okay so we take the first game, right?
and we add... required combat arenas.
and open ended level design that just feels like shit
with none of the interesting characters of Spider-Man since we blew em all in the first game
Oh, and 90% of the bosses and story are almost one-to-one from the first game, just with different names.
Also no one gives a shit about Electro! Die!!
...really cute credit sequence tho. ups for that.

When your wheels touched concrete in the summer of 1999, you were sure nothing would ever compare to this. Propelled downhill, less by gravity but more by the venerated asphalt spirit, skaters far and wide convened here, a jam to end all jams. While you were happy doing everything you could, holding on to what you were, you couldn’t help but stare skyward at the street zephyrs soaring suspended; They careened through the air, making waxed wood and molded metal both their playthings. As you crashed down to the soul-shattering gravel, face bloodied and back broken, you could only wonder how they ascended from simple skaterdom, piercing the heavens of the board.
It took a year of shattered bones and busted lines to reclaim those halcyon days. A year of spilt blood and scattered teeth, splintered wood and worn polyurethane. It all felt like a dream then, placing bronze out in Roswell, but the age of simple skating had come and gone. You perfected flatland balance, dual-wheel worship at the altar of Mullen, but even perfection wasn’t enough for elusive gold; the Bullring by the Sea didn’t just cost you your metal, it cost you years of knowing you weren't good enough.
So now we’re here. Somehow, another year felt like two decade’s separation; Gone was the California sun, the first to die in the American Wasteland. A nation of Sparrows and Jackasses, failed projects and unproven theories, crept under wheel, biting at the ankles of the past. The spirit of yesterday was buried underground, leaving today to mourn in remembrance.
Well, maybe for some. The only angels you prayed to struck gold, immortalized in sharp vertexes and warped textures. They would be memorialized not in the world’s destruction, but in a final tour, eight stops; a send-off of olden days.
You forged your craft, refining your spark-casting perfection on the rails of automation, before skating to the north. Calgary’s frost-bitten hospitality was the first real test, but as if guided by Hawk’s holy hand, the snowy providence of Alberta bowed down, hailing 900s and McTwists like the second coming. For the first time in decades, a smile spreads across your face, your cheeks still rosy-red from the icy air…
You blink, and awaken to a crowd cheering your name. Looking down on the masses, faces revered and reviled stare back; Muska, Campbell, Reynolds and Margera. You glance around for Burnquist, hoping to celebrate with the hometown hero, but the master is missing in action. Somehow, you were sure you’d be able to show off this gold to him somewhere down the line.
It repeats, on and on: Suburbia becomes New Jersey, the Airport becomes a Mall. Twenty years made it all blend together. Even now, your second gold medal in hand, it barely feels like you’re awake. When those wheels roll, maple boards of a bygone age, time disappears, rendered in heelflips and darkslides. The pomp and circumstance of it all becomes an excuse, more than anything. In your immortalized element, the past is as real as you remember it.
The final jam beckons; neo-chrome Tokyo glistens, welcoming only the best of the best. The competition rages on, dreams dashed in fractured bones and dislocations. No matter what you do, face-to-face with your idols, no, your contemporaries, there's no break, no chance to cover lost ground. Rivals dwindle as career-ending injuries take one after another, but the legendary Birdman flies past.
Seconds are left in the last heat; only a miracle will change the course of destiny. You think to the future, to the final 900 and the first 1260. As if coming free from its wheels, the board possesses you one last time, as you pivot hard on impact, momentum propelling you into the cosmos.
180. 360. 540.
Tony looks skyward, the same shine that was in your eyes twenty years prior.
Two rotations. The 900. 1080.
Nothing else matters. An amoeba with a mind of its own, an ace of spades, whatever you were and where you come from don't matter. This lone moment, spinning on a golden axis, is what it all comes down to.
Zero seconds. You don't bother looking at the scoreboard; you knew better than to think that's what this is about.
All you were looking for was this lone moment of perfection, a revision of the summer of '99. You wrap your hand tight around your medal - does it even matter what it is? - as you board the plane back to California. Staring out the window, you see the past and future together, a first-hand account of what it's like when worlds collide. You never forget the past, and tomorrow closes in fast, but this single moment is eternal.
All the grand gestures can't ease your wonder. You finally unwrap the medal and take it in.
100% Pure Gold.

What if I told you this is the closest a game has gotten to perfection in vision, and nothing else has come remotely close

Maradona has refused to pay property taxes on his posts, so they have been repossessed by the Greater Backloggd Board.
The post, in its entirety, is as follows, and may not be reproduced without written consent to the Greater Backloggd Board:
Three words:
Elf Bowling.

"None of this world is real. I made you.” Then why don't you make yourself a bitch and leave me alone, goddamn

Justin Roiland On Cusp Of Coming Up With Third Voice

This review contains spoilers

Gobbler awaits you.

Hotted Boobs!
Native American Racism!
All of this and more can be yours in... Super Don Quix-Ote!!

You writhe beneath my skin
Born of ailing flesh and love
My thoughts, consumed by your sorrow.
Waking nightmares plague me, endless
A slow rotting miracle plucked from time,
You are all that I love, everything I fear
And all the entanglement festering between
For want of fair chances,
I stared into your abyss
As I've done for many before
And in return, you tore out my heart,
Impaled my eyes with your scarlet terror
Invaded the privacy of solitude,
And plunged your iron claws into my very soul.
You interrupt my nights.
My days, occupied by you
You are inescapable, yet...
For all your malignance,
Burrowed under flesh
and boiling blood,
I refuse
to let
Signalis bores its hooks into my skull, carving grooves into my brain where my psychoses pool. There’s something to be said for its reliance on the narrative language of anime and survival horror, but whether it’s derivative or iterative is a moot point. These beats that ring familiar are sores that Signalis splits open with a sadist’s pleasure. I could sit here and rattle off references, the obvious calls that permeate the body of the work, but where does that get you? Where does that get any of us, other than a cognizant “if you know you know” stranglehold? The language of Signalis isn’t concerned with simply being “Space Resident Evil”, or “Utena by way of Evangelion”. Much like the doomed Penrose, the referential nature of Signalis is, in itself, a repetitious time loop. It is not a work of references, it is its references.
I bolt awake, and Signalis presses on the nerve center that kick started my love of horror. 2008, in front of a bombed-out Gamecube, Jill Valentine tinkers though a puzzle box called the Spenser mansion. 2022, I bumblefuck through the escape room that is Sierpinski S-23.
Another restless night, another stab into my brain. 2012, my first pangs of personalized gender misanthropy at the hands of Asuka Langley Sohryu and Rei Ayanami, the brilliant shine of sapphic love reflected by Utena and Anthy. A decade later, the hate has faded and its place remains remorse for the past, regret for the now as the signature flashes of light and text flicker, as LSTR-512 and Ariane waltz in their final moments.

Again, interrupted sleep prevails. October, last year, the clattering of keys clicked out a cacophonous rhythm as I parse out a write up for Illbleed, a game that set ablaze the dying candle that was my love for gaming, for horror as a whole. Now, after a global rotation, I return to Signalis in the same spot, a love for writing, for fear, for gaming, for love itself, rekindled after a seasonal stagnation.
To try to put definitive words to Signalis seems contradictory to the way the game is delivered, indirect and symbolic in a way anathemic to thematic deduction. In it, I saw the spark of life relight my passion, and I enacted swift death to the tyrant, critical analysis. I could brandish lofty terms, of this having flawless gameplay, immersive writing, a memorable soundtrack, or any other terms I would gladly throw around about games that I will forget in a week. It’s not perfect. I don’t want it to be perfect: It’s for me. I don’t need it to be anything more than what it means to me, and what it means is that I think I love games again.
I awaken once more from broken sleep.
It’s 2014. I’m sitting with someone who, at the time, was my closest friend. We’re huddled around a laptop deep into the night, burning through works that would come to reflect what matters to me in games.
It’s tonight. I’m on call with someone I love. I’m huddled over a keyboard, burning through a write-up of a work that redefines what matters to me in games.
Play Signalis. You probably won’t get what I got out of it. That’s a good thing; it means there’s going to be something else out there that gives you the same feelings that this gave me. For now, I can push you to try a game I view as my personal perfection.

"Actually, the game is fucking...
But the MUSIC is AMAZING!"


This review contains spoilers

Ah Hell Nah, They Took My Baby Out Of The Machine That Gives The Baby A Concealed Carry Permit And They Put Him Into The Baby Crusher And They Put The Baby Goo Onto My Goo Card So I Can Open The Goo Door With My Baby Goo Goo Card

what if there were monkeys(!) and they said tromBONER and everyone ate hot dogs!!!!11! what if they played music........ badly!!
in the land of the meme game, comedy lives in exile.

The amount of people swinging at this game while having Generic Slice of Life Protagonist #6559 as a pfp says a lot. This is your cohort... your ally... you are no better, yet no lesser...
anyway. the neet girl is cute. that's all this game has to say, it says it Okayly.

I wish I had more to say about this: For as much as I love the look and sound of it, the story just takes me out completely. Never scary enough to really do anything, never wacky enough to be enough on its own... It's a shame, cause what the game does try to do with body horror is actually really fun: you can clearly see J-Horror roots buried deep into this game. But actually playing it just... isn't really all that enjoyable!