It almost feels silly to call anything else an RPG now that this exists. It's a perfect culmination of the idea of injecting stats and rolls and modifiers into a game that actually lets you play a role, to define who this amnesiac man is and how he relates to the world he inhabits.

And what a world: broken and tragicomic, Revachol comes off at first glance as a bitter satire written by a disillusioned leftist. But the deeper you dive, the more it opens up into something haunting and beautiful in its own right, with even a faint glimmer of hope hidden among the ruins. No people is truly broken, argues Disco Elysium, while they still have hearts to care for one another and arms to link against their oppressors.

In twenty or thirty years, if the world's still around by then, I strongly suspect that Bethesda RPGs will exist in that particular space where those of us who lived through them insist to a skeptical audience of video game history enthusiasts how important they were. "You have to understand," we'll say, "I know they're unbelievably glitchy and they play like a bicycle with hexagonal wheels, but these were huge. EVERYONE played these." For all their flaws, these games defined a particular ideal of gaming experience not so much by what they were as by what they aspired (and inevitably failed) to be.

Of course, New Vegas isn't a Bethesda game. It was developed by Obsidian Entertainment and it has a distinctly different design sensibility. At the same time, it clearly is a Bethesda game: the expectations created by Fallout 3 and the constraints imposed by the engine itself make the moment-to-moment experience of playing much more alike its siblings than it is different. And so it exists in the liminal space of the cover artist, stuck with a song but still given the freedom to put their own spin on it.

New Vegas's spin is grand political struggle. Although other Bethesda games have their obligatory world-altering main quests, none extend so deeply through the vast game world or make it seem so much like a real place where real people are struggling with and against one another to make the best of a bad situation. The way it seeks to breathe life into the Mojave Wasteland is the heart of what sets New Vegas apart. Proper Bethesda games grasp desperately at an ideal of "realism" defined by interactive stuff: in the real world you go anywhere, talk to anyone, and touch anything you see, so the most realistic games must be huge maps littered with stuff you can pick up and people who will talk to you about arrows and knees.

My friend Bret and I call this approach "lumpy realism", after the mountain of discrete objects it engenders. And while New Vegas is beholden to lumpiness, it's mostly a trapping of its ancestry. It's more interested in what I'll call "decisive realism", the promise that the choices you make as a player matter in some deep sense. This is still an ideal whose shortcomings will always show the seams of artificiality, but it's also one that makes space for writing and plotting, the unsung heroes of the RPG genre.

For my money though, the most interesting thing about New Vegas is less what it tries to do and more the negative space left behind by what it doesn't try to do. Because it's less interested in leaving interactive stuff all over the place (and possibly because of development time constraints), it has a number of places that just exist. They're not part of a quest, they don't have lore, they're not meaningfully interactive in any way. They're just spaces and models and textures that exist for you to be near and look at. That's a sort of realism too, even if it's not intentional. After all, even though I could interact with anything in the world, in reality, I usually choose to just take it in.

It's a testament to how much I like Citizen Sleeper that I'm giving it four stars despite having the absolute worst copy-editing I've ever seen in a professionally-released video game. It is strewn with typos, spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, and a thoroughgoing lack of understanding of the typographical conventions of written English. It is embarrassing, particularly in a game whose focal point is its writing.

All that said... it's still a good game. It walks in the footsteps of similar "modular narrative" games like 80 Days and Sunless Skies in using a light resource-management system to drive the player to allocate their time between many different bite-sized threads of plot, creating an individual route through the game's story. This is one of my absolute favorite microgenres but a difficult one to get right, and I'm thrilled with any game that can pull it off competently.

Citizen Sleeper isn't as successful at this as its forebears, though. By the end of the game you have enough resources to do almost everything the game has on offer, and there turn out to be minimal ways that plots can differ from playthrough to playthrough. Starting a new save feels more onerous than exciting, knowing that so much of it will be clicking through the same dialog rather than forging new paths.

I often finish modular narrative games with a sense that the system on which its built still has untapped potential. The calculus of quests taking inputs and producing outputs while clocks tick down cycle after cycle is simple but expressive—it could give rise to such an intricate web of interlocking threads. Is it too much to hope for that, with the groundwork now laid down, another game could be created on top of it... this time with an editing pass?

Agonizingly AAA. Surprisingly racist, even for mainstream Western media. No idea how to motivate a character beyond "my loved one is dead". Bottomless disdain for the player. But damned if they didn't make fighting a robot t-rex pretty fucking sick. The combat is the real selling point, and between setting up traps, capitalizing on weak spots, and carefully choosing skills it made me feel consistently clever.

I can't fathom how embarrassing this must have been to release next to Breath of the Wild though. A game with graphics a full console generation worse than this that nevertheless runs circles around its open world design. Even knowing this was pre-BotW I keep trying to go to spots that look interesting on the map and being crushed when there's nothing there or, worse, it's totally inaccessible.

Although I loved Death Stranding when I played it through on release, I didn't really consider it a contender for my game of the year in The Year of Endless Bangers. I let three years slip by, not even booting it back up on the release of the Director's Cut, before ultimately using my new PS5 as an excuse to transfer the save and bang out a few more deliveries.

So much has changed for me in the intervening three years. Others have written at length about the pandemic and its thematic parallels with the game, so suffice it to say that for me (still largely housebound and isolated, increasingly alienated by the fever-pitch denial of the world at large) being able to enact a world where real people work together to build infrastructure and thereby heal the world has been personally healing in a way I couldn't have imagined in 2019.

My tastes as someone who thinks critically about games have changed as well. Death Stranding's preoccupation with the texture of play—from asking you to viscerally feel the geometry of the ground you walk on to showing painstakingly mocapped cutscenes of every little action in your private room—hits much harder now that I've played through the FromSoft canon which is itself texture-obsessed in a different direction. Coming directly off playing some AAA shlock, I also found myself with a renewed appreciation of this game's dialectic approach to a cinematic aesthetic, with carefully choreographed moments that nevertheless always emphasize play as the distinguishing factor that makes this decidedly not a movie.

I'm setting this down again not because I'm finished with it for good, but because I'm inducting it into the tier of games I intend to return to over and over again. I could happily finish out the DC plots and call it "finished", but what I really want is to create a kind of personal infrastructure I can use to bring myself back to this world, this textural landscape, whenever I need to feel that connection with people that this game so masterfully evokes.

There is a pattern with very few exceptions in the way I experience modular narrative games. The beginning of the game lays out a structure—the game's mechanical thesis—and I begin to understand ways in which that structure can be used to tell brilliant intertwining stories in ways that haven't been possible before. And then, inevitably, as I begin to approach the end of the game, I realize that it will not live up to the promise of its own structures, and however beautifully it weaves its story it will live in the shadow of what could have been.

Pentiment's story is doubtlessly beautiful. It takes a small town in an unglamorized time in history and tells a gripping tale that combines religion, politics, and humanity together as deftly (and with as much research) as any lauded novel of historical fiction. The comparison to Middlemarch is perhaps obvious, but well-earned. And it gives the player ample opportunity to influence characterization without making the protagonist a cipher with no personality of his own.

In the beginning, Pentiment tries to give the player a similar level of control of the narrative with a brilliant structure in which the player is presented with a buffet of choices of what to investigate and who to dine with, but with only a few days to allocate between them so that many paths remain unexplored. Allowing a single playthrough to miss major chunks of content is absolutely necessary for a narrative game to truly be modular, and this structure facilitates that while also presenting the player with a meta-puzzle across multiple playthroughs: learn what each of these events gets you, what information you get or friendships you make, and what is duplicated across different events. Combine this with the player's chosen traits and dialog options opening or closing different paths, and then hide the heart of the game within this web so that only by deeply understanding the town outside the minds of the protagonist—by becoming in a way its protector-saint—can you truly understand its secrets and navigate its innermost channels.

Despite creating a structure in which this is possible, a genuinely inspired combination of Inkle games and dating sims, Pentiment instead lets this structure fall by the wayside to the extent that the last third of the game is almost completely on rails—the player can and probably will see everything the game has to offer at that point, no matter what. Although the narrative is still marvelous it's no longer modular, and it only functions as a game within the scope of a few conversations and the player's trudging between screens.

And, oh, what trudging it is. Although I mourn for its unfulfilled potential and there are increasingly many glitchy moments or unedited lines as the game goes on (the result of a rushed end of production?), the truest deepest flaw of Pentiment is surely the amount of time a dedicated player will simply spend moving from screen to screen. In every hour any part of the map could have a new event or new dialog—but almost none actually do. There are just precisely enough that the player is motivated to check everywhere over and over again, wasting cumulative hours of real human time.

But if Pentiment's mechanics are a little underconsidered and their quality occasionally slapdash, it's still a miracle that it exists at all. I never thought I'd see a AAA studio, a Microsoft subsidiary no less, make something like this that is so openly in conversation with this genre which has for decades been exclusively the territory of indie games (and indeed was rarely a big name there either). I dearly hope that this helps legitimize that space and expands both its popularity and marketability, and I dream as I always have of the day when someone makes a game that truly grasps the potential towards which games like Pentiment extend their hands.

This is my favorite game of all time as well as arguably one of my favorite novels. It's devastatingly beautiful and vitally necessary. The strong influences of the magical realist, southern Gothic, and postmodern literary traditions make it more of a participant in the broader culture than almost any other video game, but at the same time the way it builds up its world and story collaboratively with the player would only be possible in an interactive medium.

Beyond any of its impressive formal qualities, though, the most important thing about KR0 is the way it talks about the real world and the American South in particular. At the same time compassionate and mournful, full of rage and despair and just a few glimmers of hope, it's one of the most honest and vibrant depictions I've seen across any art form of the way America eats itself alive, and the myriad ways people struggle or give in as they're digested.

When I wept at the end of Act V, I wept for the broken dreams of everyone who has been destroyed by America.

A fantastically brutalist game, not in the sense of having angular concrete buildings but in the original sense of showcasing the raw materials with which it's constructed. Automaton Lung wants you to be hyper-aware at every instant that it is a video game, that the world you are seeing is virtual, that the actions you take follow the "explore and collect" script at the heart of so much of the medium.

It doesn't take on the self-defeating preachy tone of some games which seem to say "how dare you engage in such a pursuit." It's no simplistic morality tale. It just wants to revel in what it is, and it wants you to join in as well. All it asks of the player is "see me for what I am."

Everything in the game shows off the materiality of its creation. The icons on the touch screen show off their individual pixels (well larger than anything another game might call a "pixel art style") like a peacock spreading its feathers. The platforming puzzles ask you to familiarize yourself with the fine details of how your model interacts with the models around you. The cramped level geometries clip the camera briefly out of bounds and show the skeleton of the world you're traversing.

Even the total lack of introductory explanation emphasizes the clear truth: you already know what the game wants of you simply because it is a game. You see a colorful cube sending smaller yellow cubes your way, and you know that an enemy is shooting you and you must shoot back or die. You see a small spinning square floating in space, and you know you must touch it to obtain it for some future reward. You find yourself within an architecture and so you must chart its rooms and hallways.

If digital brutalism is its underlying motivator, the architecture of the world is the great triumph of Automaton Lung's moment-to-moment experience. Every area you visit creates its own sense of space with its own distinct mood. They are "levels" in several senses, but they're also rooms and buildings and monuments and cathedrals through which the game guides the player.

The deeper you get in, the clearer it becomes that the chips aren't only collectables, but wordless signposts. Not just "good job", but "check out this view." "Walk through this passage." "You can get here, I promise, and it will be worth it." The raw material of gameplay is turned inward to compel the player to experience the raw material of gamespace. The architecture of the design is as beautiful as the architecture of the world.

Shockingly brilliant and relentlessly at war with itself, you could probably create the perfect Sonic game by taking a list of every design decision Frontiers makes and doing the exact same thing or the exact opposite. It is a game defined by its contradictions. It is a game about going fast; jumping loses all your momentum. It's the first Sonic game whose levels I've enjoyed enough to try optimizing; its challenge times are a joke and it has no way to compare times with others or yourself. It asks you to track a complex web of set pieces through the sky; it has pop-in so bad that most of those set pieces are totally invisible unless you're practically on top of them.

Among a sea of open world games, Sonic Frontiers is one of precious few to deeply innovate on the form. It stridently makes the case that the act of movement through the world can be intrinsic to play rather than a chore to accomplish once and then hide behind fast travel forever after. And once it's given the player just enough time to internalize that lesson, it undercuts itself completely by adding a totally unnecessary fast travel system.

The cyberspace levels (classic self-contained Sonic level design) are layered and engaging—but only if you know how to use the undocumented Magnet Dash technique, wherein you cancel a homing attack into a massive air dash. This trick hits the perfect balance of being doable even by a non-speedrunner like me, totally recontextualizing level designs, and being conditional enough to keep the structure of the level relevant. But while some levels feel like they were designed with it in mind, others will trap you in inaccessible level geometry or totally wreck your camera.

Here's the thing, though: whatever else it may be, Sonic Frontiers is interesting. Some of its choices may be agonizingly conservative or blatantly stupid, true, but many are bold and an impressive number of those end up panning out. It's a AAA game that's messy and outré and occasionally fabulously daring at a time when AAA has come increasingly to mean intense polish and rigid uniformity. That alone is worth celebrating.