading to feel like games. However, that interactivity is merely elongation of a linear narrative. The distance between when the player understands how to solve a puzzle vs when the game will allow the player to solve it can be agonizing. The similar Danganronpa series is filled with blatant insecurity regarding the fun of advancing a linear narrative, to the point of introducing a hoverboard minigame for answering a basic multiple choice question.

But surprise, those are both series closer to classic point and click adventure games than visual novels. They certainly have enough text to fill a novel or more, but so does every modern Animal Crossing and Fire Emblem. I thought about this while playing a SRPG with fully voiced story segments that can last hours between its levels of gameplay. It is considered a visual novel due to the sheer volume of its story segments, but the story is not the gameplay. The two are separate and distinct such that you could have a complete experience by skipping either. Echo feels like a visual novel because it makes reading the game mechanic.

Echo makes “reading” feel like a gameplay verb by carefully focusing its narrative, game structure, and writing style on the feeling of experiencing a mystery. Not the lock-and-key puzzle of solving a mystery, like a Phoenix Wright murder trial; the aura of mystery that emanates from existential horror.

You play as a college student visiting your middle-of-nowhere small town over Spring Break, reuniting with five childhood friends after three years apart. You choose early on with which of the five friends you want to spend the week, a choice that dictates which of five stories you experience. As the week progresses, things take a turn for the spooky and the supernatural. Alone, each of Echo’s five routes are engaging, but their mysteries are not self-contained. Clues, context, and answers are sprinkled throughout every route, and all five are necessary for the full Echo experience.

It may sound simple on paper, but the craft is in the execution. The text of Echo would not work as a traditional novel separate from the trappings of being a game. Prose is expertly honed to the medium of its text box size. Descriptions are condensed so every idea is introduced, transitioned, or concluded one screen at time. Visual indications of who’s talking, who’s listening, who’s left the scene cut the need of so much “he said”-type structural grammar. Background images communicate changes in scenery, and the music punctuates changes in tone. The experience of reading is focused on the characters and their reactions at all times.

Interactivity arises from how much the game expects you to pay attention. It does not describe to you why a character acts a certain way. It expects you to infer the cast’s emotions based on your knowledge of what they should know and how they think. Functionally, this writing style allows the game to remain cryptic about context you would only glean from other routes. You are constantly evaluating whether your gaps in understanding are from not paying attention as a reader, or from context found in a different route. Although distended by hours, this task of continual inference arises from choices the player made. As such, gaps in your understanding feel like consequences of your actions as a player.

Echo offers few choices that matter, but their presence is always below the surface. New revelations make your mind wander to choices you’ve made in the past and anticipate choices you might have to make in the future. Continually feeling the friction of your player action’s consequences motivates you to keep reading. Wanting to alleviate that friction creates anticipation for which route you want to tackle next. This tension, of recontextualizing what you have done, what you have read, and why you want to read more in the future, is what elevates Echo as a visual novel. Echo justifies and excels within its classification as a game - it could not have existed in another medium.

Narrative tension can only exist when you’re invested in the characters, and I have to exclaim that the character writing is meticulous. Every character has a place and a history that exists separate from their plot relevance. Some routes will see you spend hours with characters that are only name-dropped or absent from others. I have met approximations of many of these people in real life with more specificity than an archetype. The naive young Christian man who gasps at swears, takes an hour in the shower, and makes a face when too much mayonnaise gets on his chicken sandwich. The witty girl with a bad home life who majored in psychology and can’t stop herself from correcting and analyzing every person and situation to hide from her own emotional reality. The writing is magnanimous enough to find the human dignity in meth addicts and honest enough to find the cruelty that blooms in the most vulnerable of friendships. Sometimes funny, often tragic, the character interactions alone were engaging enough for me to extend what was planned to be a cursory investigation into a complete route play-through.

The first route I finished truly shocked me. I was incoherent for hours afterwards trying to process it. Its multiple twists within its devastating climax retroactively reverberated through every assumption I had made about what kind of game I was playing, and how the game was presenting itself. Echo had weaponized my prejudices and assumptions as an outsider, (that I was playing some sort of cringey gay furry dating simulator), against me so subtly, so flawlessly, that I had been lead to focus on the wrong details about the player character and his relationships. Events and details I had passed off as perhaps careless usage of unfamiliar tropes were, in fact, completely accounted for by the narrative. The game knew exactly the moral weight and repercussions of the player character’s thoughts and actions, and I felt the fool for assuming they were handled lightly.

I do not fault myself for having low expectations, because it is so rare to find a work that understands the nature of evil. The limitations of evil, its narrative uses, the difference between the impartial evils of the universe and the unique flavors invented by human ingenuity. How Echo navigates the darkness it explores with deft and grace is impressive once you see the full list of taboo topics this game juggles. We have:
- Straight sex - Gay sex - Orgies - Rape - Murder - Dismemberment - Torture - Lynching - Homophobic violence - Racism - Suicide - Drowning - Gun violence - Domestic abuse - Child abuse - Minor endangerment - Drug abuse - Claustrophobic nightmare fuel - Arachnaphobic nightmare fuel - Suffocation nightmare fuel - Night terrors and sleep paralysis - Supernatural existential horror

I would not fault anyone for turning away at even one of these subjects; the potential for irresponsible mishandling is so high. Thankfully every heavy scenario is text-based, with no explicit drawings of nudity or violence. Although many, many terrible things happen, Echo is not interested in being misery or torture porn. It is a horror game with purpose.

For the different types of horror in Echo to work, it invests heavily in presenting the realities of its setting and cast. Fear comes both with familiarity of your neighbors and doubt in that same familiarity. Being lost alone on a road at night can be scary, but sometimes recognizing the trailer of the local crack dealer is scarier. Discrimination exists for gay characters, Mormons, immigrants, indiginous peoples, differing levels of wealth and education (and species, too, but not in a way that directly correlates to any of the other prejudices. I like that! Get owned, Zootopia). There’s an awareness of psychology and sociology in the writing more than saying a character “has anxiety” or a certain ancestry, with authentic dramatization given to its characters’ intersectionality.

Echo understands monsters are not made in a vacuum. It understands the lack of economic prospects, the lack of law enforcement, the lack of community that lead people to destructive tendencies. Stupidity, ignorance, curiosity, fear, trauma - these combine to make forms of evil that are real and palpable. The most heinous actions in Echo are committed by people. They’re unaware or uncaring of the trauma they cause to others, compartmentalizing or justifying what they do. The real horror is how, left undetected, without a goal, and without avarice, vices can continue and escalate. Just doing what comes naturally, when unchecked, warps someone’s sense of reality to reach equilibrium with the environment around them, striking the balance of perpetuating evils without attracting attention. Not out of shame or fear, but the base desire to be left well enough alone.

(Please don’t misunderstand, Echo is not so quaint as to say “what if people were the real monsters all along?” We have genuine spooks. I’m too old and dead inside to be scared of ghosts, but for a week after I finished the game, every night after I was in bed and turned off the lights, I saw one of the spooks from this game. My brain associated it with darkness that strongly. So, uh, take that as my spoiler free review of the supernatural horrors this game contains. If I were a teen I would 100% have not finished this game nor slept for a month.)

I also don’t want to misrepresent Echo as being all horror all the time. Echo’s horror works because its characters feel real. They’re funny. They’re lame. They have sex for bad reasons and have instant regret. There are no paragons of virtue. Their relationships suck.

I don’t like these characters. I don’t love these characters. I would not want to be friends with any of them. But I know these characters. I understand them. For some of them, my familiarity borders on contempt or disgust.

But after finishing the game, I miss them. I miss them in the way all good fiction makes you miss watching people make life-defining decisions and fight for lasting change. I miss the constant revelations both mundane and profound. I miss the feeling you are witnessing the most important moments of someone’s life, regardless if it ends in tragedy.

I felt something different after each of the five stories. One sent me into the limbo of wanting to cry. Not as in, I felt close to crying. Far from it. It was that rare feeling where your emotions are intense and inscrutable, and you long for the simplicity of emotional understanding, the catharsis that comes from crying. But what you feel is complex and hidden, making you feel a stranger to yourself. It was only after ruminating on everything from all five stories that I distilled what Echo is about.

Echo grasps at the face of evil because it posits an asymmetry of our imperfect world: that the opposite of evil isn’t goodness, or happiness, but meaning. That moving away from evil looks like becoming a slightly less broken version of ourselves, even if the process makes us sadder. Echo captures that sense of longing and sorrow for thinking about what could have been. Not in a rosy sense, centered around nostalgia, but the pain that comes from recognizing too late how an environment has been suffocating you. Or tasting what it feels like to be properly nurtured after years of ignorance of your own neglect. And the fear that comes from realizing you have outgrown all your comforts, and everyone you ever loved in your life, leaving you stranded and clueless on how to rely on yourself.

The horrors in Echo, while effective, are background to framing the concept that even if everything you see is fake, the emotions you have are real. It doesn’t matter if the danger was imagined. It doesn’t matter if the monsters we fear in the dark are real. The shared experiences with others, and what you learn about each other in times of crisis, what you learn about yourself, is the reality that matters. As such, the endings all felt satisfying even if, on paper, so much was left unexplained. Because knowing what went bump in the night does not matter as much as the friends who came to your aid, the regret you feel over your inactions, or the resolve cultivated within yourself. After a certain threshold of loss and pain, you don’t care about knowing why they happened. You have to deal with the logistics of those wounds, regardless of whether they scar or heal.

I miraculously got all the “good” endings in every route with good and bad endings. Going back to replay some of the choices that lead to “bad” endings solidified for me how the game was enforcing its messages. The choices that tempt you away from the “good” endings are ones that let you cheat yourself, where you seek happiness or convenience over doing what is right. The “good” endings are often still filled with tragedy. But the characters might have truth, self-knowledge, or fewer regrets than if you chose differently.

In my rating system, I reserve 5/5 stars for the pinnacle of the medium. At the time of this review, it is the 13th game I’ve awarded this honor. It is not flawless, but for a game released for free, why even bother saying so. It took me many agonizing days writing this review, and I felt very much like Anton Ego in my internal struggle to admit I could not give this game less than full marks. Which I also internally found very funny since I have like 5 followers and am not the most respected critic in France lmao

For me, Echo is a new type of game, and as said by Anton, it needs defenders and friends. I went in expecting to bounce at some weird gay furry cringe, and instead cringed because it was more human and relatable than most games I’ve played. I had no idea furry-ness had reached such organization in creative endeavors as to create entire games, much less that this is one of among an entire “furry visual novel” sub-genre. (There are hundreds of projects like this one! Who knew?) I’m truly fascinated by the concept of games being funded on patreon over the course of years, released for free after they’re completed. Art completely unbeholden to any form of external review, profit motive, or timetable. Games that are built with and influenced by their supportive community. It’s a model that feels so radical as to be non-functional, yet this single proof of concept is enough to rekindle my imagination for the future of the medium.

Fallout: New Vegas is one of my favourite games of all time and I truly believe - one of the best games ever made. I say this whilst being acutely aware of its very obvious flaws. It's not a nice looking game at all, even for 2010. It's riddled with glitches and bugs that can cause extremely unnecessary deaths or even set you back an hour or so of progress, and the game has about 6 voice actors.

And yet...None of that matters at all in the face of storytelling and core gameplay as good as this. New Vegas's main story is one of the most unique and engaging I've ever experienced in a videogame. A breadcrumb trail of clues alluding to the game's central mystery is laid out to you from the very start and information is slowly dripfed to you with such masterful pacing that you're always satisfied with what you've learnt, but never entirely out of questions. You'll have questions right up until the end of the game, but fear not - they'll all be explained and they'll all make perfect, beautiful sense.

The characters and dialogue in this game are fascinating, and as an adolescent growing up and playing for the first time they genuinely taught me a lot. Mr. House educated me about the concept of autocracy, Caesar makes an earnestly compelling case for dictatorship as the ruling form of government in a post-nuclear war wasteland. I would quite literally rather listen to these characters talk than many of my real life family members! I would pay good money just to have new voice lines for characters such as these added to this game.

That's the thing about New Vegas, it has a culture in its writing that other Fallout games don't. Where games like Fallout 3 and 4 largely tread the same ground talking about survival and patriotism with the occasional interesting little nugget thrown in here and there, New Vegas dives into politics, history, psychology and so many other topics and almost always surfaces with something interesting to say, or even teach. Even the most insignificant of NPCs in this game might just say something that sticks with you for a long time, and while the game never forces you to - it encourages you to talk to everyone with writing of this calibre.

And as far as gameplay is concerned, New Vegas may seem like just an average-at-best shooter on the surface, but as a role-playing game? It nails everything. Think of so many recurring mechanics throughout the Fallout games and by extension - most Western RPGs, I promise you, Fallout: New Vegas quietly has some of the absolute best iterations of any of them. New Vegas ditches Fallout 3's awful % based skill checks and "good/bad" karma system for far more clean-cut "do you have this stat at this number" skill checks and a "reputation" system with each of the game's many fascinating factions that makes you far less limited in your role-playing than "am I a bad guy or am I a good guy?"

Because of this far more nuanced way of handling morality, you can role-play as - get this, a complex character with complex motivations! New Vegas gives you so many tools to be so many different kinds of character - you'd be surprised at how much the game is willing to let you commit to being a cannibal! Maybe you're a fucking idiot? New Vegas has got you covered! By giving you exceptionally stupid dialogue options specifically for when you catastrophically fail an Intelligence check, New Vegas not only lets you lean into role-playing, but it also makes failure fun! Something else that Fallout 3 and 4 practically never achieve.

On top of all of this New Vegas is a great open-world game. None of this half-hour intro nonsense that Bethesda RPGs put you through. Within 10 minutes of starting a new file you can have been given the setup, built your character and BAM, you're out in the world ready to do what you want. Pursue the main quest if you wish, but the world isn't at stake! It's not engineered to feel super urgent like so many other open-world games of its kind and so you can feel very valid to just be having fun out in the badlands. One of New Vegas's most important locations is a tall, glowing tower, shining a light that can be seen from almost anywhere in the game world and - particularly when you're out in the desert at night, beckons to you like a siren calling for a sailor. When playing this game, this and so many of the game's other monolithic landmarks filled me with a sense of wonder that I wouldn't feel for another 7 years, when Breath of the Wild came out.

Fallout: New Vegas was developed over the course of 18 months. This explains the repeating character models, often unsightly textures and litany of bugs. It doesn't explain how it's such a fucking masterpiece. Obsidian made this one Fallout game in 18 months and it absolutely blows anything Bethesda have ever done out of the water. New Vegas is funny, dramatic, tragic and insightful. I'm sorry, but if you truly think 3 or 4 are superior experiences to this, I have to seriously question your taste. After over 10 years of playing this game for the first time, nothing has yet topped it for me.

If you've never played it before, you owe it to yourself to do so. Let yourself experience it all for the first time spoiler-free. Just, do yourself a favour and pick "Wild Wasteland" as one of your starting perks. You'll thank me later.

Night in the Woods is one of those games where the gameplay elements are kind of sparse and lacking, really where only so much of it is a rudimentary platform game where you walk over from one place to the other and that's it. But then so much of the appeal of this game is heavily dependent upon its story, atmosphere and visuals - and I genuinely liked what this game managed to achieve, which is basically this long story about anthropomorphic animals in their early 20s engaging in self-destructive behaviour and revisiting past traumas.

Really, there's so much of this game which has a heavily spooky atmosphere - but then there's also a genuine warmth to it all, and the rest of the game has this small-town vibe and mostly takes up a story as a late coming-of-age type situation where everything in the world appears to change when you're not prepared for it and being swept up off your feet.

It sounds strange but oddly it works, at equal parts this game is as funny and warm as it is genuinely creepy and unnerving at points - especially with certain segments where things don't appear to be normal, but then there's a surprising amount of grounding to it. Even with the sparse gameplay elements, I feel as though this is something where it's dependent upon discovering things on your own and about being completely immersed in this strange anxiety-ridden atmosphere - which I feel wouldn't have been achieved if this were a movie or a comic book and so on. Really, this is especially prevalent in certain segments where it wants you to experience this loss of control (notably with the presentation of a panic attack scenario where every dialogue choice you make only compounds upon the problem to begin with.)

I feel that there's so much here which would also be easy to identify with, but also that there's so much here which takes a deep but necessary plunge into darkness - especially with how it illustrates all of the underlying problems surrounding the troubled main character Mae. It definitely plunges towards something different towards the end, but then it also strangely works with this metaphor of just being completely weary about the world at large.

What can I say? This game had an effect on me alright.