frogyfro
This review contains spoilers
If there's one game that perfectly encapsulates the advantage games have over other media, it might just be Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons. It's one thing see a empathize with a protagonist's struggles, witnessing them unfold in a book or a movie. The interactivity of games allows us to make those struggles our own.
There's no way to talk about Brothers without spoiling it, so here goes nothing. In Brothers, you control the two titular sons simultaneously: the left stick and trigger control the older brother, and the right stick and trigger control the younger brother. Several scenes of standard action-adventure unfold until, at the climax of the game, the older brother is mortally wounded, and dies from his injuries.
Now, we play as only the younger brother--left alone in the world. And we perceive this, playing with a stilted one-hand control scheme. The older brother's death is felt by the player, through the now useless left side of the controller.
Until of course, the younger brother reaches a creek he must cross to progress--in spite of his fear of water. You can walk the younger brother to the edge of the water and watch him refuse to enter, as he did throughout the game. Eventually, the player realizes that the younger brother can be encouraged, by pressing in the older brother's trigger. It's undoubtedly an impressive moment.
I found myself, after the older brother's passing, absentmindedly twirling the now lifeless left analog stick. Maybe this was my own form of denial. In it's own way, Brothers allowed me to experience the younger brother's loss along with him.
I think, though, the Brother's downfall is that, this moment of "mechanics as metaphor", as well-designed as it is, is all Brothers has to offer. You can tell Brothers was conceived as a mechanic first, as a game second, and as an story last. About all we really know about the two playable characters is written right there in the title.
The problem with this approach is that, the best metaphor means nothing if the characters it embodies aren't ones we care about. The controls enable us to empathize with the characters, but there is unfortunately nothing there for us to latch onto. Playing Brothers, I was emotionally moved, but because I thought back to my own experiences with loss, not the specific example Brothers actually depicts.
I said at the start that Brothers is the game most emblematic of what games as a medium can do that books and film cannot. But, Brothers falls short of actually putting its own concepts into action. Cereza and the Lost Demon is a game that probably took inspiration from Brothers. We control two characters simultaneously: the witch Cereza and the demon Cheshire. There is actually a similar moment to Brother's twist too: Cereza and Cheshire have an argument, leading to the two splitting up briefly. Playing with only one hand, we can feel Cheshire's absence.
There is no doubt Brothers did this concept better than Cereza and the Lost Demon. But it is the latter game that caused me more emotional resonance, simply because I actually cared about Cheshire, and I did not care about the older brother.
Brothers is undoubtedly a landmark title in our medium, but equally it is a cautionary tale. Brothers' commitment to its concept is admirable--but in doing so it loses sight of what really makes art matter.
There's no way to talk about Brothers without spoiling it, so here goes nothing. In Brothers, you control the two titular sons simultaneously: the left stick and trigger control the older brother, and the right stick and trigger control the younger brother. Several scenes of standard action-adventure unfold until, at the climax of the game, the older brother is mortally wounded, and dies from his injuries.
Now, we play as only the younger brother--left alone in the world. And we perceive this, playing with a stilted one-hand control scheme. The older brother's death is felt by the player, through the now useless left side of the controller.
Until of course, the younger brother reaches a creek he must cross to progress--in spite of his fear of water. You can walk the younger brother to the edge of the water and watch him refuse to enter, as he did throughout the game. Eventually, the player realizes that the younger brother can be encouraged, by pressing in the older brother's trigger. It's undoubtedly an impressive moment.
I found myself, after the older brother's passing, absentmindedly twirling the now lifeless left analog stick. Maybe this was my own form of denial. In it's own way, Brothers allowed me to experience the younger brother's loss along with him.
I think, though, the Brother's downfall is that, this moment of "mechanics as metaphor", as well-designed as it is, is all Brothers has to offer. You can tell Brothers was conceived as a mechanic first, as a game second, and as an story last. About all we really know about the two playable characters is written right there in the title.
The problem with this approach is that, the best metaphor means nothing if the characters it embodies aren't ones we care about. The controls enable us to empathize with the characters, but there is unfortunately nothing there for us to latch onto. Playing Brothers, I was emotionally moved, but because I thought back to my own experiences with loss, not the specific example Brothers actually depicts.
I said at the start that Brothers is the game most emblematic of what games as a medium can do that books and film cannot. But, Brothers falls short of actually putting its own concepts into action. Cereza and the Lost Demon is a game that probably took inspiration from Brothers. We control two characters simultaneously: the witch Cereza and the demon Cheshire. There is actually a similar moment to Brother's twist too: Cereza and Cheshire have an argument, leading to the two splitting up briefly. Playing with only one hand, we can feel Cheshire's absence.
There is no doubt Brothers did this concept better than Cereza and the Lost Demon. But it is the latter game that caused me more emotional resonance, simply because I actually cared about Cheshire, and I did not care about the older brother.
Brothers is undoubtedly a landmark title in our medium, but equally it is a cautionary tale. Brothers' commitment to its concept is admirable--but in doing so it loses sight of what really makes art matter.
The shift from 2D to 3D games was the biggest change the video games industry has ever seen (and possibly will ever see). Decades of established design needed to be rethought. It's not surprising this era brought with it major changes to the players in the industry: The birth of Sony and the death of Sega can at least partially be attributed to the PS1's strong lineup of early 3D classics, and Sega's haphazard translation of Sonic to 3D.
The point is, a huge part of why Nintendo maintained their presence in the industry is because of just how good Nintendo's early 3D titles were. Super Mario 64 and Ocarina of Time are more than just great games--they are so good, they made the transition to 3D look effortless.
This is why Kirby 64 is so fascinating. Kirby 64 is the only example of Nintendo seriously dropping the ball on the shift to 3D. Kirby 64 is more than just a mediocre game for the Nintendo 64. It gives us a view into an alternate timeline, one where Nintendo fumbled the transition to 3D games, and maybe even went the way of Sega.
It's especially surprising Kirby 64 is such a flop because... well... the game is hardly 3D. Kirby 64 is a 2.5D platformer. The game is rendered in full 3D, but the player's movement is restricted to a 2D axis. This ends up being the worst of both worlds. Kirby 64 gains almost nothing by presenting the player a 3D view. But, since rendering 3D environments is so graphically intensive, the dense levels of Kirby Superstar are not technically possible. The result is that Kirby 64's levels are barren wastelands compared to older Kirby games.
The combo transformations are actually a great concept. Kirby 64 has 35 different copy abilities, still the largest pool of any Kirby game to date. These are really fun to discover and experiment with: the resulting combination is always surprising, yet still makes perfect sense considering the reagents. Spark + Ice turning Kirby into a fridge is particularly memorable. Honestly, its amazing the execution of this concept is so strong, considering the rest of the game is such a slog.
This said, the level design seriously drops the ball on this concept. A great example of emergent design is the lightbulb power (bomb + spark) which can light up dark rooms. This is how Kirby 64's puzzles should have worked. Instead, most of the actual use of these copy abilities stems from colored blocks that require specific abilities to break. Not only is this a glorified lock-and-key, but it is completely impossible to know what power will be needed until the player reaches the block and it is already too late. This means that, if you want to actually collect the titular Crystal Shards, you're forced to play every stage twice. The stages usually aren't even fun the first time.
Anyway, Kirby 64 isn't all bad, but it seems to misunderstand what makes a 3D game great, and what makes a Kirby game great. In short, Kirby 64 isn't a horrible game, but it is no surprise Nintendo would wait another 20 odd years before attempting another 3D Kirby.
The point is, a huge part of why Nintendo maintained their presence in the industry is because of just how good Nintendo's early 3D titles were. Super Mario 64 and Ocarina of Time are more than just great games--they are so good, they made the transition to 3D look effortless.
This is why Kirby 64 is so fascinating. Kirby 64 is the only example of Nintendo seriously dropping the ball on the shift to 3D. Kirby 64 is more than just a mediocre game for the Nintendo 64. It gives us a view into an alternate timeline, one where Nintendo fumbled the transition to 3D games, and maybe even went the way of Sega.
It's especially surprising Kirby 64 is such a flop because... well... the game is hardly 3D. Kirby 64 is a 2.5D platformer. The game is rendered in full 3D, but the player's movement is restricted to a 2D axis. This ends up being the worst of both worlds. Kirby 64 gains almost nothing by presenting the player a 3D view. But, since rendering 3D environments is so graphically intensive, the dense levels of Kirby Superstar are not technically possible. The result is that Kirby 64's levels are barren wastelands compared to older Kirby games.
The combo transformations are actually a great concept. Kirby 64 has 35 different copy abilities, still the largest pool of any Kirby game to date. These are really fun to discover and experiment with: the resulting combination is always surprising, yet still makes perfect sense considering the reagents. Spark + Ice turning Kirby into a fridge is particularly memorable. Honestly, its amazing the execution of this concept is so strong, considering the rest of the game is such a slog.
This said, the level design seriously drops the ball on this concept. A great example of emergent design is the lightbulb power (bomb + spark) which can light up dark rooms. This is how Kirby 64's puzzles should have worked. Instead, most of the actual use of these copy abilities stems from colored blocks that require specific abilities to break. Not only is this a glorified lock-and-key, but it is completely impossible to know what power will be needed until the player reaches the block and it is already too late. This means that, if you want to actually collect the titular Crystal Shards, you're forced to play every stage twice. The stages usually aren't even fun the first time.
Anyway, Kirby 64 isn't all bad, but it seems to misunderstand what makes a 3D game great, and what makes a Kirby game great. In short, Kirby 64 isn't a horrible game, but it is no surprise Nintendo would wait another 20 odd years before attempting another 3D Kirby.
2013
There's one truly inspired moment in Anodyne. I won't spoil it here, but it has to do with a context-sensitive action surprising the player with an unexpected outcome. I play games for moments like this: that catch me off guard and enlighten my understanding of game design. Overall, I feel pretty mixed on Anodyne, so I thought it best to start with the positive. Of every game I've rated below 2.5 stars, Anodyne is the one I'm most glad to have played, purely because of its willingness to surprise.
That said, Anodyne's downfall stems from how plain its inspirations are. Anodyne is Zelda meets Yume Nikki. This isn't necessarily a problem: Zelda and Yume Nikki are among the most influential, especially for indie games. The problem is, taking so much from such landmark titles invites a comparison that is seldom favorable.
Much like Zelda, Anodyne is a top down dungeon crawler. Anodyne's main innovation is using a Broom as a weapon: it functions much like a sword, but it has the added ability to pick up and place down dust. Unlike Zelda, there are no dungeon items, and few upgrades to speak of: every dungeon is designed entirely around the Broom. There are a few interesting puzzle solving applications of the broom: you can use dust to swim across water, or to block projectiles, or to power moving platforms. This central mechanic isn't horribly shallow, but it definitely lacks enough depth to support 6 dungeons. The result is, in spite of its short length, Anodyne feels quite repetitive, and easily wears out its welcome.
Much like Yume Nikki, Anodyne is an exploration-focused game taking place in the protagonists subconscious. Though I think Anodyne is a decent Zelda-like game, I really feel like it misses the mark on this front. Yume Nikki is gripping not just because of the surreal imagery, but because said imagery communicates something about the protagonist. Yume Nikki has a section that switches to an 8-bit art style--but this makes perfect sense considering Madotsuki owns a Famicom in the real world.
Anodyne also has a sudden 8bit section. But, what does this tell us about our protagonist, Young? Not much. After the 8-bit area, Anodyne drops all pretense and shoves the player into a Circus-themed dungeon for seemingly no reason.
Overall, Anodyne's setting captures all of the weaknesses of dreamlike settings, and none of the strengths. Anodyne feels incredibly lazy: It doesn't want to put in the work to establish a consistent setting, nor does it put effort into making its surreal imagery symbolically resonant like Yume Nikki does.
Ultimately, Anodyne blindly copies from Zelda and Yume Nikki, while embodying none of the lessons those games actually taught. It's not horrible, but its a long way from greatness.
That said, Anodyne's downfall stems from how plain its inspirations are. Anodyne is Zelda meets Yume Nikki. This isn't necessarily a problem: Zelda and Yume Nikki are among the most influential, especially for indie games. The problem is, taking so much from such landmark titles invites a comparison that is seldom favorable.
Much like Zelda, Anodyne is a top down dungeon crawler. Anodyne's main innovation is using a Broom as a weapon: it functions much like a sword, but it has the added ability to pick up and place down dust. Unlike Zelda, there are no dungeon items, and few upgrades to speak of: every dungeon is designed entirely around the Broom. There are a few interesting puzzle solving applications of the broom: you can use dust to swim across water, or to block projectiles, or to power moving platforms. This central mechanic isn't horribly shallow, but it definitely lacks enough depth to support 6 dungeons. The result is, in spite of its short length, Anodyne feels quite repetitive, and easily wears out its welcome.
Much like Yume Nikki, Anodyne is an exploration-focused game taking place in the protagonists subconscious. Though I think Anodyne is a decent Zelda-like game, I really feel like it misses the mark on this front. Yume Nikki is gripping not just because of the surreal imagery, but because said imagery communicates something about the protagonist. Yume Nikki has a section that switches to an 8-bit art style--but this makes perfect sense considering Madotsuki owns a Famicom in the real world.
Anodyne also has a sudden 8bit section. But, what does this tell us about our protagonist, Young? Not much. After the 8-bit area, Anodyne drops all pretense and shoves the player into a Circus-themed dungeon for seemingly no reason.
Overall, Anodyne's setting captures all of the weaknesses of dreamlike settings, and none of the strengths. Anodyne feels incredibly lazy: It doesn't want to put in the work to establish a consistent setting, nor does it put effort into making its surreal imagery symbolically resonant like Yume Nikki does.
Ultimately, Anodyne blindly copies from Zelda and Yume Nikki, while embodying none of the lessons those games actually taught. It's not horrible, but its a long way from greatness.
2012
For a game that garnered impossible levels of critical acclaim, I have surprisingly little to say about Journey. Journey is a game. You play as this red dude that jumps on things. It looks really pretty. The sand mechanics are impressive. I thought the flying was fun.
My review of Journey sounds like a bulleted list because Journey itself is a checklist of Good Game Design™, for better or for worse. "Good games show, not tell their stories." And so, Journey is a wordless game. "Good Games use gameplay to enhance the player's experience." And so, Journey's gameplay heightens our protagonist's highs and lows. "Good Games present the player with polished and professional art and music" And so, Journey is unbelievably polished. Journey is the closest a game has ever come to being objectively good. Pick the aphorism of your choice, and odds are, Journey already puts it into practice.
This polished design is Journey's greatest strength... but also its greatest weakness. Journey is a great game on paper, but it almost feels more concerned with being a great game on paper than being a great game.
What's missing from Journey is hard to quantify. It's not soul: I have to admit Journey has that in spades. No, whats missing is subtler. It's missing risk. Every single aspect of Journey is so carefully made it is impossible to find fault. And yet, as a result, Journey lacks a certain boldness that is the defining quality of the games I truly love. It's fitting that Journey is modeled after the Hero's Journey--a trope so old it literally originated in the first book ever written.
Metal Gear Solid massively overuses dialogue. OFF's core gameplay is essentially an afterthought. Stephen's Sausage Roll is maybe the ugliest game I've ever played. And yet, Journey isn't half the game these are.
This probably comes across as a negative review. Actually, I really enjoyed playing Journey. I easily recommend it; it's so absurdly refined it's impossible not to. Journey is short, poignant, and beautiful. But, it's not my favorite game. And it probably isn't yours either.
My review of Journey sounds like a bulleted list because Journey itself is a checklist of Good Game Design™, for better or for worse. "Good games show, not tell their stories." And so, Journey is a wordless game. "Good Games use gameplay to enhance the player's experience." And so, Journey's gameplay heightens our protagonist's highs and lows. "Good Games present the player with polished and professional art and music" And so, Journey is unbelievably polished. Journey is the closest a game has ever come to being objectively good. Pick the aphorism of your choice, and odds are, Journey already puts it into practice.
This polished design is Journey's greatest strength... but also its greatest weakness. Journey is a great game on paper, but it almost feels more concerned with being a great game on paper than being a great game.
What's missing from Journey is hard to quantify. It's not soul: I have to admit Journey has that in spades. No, whats missing is subtler. It's missing risk. Every single aspect of Journey is so carefully made it is impossible to find fault. And yet, as a result, Journey lacks a certain boldness that is the defining quality of the games I truly love. It's fitting that Journey is modeled after the Hero's Journey--a trope so old it literally originated in the first book ever written.
Metal Gear Solid massively overuses dialogue. OFF's core gameplay is essentially an afterthought. Stephen's Sausage Roll is maybe the ugliest game I've ever played. And yet, Journey isn't half the game these are.
This probably comes across as a negative review. Actually, I really enjoyed playing Journey. I easily recommend it; it's so absurdly refined it's impossible not to. Journey is short, poignant, and beautiful. But, it's not my favorite game. And it probably isn't yours either.
1998
There is nothing harder than attempting to follow in the footsteps of a revolutionary masterpiece like Super Mario 64. And yet, no studio in the world was better equipped than Rare--after all, they completed this herculean task once before.
In a lot of ways, Banjo-Kazooie did for 3D platformers exactly what Donkey Kong Country did for 2D platformers. Much like how the Donkey Kong Country games solidified the baseline established by the early Mario titles, Banjo-Kazooie made great strides for the 3D platformer genre. No one can doubt Mario 64's influence, but much of the tropes of platformers of the time stemmed from Banjo-Kazooie, not Mario.
It's worth praising the work that went into bringing the stages of Banjo-Kazooie to life. Gruntilda's Lair dwarfs Peach's Castle, featuring far more puzzles and secrets. Banjo Kazooie's stages are filled with colorful characters and surprisingly solid writing. The texture work is absolutely phenomenal--Banjo-Kazooie looks better than anything on the N64 has a right to. And, last but not least, there is the absolutely legendary soundtrack. Praising the soundtrack is done to death at this point, but more understated, however, is the impeccable crossfading.
It's hard not to consider Banjo-Kazooie a massive success, and don't get me wrong, it is. But, all the same, I find myself preferring Super Mario 64. Banjo-Kazooie's huge scope is impressive, but I can't help but feel it distracts from the actual point of a 3D platformer: the platforming. It's telling that Banjo-Kazooie's most frustrating and least enjoyable moments (like the fan room in Rusty Bucket Bay) are the ones that lean more heavily into actual platforming. Mario 64 has, still, the best movement system of any 3D platformer ever. In comparison, Banjo-Kazooie's platforming is a bit passé.
I almost think Banjo-Kazooie has been put into the wrong genre. The things Banjo-Kazooie is remembered by are the zany challenges (like the Furnace Fun Quiz), the transformations, the characters, the evolving worlds, the music; not the platforming. Banjo-Kazooie is a great game, but I'm not actually convinced it's a great platformer. This, honestly, almost doesn't matter though. Banjo-Kazooie is by no means conflicted: it knows what its strengths are, and it chooses wisely to make those strengths the focus.
Banjo-Kazooie stands on the shoulders of giants. It may not eclipse its predecessors in the way Donkey Kong Country did, but what Banjo-Kazooie did achieve is remarkable all the same.
In a lot of ways, Banjo-Kazooie did for 3D platformers exactly what Donkey Kong Country did for 2D platformers. Much like how the Donkey Kong Country games solidified the baseline established by the early Mario titles, Banjo-Kazooie made great strides for the 3D platformer genre. No one can doubt Mario 64's influence, but much of the tropes of platformers of the time stemmed from Banjo-Kazooie, not Mario.
It's worth praising the work that went into bringing the stages of Banjo-Kazooie to life. Gruntilda's Lair dwarfs Peach's Castle, featuring far more puzzles and secrets. Banjo Kazooie's stages are filled with colorful characters and surprisingly solid writing. The texture work is absolutely phenomenal--Banjo-Kazooie looks better than anything on the N64 has a right to. And, last but not least, there is the absolutely legendary soundtrack. Praising the soundtrack is done to death at this point, but more understated, however, is the impeccable crossfading.
It's hard not to consider Banjo-Kazooie a massive success, and don't get me wrong, it is. But, all the same, I find myself preferring Super Mario 64. Banjo-Kazooie's huge scope is impressive, but I can't help but feel it distracts from the actual point of a 3D platformer: the platforming. It's telling that Banjo-Kazooie's most frustrating and least enjoyable moments (like the fan room in Rusty Bucket Bay) are the ones that lean more heavily into actual platforming. Mario 64 has, still, the best movement system of any 3D platformer ever. In comparison, Banjo-Kazooie's platforming is a bit passé.
I almost think Banjo-Kazooie has been put into the wrong genre. The things Banjo-Kazooie is remembered by are the zany challenges (like the Furnace Fun Quiz), the transformations, the characters, the evolving worlds, the music; not the platforming. Banjo-Kazooie is a great game, but I'm not actually convinced it's a great platformer. This, honestly, almost doesn't matter though. Banjo-Kazooie is by no means conflicted: it knows what its strengths are, and it chooses wisely to make those strengths the focus.
Banjo-Kazooie stands on the shoulders of giants. It may not eclipse its predecessors in the way Donkey Kong Country did, but what Banjo-Kazooie did achieve is remarkable all the same.
2002
This review contains spoilers
Sunshine is a game I feel incredibly conflicted on. Mario 64 is an incredible game, but you really feel the N64's limited resources hold the game back. A follow up to Mario 64 on more powerful hardware had the potential to be the best game ever.
In some respects, Sunshine delivered. Mario 64 already had an incredible movement system, and yet with FLUDD Sunshine delivers an excellent followup. Giving Mario a jetpack is exactly as amazing as it sounds.
Likewise, Delfino Plaza feels like a natural evolution of Peach's Castle. Mario 64 stood out from the SNES Mario titles by contextualizing the levels as part of a greater world. Sunshine takes this much further: Delfino Island is a great setting that feels incredibly real, especially for a Gamecube game. The way you can see other stages in the distance is a small but extremely important touch in making Delfino Island believable.
The problem is, all of these successes are just window dressing for what really is the core of a platformer: the level design. In this respect Sunshine is far less successful. Sunshine is filled with far too many shines that are, frankly, complete bullshit: the lily pad secret, the pachinko stage, blooper racing to name a few. It's fitting that Sunshine's final moments are spent not platforming, but awkwardly piloting a boat across lava. Sunshine is a mess of gimmicks right to the end.
Other stages suffer from the opposite extreme: many are little more than empty boxes for the player to run around it. Thankfully, these fair much better: they are not great examples of level design, but FLUDD makes even just running around enjoyable.
With so many stages frustrating, and so many others a complete vacuum of content, it's amazing how few truly great stages Sunshine has. Pinna Park is probably the only consistently great level. Other stages still have some excellent shines, but mixed in with some truly terrible ones.
Ultimately, Sunshine isn't a bad game, just a disappointing one. The smooth gameplay FLUDD provides and the relaxed tropical vibe of Delfino Island is enough to make Sunshine a worthwhile experience. It's just a shame knowing Sunshine could have been so much more.
In some respects, Sunshine delivered. Mario 64 already had an incredible movement system, and yet with FLUDD Sunshine delivers an excellent followup. Giving Mario a jetpack is exactly as amazing as it sounds.
Likewise, Delfino Plaza feels like a natural evolution of Peach's Castle. Mario 64 stood out from the SNES Mario titles by contextualizing the levels as part of a greater world. Sunshine takes this much further: Delfino Island is a great setting that feels incredibly real, especially for a Gamecube game. The way you can see other stages in the distance is a small but extremely important touch in making Delfino Island believable.
The problem is, all of these successes are just window dressing for what really is the core of a platformer: the level design. In this respect Sunshine is far less successful. Sunshine is filled with far too many shines that are, frankly, complete bullshit: the lily pad secret, the pachinko stage, blooper racing to name a few. It's fitting that Sunshine's final moments are spent not platforming, but awkwardly piloting a boat across lava. Sunshine is a mess of gimmicks right to the end.
Other stages suffer from the opposite extreme: many are little more than empty boxes for the player to run around it. Thankfully, these fair much better: they are not great examples of level design, but FLUDD makes even just running around enjoyable.
With so many stages frustrating, and so many others a complete vacuum of content, it's amazing how few truly great stages Sunshine has. Pinna Park is probably the only consistently great level. Other stages still have some excellent shines, but mixed in with some truly terrible ones.
Ultimately, Sunshine isn't a bad game, just a disappointing one. The smooth gameplay FLUDD provides and the relaxed tropical vibe of Delfino Island is enough to make Sunshine a worthwhile experience. It's just a shame knowing Sunshine could have been so much more.
An amazing thing about the human experience is our ability to empathize with works of art, despite the fact that art is usually fictional. This phenomenon is the cornerstone of immersion in games, and yet somehow DDLC missed this memo.
DDLC seems at odds with itself. The first half establishes characters and presents the player with their personal struggles. The second half capitalizes on none of this, opting for cheap horror and viral moments over any actual substance. The result is, DDLC is both a shallow work of fiction, and a shallow work of metafiction.
There are plenty of great examples of metafiction in games: Umineko, OneShot, Undertale to name a few. What these games are able to do is present the player with metafiction, while still managing to get the player to care about the world. DDLC tries to contextualize its world as real, and in doing so, it fails to make me care about it
DDLC seems at odds with itself. The first half establishes characters and presents the player with their personal struggles. The second half capitalizes on none of this, opting for cheap horror and viral moments over any actual substance. The result is, DDLC is both a shallow work of fiction, and a shallow work of metafiction.
There are plenty of great examples of metafiction in games: Umineko, OneShot, Undertale to name a few. What these games are able to do is present the player with metafiction, while still managing to get the player to care about the world. DDLC tries to contextualize its world as real, and in doing so, it fails to make me care about it
2019
Superliminal is better the less you think about it. The central mechanic is novel and likely to charm you. The problem is, in Superliminal the central mechanic is all there is.
Superliminal is a puzzle game with only one puzzle. You walk into a room. There is a clear, visible exit very high up. You have to find some small object, use forced perspective to make it really big, and use it as a staircase to reach the exit. I do not exaggerate when I say, this explanation sums up probably 60% of all of the content in Superliminal. It is amazing that, even in the final stretches of the game, Superliminal is still presenting the player with these staircase puzzles. I question if Superliminal has enough depth to even be considered a puzzle game.
Comparing Superliminal to the likes of Antichamber and Manifold Garden makes these flaws stand out. Both are also games that pride themselves on non-Euclidean trickery. And yet, the spacial conundrums of Antichamber and Manifold Garden are propped up by actual puzzles. The other key difference is Antichamber and Manifold Garden better understood restraint. Not every game needs a story. Not every game needs a realistic art style. This is a lesson Superliminal sorely needs: a bad story is far, far worse than no story at all.
In short, its hard to say what the value of Superliminal is. The story is bad, the art is nothing to write home about. Other games have done the trippy geometry far better.
Superliminal does have a pretty novel central mechanic. In fact, that is all it has. Much like the illusions that form it's basis, Superliminal falls apart the second you take a closer look at it
Superliminal is a puzzle game with only one puzzle. You walk into a room. There is a clear, visible exit very high up. You have to find some small object, use forced perspective to make it really big, and use it as a staircase to reach the exit. I do not exaggerate when I say, this explanation sums up probably 60% of all of the content in Superliminal. It is amazing that, even in the final stretches of the game, Superliminal is still presenting the player with these staircase puzzles. I question if Superliminal has enough depth to even be considered a puzzle game.
Comparing Superliminal to the likes of Antichamber and Manifold Garden makes these flaws stand out. Both are also games that pride themselves on non-Euclidean trickery. And yet, the spacial conundrums of Antichamber and Manifold Garden are propped up by actual puzzles. The other key difference is Antichamber and Manifold Garden better understood restraint. Not every game needs a story. Not every game needs a realistic art style. This is a lesson Superliminal sorely needs: a bad story is far, far worse than no story at all.
In short, its hard to say what the value of Superliminal is. The story is bad, the art is nothing to write home about. Other games have done the trippy geometry far better.
Superliminal does have a pretty novel central mechanic. In fact, that is all it has. Much like the illusions that form it's basis, Superliminal falls apart the second you take a closer look at it
2023
I have never played a game more humble than Pizza Tower. The wacky, "so-bad-it's-good" art style certainly suits the insanity this game is. But hiding behind that carefree exterior is some of the greatest level design ever employed in a 2D platformer.
A single ~15 minute stage in Pizza Tower usually presents 3-5 parallel central mechanics, all developed in tandem, all interacting and playing off each other. There's enough ideas in every single stage to prop up an entire world in a traditional platformer. The entire game, I was in awe. By the end of world 2, Pizza Tower had already presented so many unique ideas and surprises I thought it was impossible there was still another 11 stages left.
And yet, the second half is when Pizza Tower really pulls out the stops. A Golf-themed stage. A stealth-oriented stage as a tribute to FNAF. The coolest surprise end to a boss fight I've ever seen. I have to give special mention to Pig City for how it contextualizes every mechanic in two completely different ways. It's impressive enough for an entire game to stand on, and yet Pizza Tower has 18 other levels of comparable quality.
With the high speed, exciting stages, and wacky art, you'll play through Pizza Tower with a smile on your face, riding high off the absurdity. Behind all the excitement, you might not even realize you're playing a masterpiece.
A single ~15 minute stage in Pizza Tower usually presents 3-5 parallel central mechanics, all developed in tandem, all interacting and playing off each other. There's enough ideas in every single stage to prop up an entire world in a traditional platformer. The entire game, I was in awe. By the end of world 2, Pizza Tower had already presented so many unique ideas and surprises I thought it was impossible there was still another 11 stages left.
And yet, the second half is when Pizza Tower really pulls out the stops. A Golf-themed stage. A stealth-oriented stage as a tribute to FNAF. The coolest surprise end to a boss fight I've ever seen. I have to give special mention to Pig City for how it contextualizes every mechanic in two completely different ways. It's impressive enough for an entire game to stand on, and yet Pizza Tower has 18 other levels of comparable quality.
With the high speed, exciting stages, and wacky art, you'll play through Pizza Tower with a smile on your face, riding high off the absurdity. Behind all the excitement, you might not even realize you're playing a masterpiece.