The videogame as machine of death. In which you must become a machine to survive. One so precisely calibrated that flow is not optional. It’s the only way through.

Its difficulty isn’t about triumph or accomplishment. It’s about recognizing the machine for what it is, recognizing the machine that is you. One will adapt to the other. And 1001 Spikes does not adapt.

It is, not coincidentally, a game of fathers and sons, of anxiety and repetition. In the end it feels complete, the final word on its own masochism.

The final words of the actual game? ~ Thanks Mom