In Pseudoregalia’s interpretation of the Metroidvania, ability-locked progression is a suggestion and not a rule, because the movement tech turns you into a god and the world into a playground. Getting to new areas frequently feels like cheating. The individual bits of level design that permit virtually infinite different methods of achieving the same platforming goals are expertly crafted and endlessly fun to mess with.
Granted: it takes a while to cross that threshold into liberating, game-breaking euphoria because you are granted none of the movement mechanics off the bat nor given any explicit guidance as to how to acquire them. I wrestled with feeling lost and underpowered in Pseudoregalia’s directionless, open-ended world for hours before finally reaching a point where I felt like my progression was limited only by my skill and not my (shitty) sense of navigation, but oh my god was it worth it. It just took a while to get there.
And when I say I wrestled with this game I do mean that. I started over three or four times, just to solidify my memory of the first few areas and remember/make note of where the hell you’re meant to find the essential starter upgrades. At one point I started making a hand-drawn map, which was actually pretty fun until I realized what my real issue with this game was: not the lack of an in-game map or explicit direction as to where I’m meant to go, but the sense of disorientation that comes from moving from scene to scene. Though I love the music, visuals, complexity, and challenges to be found in each distinct and reasonably navigable area, I had no sense of a larger space in which all these individual sections cohered. I’m not sure you could stack each of these maps together into a singular overworld, and if you can, I definitely couldn't do it in my mind or on paper.
On the other hand: Pseudoregalia’s open-endedness and the lack of hints, direction, a narrative thread is what facilitates and encourages the reckless kind of exploration you can get away with once you’ve acquired the right skills and gotten good enough with the tech. It’s hard to overstate how fun it is to chain five different abilities to scale a cathedral or wall-jump across a bottomless pit. I got stuck only for a few minutes on any given obstacle; if I found myself completely stumped, I assumed I was lacking some upgrades that might make those obstacles more feasible, then came back later.
And there can still be a real joy in just soaking up the atmosphere and wandering about aimlessly: though I’ve only lighted touched on it, the game’s art direction and lo-fi aesthetics are gorgeous in their confident simplicity and the hazy, dreamlike feeling they create. I was often confused and directionless and puzzling over my notes, but that doesn't mean I wasn't having fun. That's part of the appeal! The hypnagogic feel of this game reinforces that. So if you're anything like me, just try to suppress any panic that arises over the eternal passage of time ticking forward in the real world while you're running in circles around the Empty Bailey and you'll be alright.
If you do have as terrible a sense of direction as I do, you might benefit from (lightly) using this fantastic map. I referred to it like a checklist (I’ve been here, I found this thing) and scanned it for hints (there’s an upgrade in this area, a hidden passage over there somewhere). Perhaps the best resource would be a friend who’s played it before, who can gently nudge you when you need it…
Pseudoregalia is so close to perfection at its highest points that it’s worth fuzzing through (or soaking in) the confusion it throws at you from the start. And seriously: Twilight Theatre in particular is one of the most elegantly designed and rewarding levels I’ve experienced in any video game. I might play it through again just to experience that area one more time. What a gem.
Granted: it takes a while to cross that threshold into liberating, game-breaking euphoria because you are granted none of the movement mechanics off the bat nor given any explicit guidance as to how to acquire them. I wrestled with feeling lost and underpowered in Pseudoregalia’s directionless, open-ended world for hours before finally reaching a point where I felt like my progression was limited only by my skill and not my (shitty) sense of navigation, but oh my god was it worth it. It just took a while to get there.
And when I say I wrestled with this game I do mean that. I started over three or four times, just to solidify my memory of the first few areas and remember/make note of where the hell you’re meant to find the essential starter upgrades. At one point I started making a hand-drawn map, which was actually pretty fun until I realized what my real issue with this game was: not the lack of an in-game map or explicit direction as to where I’m meant to go, but the sense of disorientation that comes from moving from scene to scene. Though I love the music, visuals, complexity, and challenges to be found in each distinct and reasonably navigable area, I had no sense of a larger space in which all these individual sections cohered. I’m not sure you could stack each of these maps together into a singular overworld, and if you can, I definitely couldn't do it in my mind or on paper.
On the other hand: Pseudoregalia’s open-endedness and the lack of hints, direction, a narrative thread is what facilitates and encourages the reckless kind of exploration you can get away with once you’ve acquired the right skills and gotten good enough with the tech. It’s hard to overstate how fun it is to chain five different abilities to scale a cathedral or wall-jump across a bottomless pit. I got stuck only for a few minutes on any given obstacle; if I found myself completely stumped, I assumed I was lacking some upgrades that might make those obstacles more feasible, then came back later.
And there can still be a real joy in just soaking up the atmosphere and wandering about aimlessly: though I’ve only lighted touched on it, the game’s art direction and lo-fi aesthetics are gorgeous in their confident simplicity and the hazy, dreamlike feeling they create. I was often confused and directionless and puzzling over my notes, but that doesn't mean I wasn't having fun. That's part of the appeal! The hypnagogic feel of this game reinforces that. So if you're anything like me, just try to suppress any panic that arises over the eternal passage of time ticking forward in the real world while you're running in circles around the Empty Bailey and you'll be alright.
If you do have as terrible a sense of direction as I do, you might benefit from (lightly) using this fantastic map. I referred to it like a checklist (I’ve been here, I found this thing) and scanned it for hints (there’s an upgrade in this area, a hidden passage over there somewhere). Perhaps the best resource would be a friend who’s played it before, who can gently nudge you when you need it…
Pseudoregalia is so close to perfection at its highest points that it’s worth fuzzing through (or soaking in) the confusion it throws at you from the start. And seriously: Twilight Theatre in particular is one of the most elegantly designed and rewarding levels I’ve experienced in any video game. I might play it through again just to experience that area one more time. What a gem.