I remember I saw a dumb tweet when Smash 4 came out. In a video, a guy was holding the new game in his hand, talking about his excitement to get back into the series. But it's a ruse. He suddenly throws his copy of the game in the trash. All that's visible now is what he was holding under it: a copy of Melee. He says "Ten more years", and that's it. It was a joke, funny because of how obnoxious you'd have to be to believe it, but now it's inevitable.

I was finally able to fall down the Melee hole thanks to Slippi. I have some understanding of the competitive scene, but I'm finally getting my hands dirty. It's the only Smash game that I've never really played. I've loved every one of them so far. I found out, much to my disgust, that the purists and evangelists and snobs were right. This is the good one.

Obviously, I'm playing this online with people that may have actual decades of experience with it. I am getting obliterated out there. Maybe not every single moment is fun, but I don't care. This rules.

The depth is so apparent, even from my perspective. From what I can tell, the best character in most Smash games is apparent in a few months. This game is, what? 20 years old, and the metagame at the highest levels is still very alive. There's apparently still some light debate over the best character. One tutorial and you ask yourself "Wait, they're doing HOW many inputs, just to jump?" and you can see just how much they had to patch over in sequels to keep it Nintendo-friendly. And the debate over how much of this depth was even intended will always be fascinating to me.

A lot of that doesn't concern me, obviously, but even at my level you can still get these little mini-moments of competence that make you feel like a fighting game genius. The first time that I: 1) Did the inputs for a wavedash, 2) correctly, 3) in a game against a human, 4) at a time that made sense, all to 5) transition it into something that gave me an advantage. The first time I comboed a throw into rest (I know, I'm sorry). Presumably, I did an L-cancel correctly once. Who can say for sure though. I mostly just drone on here about RPGs, but no RPG can give you a feeling like that. I know it's a cliche to say, but it's not just numbers getting bigger on a screen (as much as I love seeing numbers get bigger). You, the human, are progressing, not a character, and I'm not sure any other game has made me feel that quite like this one.

Whether I slide into the skid and sign up for some beginner netplay tournaments, or I bounce off of all this in a few weeks or months, I've certainly gotten my zero dollars' worth. I don't think there's ever going to be a game like this ever again. A cute mascot game with 20+ years of gameplay depth hiding in there, resented by its creator, kept alive by a community, even after three attempted replacements by that developer. This might be my favorite fighting game of all time.

Outer Wilds is the only game I can think of where within its first moments, I knew I was in for something very, very special without really understanding why. The title screen is already so inviting, with its gentle acoustic glow fading in over a collage of shimmering stars. The game opens, I wake up on my back, looking up into the sky to see something explode in the distant orbit of a giant, green planet deep in space, and my imagination is immediately captured. I feel an intangible warmth as I speak to my fellow Hearthians and wander our village, a sense of wonder and anticipation as I walk through our peoples' museum, learning about things that I realize I will inevitably have to face or utilize in the adventures ahead. All this before even seeing my ship, let alone blasting off with it into the far reaches of space.

The expectations and tone of Outer Wilds are set up pitch perfectly in this opening. On the whole, the game captures the innate desire we all have to learn more, to reach out for what's next, even if we have no idea what it is we are searching for or why we seek it. It's the only thing Outer Wilds relies on to lead players forward. There are no objectives or goals, no waypoints to show you where to go next; there only those which you create for yourself. What drives us forward is the need to understand the world(s) around us, or at least attempt to understand. Is there a more human desire than that?

Outer Wilds is a masterpiece for its many balances: of warmth and intimacy with the melancholic loneliness of space; a constant sense of wonder with an equally constant fear of the unknown; its charming, colorful art style with its hard, scientific approach; its reverence for the teachings of both classical and quantum physics; its personal, micro-level character stories set against the fate of the universe. The list goes on. And that's without even mentioning the game's emotional linchpin: Andrew Prahlow's incredible score, a healthy mix of folk, ambient and post-rock that is a delicate tight-wire act in and of itself, managing to capture both the vastness of space and the intimate glow of a campfire without compromise.

Whatever feelings Outer Wilds brought out of me in its opening moments were only further heightened and more deeply understood as I began unraveling the mysteries of its clockwork solar system, spiraling faster and faster towards an ending that left me in awe of everything that came before it and soon yearning for other experiences that could fill the black hole that the game's sudden absence left in place of my heart. Outer Wilds is not only a perfect game, but also one of the medium's purest expressions of its most inspiring possibilities. If only I could breathe out a sigh of relief and wake up on Timber Hearth for the first time again.

its a humbling feeling to find a game that feels bigger than you

i dont even know where to start describing it. at its core, its a game about not understanding. the gameplay revolves around trying in vain to learn about your surroundings - to piece it all together and find a solution to a problem - only to die not because of a lack of trying, but because we just dont have the time.

the beauty of Outer Wilds lies right there. its galaxy is small, yet feels huge and only gets bigger the more you dig. by all means it should feel like a hopeless venture to continue exploring, but its too engaging not to. there is no end goal, and it makes no promises other than the fact you will die.

and the magic is that we did anyway. even if i didnt know what for, i kept exploring its planets to find its secrets. i felt giddiness meeting every character and hearing their stories. i pat myself on the back after solving puzzles once i asked the guy at the starting campfire how to.

Outer Wilds - despite playing as an alien - is a deeply human game. a journey about facing adversity through sheer willpower despite not having all the answers, and knowing youre not alone in that.

i cant do this game a service with my $5 speak and someone else could do a much better job, and thats ok. because like i said, this game - like its setting - is big. theres so much to talk about, yet its message is so precise. its mysteries are so complex, yet so simple in retrospect. games like these remind me how special this industry is, and what kind of art it can produce. Outer Wilds is a profound experience i likely wont forget for a very long time.

The most banal criticism of games of this type is that they're more movies than games. But even granting that (which I don't), is it a good movie or a bad movie?

"TV series" is more apt now, with the ongoing HBO adaptation. 2 very faithful episodes in, we now have a pretty good indication of how well The Last of Us works as a piece of cinema separate from its gameplay. And the answer is very well.

As I said, I don't buy the premise. TLOU's gameplay draws you into its world in a way that a non-interactive medium can't replicate. Still, it can't be dismissed as "just a movie" even if you were so inclined. It's a damn good movie.

My platonic ideal of a video game; an astounding achievement of design and artistry. Every facet of the game is handled with mastodontic reverence and consideration of the game's experiential goals for the player. Unlike any game I've ever experienced, Outer Wilds weaponizes hindsight so strongly that it feels personal, as if completion equates to the denial of pleasures in life you cannot revert to living without; you will evangelize of your own volition to anyone who will listen, just to taste again the sweet condensation of the first-time-playthrough experience vicariously through those you convert. I pity those who have not yet played this game, but I grieve for those of us who have, and won't be able to play it the same way ever again. Outer Wilds is more than just a video game; it's a revelation.