Hands down Sam Barlow's best work so far. Switching from textual to visual searches is a brilliant move in conjunction with a shift in storytelling from the literal to the symbolic, drawing the player's attention over and over again to the images that are shared across the stories. The mechanics themselves blur the line between the sign and its meaning, linking a picture at now to another picture and now to the person the picture depicts, harmonizing with the thematic focus on the dissolving boundary between actor, role, and audience.

Immortality is Lynchian, in the sense that it uses a nexus of symbols and raw emotion to argue that the banal humanity of everyday life affects and reflects the grand arcs of humanity. Although the initially-obscure narrative does eventually take clearer form once you dive deep into the depths of the game, it remains resolutely unwilling to sacrifice the breadth of its symbolic resonance at the altar of "lore" by answering every question the player has. It is a game that sticks in one's mind and demands to be mulled over again and again, rewarding this thought with glimmers of insight that feel deeply earned.

An extremely smart intersection of mechanics from orthodox Resident Evil and orthodox Silent Hill, very little in Signalis feels wholly new but the craft with which it's deployed contextualizes it in a new way. The burn mechanic (destroy a corpse or it will return to life eventually) is borrowed from REGCN, but it allows Signalis to make its infrequent and out-of-the-way save points risky to get to and from, recreating an emergent version of RE's iconic save economy despite the use of SH-style save points.

My favorite mechanical consequence is the way the strict 6-item inventory limit forces players to create their own ad hoc class. Sure, there are items that can heal you fast, items that can heal for a lot, items that can heal automatically—but when you're moving into a new room and you need three spare inventory slots just in case, you can only choose one. You can only choose one weapon as well, and you may have to choose between bringing any healing at all or a torch to dispose of corpses. How you do so defines your character and your experience of the game as surely as any stat selection.

Tunic is a much better Fez than Fez and a much worse Dark Souls than Dark Souls. The combat has its moments, but they're spread thin between frustrating fights with clashing systems and exacting technical demands. But the puzzles... oh, the puzzles are so good. I spent my first four hours of this game barely "playing" in the traditional sense, only making enough progress to get more text so I could decode its pervasive script.

I felt like a genius once I cracked it, but there was so much more to uncover. My discord full of pals and I bounced theories and ideas back and forth among ourselves, eventually uncovering a close enough approximation of all there is to uncover to leave us basking in puzzle euphoria. Everything fits together so cleanly, all part of an organic whole, with each a-ha moment shedding new light on everything you already know.

There's plenty of room to play this game how you want, but if you want my recommendation: find a few friends, hop in voice chat, and just disengage from the combat challenges by enabling no-fail mode.

The plot was the thing I was first sold on in Fires of Rubicon. Although it feels more than a little Dune-esque in the initial outline (factions squabbling over a planet that is the unique source of a precious resource, reportedly even called "melange" at some point in development) the game quickly makes clear that it's not interested in telling a cookie-cutter story. Even when I was struggling mightily with the combat, I was fascinated by the factional intricacies and the way they were portrayed in the game's mission structure.

Once I started my second loop (the game asks for three playthroughs to see all the missions and get the final "true" ending), I was even more impressed: when I or other characters made slightly different decisions, I could see how they ramify throughout the course of the game's plot. As I gain familiarity with the characters, I learned to recognize them earlier and found no small amount of affection for their quirks and foibles.

And as I pushed myself forward, I found myself beginning to really appreciate the combat as well. This didn't happen all at once: I spent pretty much the entire first loop frustrated with the game and with myself for failing to learn its language. I felt like I wasn't making a dent in bosses even when I played around with different builds and strategies, and that I couldn't make progress until I went online and copied specialized bosskiller loadouts from people on Reddit and Discord.

But eventually, reading these online resources and chatting with my friend Molly who was several steps ahead of me in the game, I realized something: From Software has always made their game bearing not just its own mechanics in mind, but the way its players will engage with it and each other. They are heavily influenced by classics like The Tower of Druaga, laden with ideas and secrets that can only be found and shared by an entire arcade's worth of players working together. I had thought of myself as failing by looking at these online resources, but From is well aware that they're releasing the game in an age of wikis and group chats. I was doing just what I was supposed to.

I still think there are some tweaks that could be made to make more different builds more viable against more bosses, but once I got over my own fear of learning the game the "wrong way", it suddenly clicked for me. With Molly's help and a deeper online understanding of the mechanics, I started blazing through challenges in the second loop that had stopped me dead in loop 1. The first loop took me over a week; the second loop took five days; the third took only a day and a half.

And by the time I got to the end, ooooo does the game feel nice to play. Especially against a boss I know well, dodging and weaving and building stagger and perfectly rationing my heavy hitters to punish it really does feel like I'm one with my mech. And it's hard to ask for much more from an Armored Core.

What a brilliant mess this game is. Breath of the Wild, when it came out, felt like a flawless jewel. You could complain (and I did!) about how weapon durability disincentivized engaging with the combat, or bemoan the relative weakness of the dungeons, but those were all gripes around the edges of the monumental fact that they had near-perfectly delivered on the promise that open world games had been making for decades. It was reacting to the larger world of video games in a way Nintendo largely refused to do, and at the same time it was like nothing we'd seen before.

Tears of the Kingdom is very much like something we've seen before. The core conceit is identical to its predecessor despite the different array of magical abilities, and even the plot is largely unchanged: Zelda is gone, again. The great evil is back, again. Climb the towers, find the shrines, do the dungeons, save the princess.

But to see this as just more Breath of the Wild is also to miss the point. The first game was constrained by its immaculate crystalline structure. It had to be the open-world game. Tears of the Kingdom could never be that because that's already been done, and it uses the extra freedom of the younger sibling to get weird with it.

In a lot of ways, this weirdness isn't for the best. The control scheme is onerous to say the least, particularly when engaging with the construction mechanics. The combat scaling is way off, with enemies either taking ten hits from a top-tier weapon or dying immediately. Once you get a feel for the patterns in the depths, they're largely empty and repetitive.

But damn if it isn't also interesting. The truth I keep coming back to is this: although I think Breath of the Wild is a "better" game in some abstract design sense, I lost interest after about 100 hours. Meanwhile, I've spent twice that playing Tears of the Kingdom and I'd be happy to continue if only there weren't more games to get around to.

This game takes huge swings, and while not all of them hit the ones that do are incredible. You only have to glance online to see the videos of mechs and drones players have built. The depths feel genuinely terrifying. Fusion is fully brilliant, simultaneously solving durability and making room for countless moments of discovery. There are genuinely good boss fights for maybe the first time in any Zelda game.

And I could rhapsodize endlessly about the way the world interconnects with itself. To my mind, the only real justification for the concept of "open world" is the idea that your actions as a player have non-local effects on the world you exist in. Breath of the Wild gestured at this, but Tears of the Kingdom fully embraces it. Conversations continue across the map from one another as NPCs wander from place to place. Refugees you meet in one region return home to another as you rebuild their houses. The world feels alive in a way that games seldom attempt and almost never achieve, and I love it for that.

After coming away from Resident Evil (2002) with the firm belief that the ink ribbon save economy is a genius-tier game mechanic, I couldn't resist starting my first playthrough of Resident Evil 2 (2019) as Claire in hardcore mode. Having done so, I can say with confidence: I was absolutely correct. The mechanical soul of these games is in the risk/reward calculus of limited resources and carefully planned runs. When you're running on the long end of a save and you choose to push a little further, that's the truest terror. When you first set foot in a new room with unknown horrors and everything to lose, that's when the zombies start to feel real.

Even aside from the impeccable mechanics, the vibe of this game is excellent. I lost track of how many times I legitimately jumped at a scare, or started shouting "OH NO OH FUCK" when a zombie came at me unexpectedly. Mr. X is a particularly inspired design element, destroying what scant comfort you can take in routes you thought were safe and violating the sanctity of the central atrium (the first time this happened I fully screamed). Claire is charming and Leon's stupidity plays perfectly into Ada's no-nonsense demeanor.

When I first started playing, a friend told me this was her favorite of all the RE games and remakes. I was skeptical: Resident Evil (2002) has a degree of mechanical purity that seemed impossible to match. But now I think I kind of agree: Hardcore mode brings the same mechanical genius (although part of me misses the compositional artistry of fixed camera and tank controls), while the rest of the game delivers excitement and frights well beyond what I got from the first game. This one is really magnificent.

I'm not usually a big Kirby fan but this was surprisingly solid. While the main game still mostly feels like coasting through a series of frictionless set pieces even on Wild Mode, each level's secrets and achievements ("reunite the ducklings with their mother!" "look at the view from the top of the rocket!" "don't get lost in the mall!") add a layer of appeal and interest that's been lacking in other Kirbies I've played.

The fact that the achievements are initially hidden is particularly clever, incentivizing the player to engage with the level not just as a series of challenges but as a site of play. I don't know if using the sleep ability on this pool chair will get me anything, but rewarding that is within the game's vocabulary so I'll act out this cute little tableau just in case.

The boss design is also shockingly appealing, something I'm not sure I can say about any other Nintendo game I've ever played. I repeatedly went back to fight bosses just for the joy of trying to hone my skills, and the variety of different abilities and their evolution throughout the game ensured that I could try different approaches each time. They aren't FromSoft-level depth, but that's not a fair expectation--clearly there were at least some design notes taken there.

This is one of the most intensely Bush-era post-9/11 games I've ever played, so it's fully incomprehensible that it was published in June 2000. Although the mechanics are a little too ambitiously "play your way" to have any particular play style hold up well twenty years later, the writing and plot have aged beautifully. Set pieces like the massive Hong Kong map and the combat-free missions show impressive temerity: this game wants to tell its story, and to a large extent being a video game is subservient to that. The vibe of this game is "Metal Gear Solid 1.5" and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.

I tried to make my second run through Dark Souls a contrast with my first. I always go for dextrous katana builds in my first run through these games, so coming back I wanted to do a strength-oriented build instead with heavy armor and heavier weaponry. I knew the game by this point, so I allowed myself to skip bosses and areas I wasn't interested in refighting (so long, Lost Izalith; another time, Kalameet).

But the most impactful change was streaming my run to friends over Discord, including particularly my friend @zandravandra. Zandra knows this game back to front, and she gave me some context on it that really opened my eyes to what's special about this Souls. The way the game hides its meta progression asks the player not just to engage with the game on its own terms, but to understand it so thoroughly that they're able to use the grammar of the game to subvert the destinies that seem at first unavoidable. To save Solaire, you must not only follow his route, but understand how to subvert it. To find the secret ending, you must see the ways the game prevents you from moving forward, then probe the holes in those defenses.

This demonstrates a tremendous amount of faith in the player's willingness to engage with the game over and over in order to truly divine its secrets. The willingness to allow each player to experience a different subset of the game clearly still persists in the later games (Elden Ring in particular is a master class in this), but even there as long as you touch everything once you'll see all there is to see. Dark Souls takes one bold step further by making so much at the heart of the game's text so readily missable, thereby demanding that players not only engage thoroughly but thoughtfully as well.

Even if you wanted to do that today, I'm not sure it would matter. We live in an age of endless wikis and discords which instantaneously disseminate information to players. That's not necessarily a bad thing—to catalog a thing so painstakingly is another way to love it—but it does mean that vanishingly few players will play a game five times through without ever looking up its secrets on the internet. But still, Dark Souls remains, a brilliant monument to that moment when it was possible to make a game just like this.

Rarely have I played a game that's made me more intensely question why it's a game. I was attracted to Genesis Noir by its visual style, and that turns out to be about the only thing this game has going for it... so why not just make it a cartoon instead? The interactivity in the game ranges from "press forward to progress the plot" to "click arbitrarily around the screen until you figure out what obscure thing you're supposed to do to progress the plot", and never once does it justify having interactive components at all.

Fortunately for those who might feel obligated to play it anyway, the plot does nothing to make up for the mechanical unsophistication. The jumble of biblical and scientific metaphors are too arbitrary to have anything interesting to say and too obvious to be intriguing. They act like a mountain of unflavored buttercream frosting, hiding the fact that the paint-by-numbers noir plot underneath has barely anything going on at all.

I understand now why Kojima is so insistent that MGSV isn't actually "5". This is clearly the culmination of the series, the final and total statement after which anything else is just an elaboration on an existing theme. MGS4 is so thoroughly and maddeningly crafted from hundreds of layers of metanarrative, it almost doesn't matter that the actual play you do is only barely present within. All previous Metals Gear Solid were in a sense sequences of set pieces that blended the gap between play and cinema, so it makes sense that this goes hardest of all on the overlap. All the cutscenes are playable, and all the moments of play are just moments between cutscenes.

This isn't a complaint, by any stretch of the imagination. Without any shred of irony, I'll say I consider Kojima an auteur and this game a masterpiece. From the opening, where you flip through FMV channels including David Hayter being fictionally interviewed as David Hayter, it sets out to reproduce, parody, and critique a whole world of information technology and the culture produced by it. And somehow it succeeds! This one relatively short game embeds within itself all the manic violence on the battlefield of thought that the characterizes the 20th century. Even its labyrinthine plot with double-cross atop double-cross serves as a mirror of the care and attention that must be paid to understand the complexities of our own world.

As a cinematic experience, I prefer Metal Gear Solid 3. In terms of raw fun of play, I'll always pick Metal Gear Solid V. But as an art object, it's hard to imagine a game more complete in itself or absurdly competent in its work than Metal Gear Solid 4.