Recent reviews by Jelly

Allow me to state up front that my experience with The Talos Principle II was not exactly standard, and it would be impossible for me to act as if that does not color this review somewhat. I streamed this game and, as a result of some stream memes, found myself playing a “free every single hexahedron” challenge run where I smuggled items and cheesed just about every puzzle in the game. At minimum, half of the puzzles in this game would still be completely new to me if I played it again. All of this is to say, however, that I do not think my enjoyment of TTP2 was a result of the intended experience of the developers, but rather my own efforts to “make my own fun” when the fun presented to me failed to remain compelling.

TTP1 did quite a lot with very little, taking a relatively small cast of puzzle elements and pushing them to their absolute limits; TTP2, on the other hand, opts to introduce a new puzzle element in every single level to provide its challenge. There’s not anything inherently wrong with this - having more toys to play with allows for a more diverse array of interactions and mental connections which need to be while finding a solution - but it’s not really the kind of challenge that I enjoy most, nor is it what I look for in TTP. Some of the puzzles that I did solve in the intended manner were satisfying, but every level being half-tutorial/half-actual puzzles tends to leave me wanting.

The epitome of this issue for me is the new Star Puzzles. In the first game, Star Puzzles existed as an overarching meta-puzzle within every level - an extra challenge designed to get your gears turning and, more often than not, teach you the limits of your tools and how to “break” the game using them. If you found a way to smuggle an item out of the puzzle area, your first reaction would be less “uh oh, broke it” and more “okay, so why do they want me to have this?” They actively enriched the experience by adding an extra layer of mental arithmetic to every single puzzle: getting the sigil is just the first step, your real challenge is finding the gaps in every level’s armor and how to exploit it. They are, I believe, what make TTP truly unique as a series.

Star Puzzles in TTP2 come in three specific flavors - Sphinx, Prometheus, and Pandora - and to be completely frank, almost every single one of them is a complete miss. Sphinx stars task you with reading a hint on the monument and following the directions given to you, most often in the form of pulling specific levers or pressing buttons in certain formations. While some of these were interesting to discover at first, I found that the solution being given to you so matter-of-factly kind of deflates any excitement inherent in the task. Prometheus stars are bad to the point of confusion, consisting entirely of finding an glowing orb and following it from point to point until it reaches the Monument. Going so far as to call them puzzles would be like calling 2+2 a riddle, and I suspect that they exist as a kind of justification for the absurdly large maps (which themselves are harmful to the experience for the sake of spectacle). Pandora stars are perhaps the closest to their original counterparts, often asking you to use tools from multiple puzzles in the area to guide a laser to the monument. I don’t have any particular gripes with them overall, though I will admit that their constrained nature - a result of smuggling no longer being a required mechanic - does dull their edge somewhat.

Why do I care so much about these optional puzzles, you ask? As previously stated, I believe that Star Puzzles are what make TTP unique, and I didn’t just mean in relation to gameplay. TTP1’s narrative was about many things, but one of its stated goals is teaching the player to disrespect their surroundings. Philosophical skepticism requires one to question everything, and having that extend to the puzzles by virtue of encouraging you to break them created a delightful link between gameplay and narrative that enriched both. Solving any puzzle in TTP1 was a process of asking yourself “what assumptions am I making?” and testing the validity of each one until you found the weak link in the chain.

In contrast, TTP2’s Star Puzzles don’t really accomplish much of anything in a narrative sense. At most, you could say that their common aspect revolves around analyzing your surroundings, and that asking you to pay closer attention to the world around you inspires a larger sense of connection TO that area. The problem, however, is that TTP2’s worlds are all shock and awe: needlessly massive for the sake of sheer spectacle, with Pandora stars being about the only puzzle to use the interesting architecture to influence gameplay. They’re pretty to behold, sure, but that mountain range made of statues becomes a lot less interesting when I need to painstakingly walk across every inch of it just to move from one puzzle to another.

The scale of these areas trickles downward upon the entire experience of the game, rusting the joints to the point of atrophy. TTP1 provided downtime through consistency and discovery - terminal at the start of the level, hidden terminals as a reward for exploring, talking with MLA at the end of the level - and TTP2 clearly attempts to mimic these elements to minimal success. Terminals still exist, but they’re far less enticing when the compass points you towards them - removing the fun of discovery - and every level has at least three of them with four documents a piece. There’s still conversations to be had, but they’re far less enticing when I’m talking with Pandora about whether I think bad things happening means we should give up rather than talking with MLA about whether frogs are people (and being actively told I’m a dumbass for doing so). Rather than acting a breather between puzzles, the immense downtime provided by TTP2 felt like being force-fed vegetables before getting to have one lick of soft-serve.

There’s far more narrative to engage with in TTP2, but the problem is that said narrative has no BITE. Everyone in TTP2 is far too reasonable for a society founded on disobedience. You’ll be asked what you think about a variety of issues, but the most pushback the game will ever give you is “I’m not sure I agree, but I suppose we all have different and unique perspectives!” The primary conflict in the game is about whether human society should expand despite potential danger or isolate in order to protect from harm, and, for risk of sounding ignorant, it simply fails to provide any mental stimulation whatsoever. “We COULD explore the universe and experience the breadth of life in store for us, but what if something BAD happens? Oh, heavens me, perhaps we shouldn’t do anything ever again so we can avoid that!” The game couches itself in an air of philosophical grandeur about the human condition and whether civilization itself is doomed to fail, but the presentation of these ideas comes across as downright juvenile to me. Rather than presenting bold new ideas that could only exist in a world where humanity has achieved the impossible, it feels like TTP2 wants to spoon feed me Gerber’s Philosophy Paste and pat me on the head for being such a smart young man when I say “perchance doing things is good sometimes.”

The Talos Principle II simply does not challenge me intellectually in any of the ways its predecessor did. I would be lying to you if I said I didn’t have a blast smuggling every single hexahedron out of their puzzle rooms, but I would also be lying if I told you that my experience is the kind which TTP2 seeks to provide. For better and for worse, TTP2 is accessible, with a sawtooth difficulty curve and toothless narrative to ensure that you’ll never be too stumped. If you found the first game too daunting, TTP2 is an excellent way to dip your toes into the water. As for me, I’ll cross my fingers and hope the DLC has the kind of stimulation I found in ELOHIM’s simulation.

Momodora: Moonlit Farewell is a culmination of the passion which has been poured into its predecessors. There are many places where it exceeds them and a handful of ways in which it falls short, but the latter is vastly overshadowed by the former. While I still firmly believe that Reverie Under the Moonlight is the premiere experience for this series of bite-sized metroidvanias, Moonlit Farewell is more than worthy to stand alongside it, and I sincerely hope that the team behind this is proud of their work and rewarded for their efforts. It goes without saying that I highly recommend this game, but this wouldn’t be a review of mine if I didn’t excessively elaborate:

Despite my many gripes with this game’s direct predecessor, Minoria, one aspect it strongly succeeded in was combat. Much can be said about the strength of the full-screen-slash parry’s capacity to trivialize certain rooms, but let it never be said that it wasn’t a damn satisfying parry. That’s the key word here for me: combat in Momodora games has never been particularly challenging by my metric, but it has always been satisfying. Minoria added additional layers of mechanical complexity which greatly improved the gamefeel of what was already there, and it is with great delight that I can say Moonlit Farewell has taken those improvements and ran with them (while reigning them in somewhat). Highest on the list are two new resources to manage: tried and true mana and stamina.

In previous Momodora games, items would be individual-use: you had X amount of heals/magic projectiles and after you used them up, you were done. This created a situation in which your best choice was to drop a thermonuclear payload the instant you walked into the room with no consequences and then carry on with the fight like usual. Moonlit Farewell instead ties all of these usual resources to a mana bar, meaning that you have to manage your resources and raw destructive potential a bit more carefully. Healing and explosive arrows (as an example) being tied to the same resource forces you to sacrifice safety for aggression: you can dish out some crazy damage, but in doing so you’re limiting your own ability to take it. Though this change limits the macabre glee that comes with nuking a boss frame one, it also adds some technical complexity to existing systems by combining them, making the game feel more cohesive as a whole. It’s smart, though not the only resource which marries existing ideas to great effect.

Unlike most games stamina in Moonlit Farewell is more of a defensive reserve than an offensive allowance. Outside of a heavily empowered arrow which activates when at full stamina - once again balancing safety with aggression - the only action which consumes the bar is dodging. Gone are the days of Kaho’s endless frame-perfect frollicking (which I did miss, admittedly) and Semilla’s perpetual parry-baiting; in their place, however, is a roll which rewards you for timing it like a parry by refunding the spent stamina back alongside a one-two-punch of dopamine in the form of gold flourish and a brief time-slow. While this does feel satisfying, it unfortunately brings us to my first key gripe.

One of my favorite aspects of the Momodora games is the No-Hit Bonus - if you’re skilled enough to beat a boss without taking a single hit of damage, you’ll get a unique (and often overpowered) reward for your efforts that you can’t find anywhere else in the game. It’s certainly a “rich get richer” mechanic in the sense that someone good enough to get the bonus probably doesn’t need it, but it adds an extra layer of challenge to boss fights and makes repeat playthroughs (which are essential to Momodora games) far more engaging. With that in mind, I’m sure you’ll understand my disappointment at the complete removal of this feature in Moonlit Farewell. With the inclusion of the perfect dodge and the stamina system, Moonlit Farewell is perfectly poised to encourage mechanical mastery and reward it when it's achieved, but it simply does not do so. As a result, I find myself less eager to engage with repeat playthroughs, which is rough for this series. This didn’t significantly harm my enjoyment of the game overall, mind you, but the exclusion of a system I greatly enjoyed does leave a slightly sour taste. What sweetens my palette in response, however, is the consistently delightful presentation.

Moonlit Farewell returns to the gorgeous pixel art of Reverie Under the Moonlight after the experimental 2.5D style that was used (quite well, in my opinion) in Minoria. I’ve always loved the character designs of this series, and that continued charm is on full display with this newly-improved stylistic iteration. Sprites are not only more detailed and expressive, but their range of expression through animation is far stronger too: Momo acrobatically swaps grips and angles when repeatedly firing her bow as opposed to Kaho’s more static, utilitarian archery, making her feel far more energetic and active. This aesthetic fluidity keeps traversal engaging, which heavily supplements the areas you’ll be traversing in.

Environments are richly-detailed, visually compelling, and - most important of all for a metroidvania - instantly distinct. The Momodora games have always boasted clear and communicative maps, but I found myself intuitively remembering the pathways within each area even on my first time through them - no map necessary. This is not, to say, however, that the map itself is not worthy of praise. It’s not revolutionary or anything, but having secrets be immediately marked on the map struck me as particularly kind. It could be argued that this level of signposting removes some of the magic that comes with the genre: the excitement of discovery is core to the metroidvania experience, so fully knowing there’s a secret in a room when you enter can dampen that excitement. While I don’t disagree with that notion, I found that my fondness for the convenience this feature added outweighed any missed potential.

No, my largest sore point with Moonlit Farewell is the missed potential in its writing. I’ve said before that the Momodora games are pleasantly bite-sized, so I’m not exactly expecting Wuthering Heights with regards to the narrative and characters. I would, however, like to actually get some time to bond with my traveling companion. Cereza is your trusty helper and resident Sigil Salescatgirl, and while you do get a small handful of moments to get to know her, they are both very few and very far between. When I’ve maxed my bond with Cereza after sharing exactly one day’s worth of meals, I can’t help but feel hungry for more. Minoria had the exact same problem with Semilla and Fran’s relationship: it’s hard to get attached when our primary cast has only had about fifteen lines of dialogue between them before their Big Dramatic Story Beat. It leaves the world feeling paper-thin, and Moonlit Farewell might even be a step backwards from Minoria in this respect. At least Fran chimed in with the occasional comment on a new area or significant story beat; Cereza will often appear after both with nothing new to say at all. Given that you’re mechanically encouraged to bond with her, it’s astounding to me how little dialogue she has. If I wasn’t fully aware how much time it takes to write and implement, I’d argue she and other characters should have twice as much.

That said, it speaks volumes that my largest problem with the game is that I want more optional dialogue. This has been a consistent desire of mine as it relates to the Momodora series - they are lacking only in comparison to my sheer gluttony. Moonlit Farewell is perhaps the most fine-tuned and polished entry in the Momodora series to date, and the improvements it makes on the experimental systems of the games before it are far-and-away full successes. I’ll be praying for the much-deserved success of this game, and eager to see what the minds behind it have in store next.

I'll preface this with some honesty: this is less of a review and more of an expression of my complicated thoughts and feelings regarding a game I played when I was a different person (wow, so profound). If you want the shortest version: Minoria is mechanically competent, artistically impressive, and narratively underwhelming. The combat is a bit more engaging than Momodora, the exploration is about the same, and the story is just hopelessly bleak. I would recommend Reverie Under the Moonlight before this any day of the week, but I can't (and won't) say it's bad. It's just outclassed.

Now, if you'll indulge me for a little bit beyond what most would reasonably call brevity:

I first played Minoria in April of 2020, back when the world had just gone to hell. I, like pretty much everyone else on the planet, was in a pretty rough place mentally. What was supposed to be an extended Spring break became a full juncture of a my life - I entered and exited the pandemic as a completely different person. The one thing I kept, however, was my passion for writing. A passion which had been dying on the vine back when I originally tried to write a review of Minoria all those years ago.

To me, Minoria is a bitter, bitter experience: coffee with no cream or sugar for a guy with an endless sweet tooth. When I played Momodora: Reverie Under the Moonlight, I could only describe myself as in love. I wrote a full review then which encapsulates my feeling, but the lasting impression was that of an exciting new meal from a cultural cuisine I had never experienced before. If RUtM was my first time trying tikka masala, then Minoria is my umpteenth curry dinner from a restaurant that's not particularly special. It is, by all accounts, still the delightful dish I know and love... but the spice just isn't there for me.

Minoria does not have the same charm which RUtM did. If I had to describe it in one word, I would call it "depressing." I was not upset when playing this game. I was not bored when playing this game. I was not even particularly disappointed when playing this game. I was DEPRESSED playing this game. There is this pervasive fog of dread which emits from every corner of this game in my mind - a dark miasma of downer which drains motivation from me as I engage with it. I would not go so far as to say that this is necessarily a bad thing - as a matter of fact, I would consider it to be intentional and rather well-executed - but I find myself yearning for more. The key problem with Minoria for me is that it lacks proper levity.

The emotional core of Minoria is the developing relationship between Semilla and Fran - a stoic, stone-hearted swordmaiden and a pure-as-crystal priestess who must endure the darkness to come with only each other for comfort and security. It's cute, and for someone like me who gets attached to characters in fiction very easily, having this charming relationship evolve as you play was a nice treat which provided some level of relief in the midst of everything... is what I would like to say. The sad truth is that not enough is done to establish the bond between these two in order to properly distract from the overwhelming atmosphere, and what does exist feels threadbare and sporadic.

The length of RUtM was a strong selling point for me, but having Semilla and Fran indulge in their big emotional moment after about two hours of gameplay feels... off. I barely know these characters, and they barely know each other. Fran can chime in with small comments at certain locations or story moments, but they happen so rarely that you don't get much of a sense for what she's like outside of "sad, scared, and sincere." In a setting so overbearing, those adjectives don't describe a happy ending.

If this is what the game was going for - this unrelenting sense of depression which infests every corridor, every conversation, and every archive page - then I have to commend it for its commitment and delivery. It's impressive how truly bleak every small detail you learn is; how every sweet note is engulfed by bitter without exception. For my taste, however, I can't savor the bitter without the right amount of sweet. Cream and sugar for me (if I even have it at all). Tragedy needs to exist in equal proportion to levity, else it becomes predictable and dull. You need to have hope in the first place to feel the heartbreak when it's dashed. Minoria does not find this balance, and falls short because of it.

Perhaps I didn't really give it a fair go. Perhaps I went in expecting the wrong thing. Perhaps I just played it at the wrong time, or in the wrong headspace. Most likely, it's all three. At the end of the day, Minoria is a game which depresses me, but which I felt I had a duty to see through to the end. I'm not so certain any of it was worth it.

Once upon a time, I was studying to be a journalist. What this fact of life - which, while fun, is useless to you, the person reading this - means is that I am Required By Law to disclose a list of my biases towards this game. As you can see, I got my copy for free: that's because I'm both friends with the developer (hi Maddi) and helped with some extremely minimal pre-release feedback. It goes without saying that, even without any skin in the game, these two factors are going to influence my view of this game. I am not made of stone, for alas, I am a mere mortal just like everyone else. It's inevitable that some of my positivity is going to be the byproduct of these biases, but with that said, I mean it wholeheartedly when I say that Magenta Horizon is an incredible action game which can easily hang with the titans of the genre. There, the demon of my conscience has been excised and, as an unrelated bonus, anyone who can't stand flowery, self-serving prose is gone, too!

Best described (by me, you're welcome) as a 2D spectacle fighter, Magenta Horizon is a fast, frantic action game in which aggression is the name of the game. Utilizing Gretel's swift array of swings, swoops, slashes, and other attack synonyms that start with our sponsored letter of the day, your goal is to cull the demonic hordes of hell in the most flashy, efficient way possible as you make your way through each level. When pitching this game to my friends, coworkers, and assorted sidewalk-bound hoi polloi, my usual line is to say "It's like Metal Gear Rising and Hollow Knight fused together!" While mostly accurate, this surface-level polymerization doesn't quite do the fluid, frenetic identity which Magenta Horizon cultivates justice. Let's take a break from prose and break down into some raw, juicy descriptivism.

As previously mentioned, the guiding principle of Magenta Horizon is aggression, a facet best illustrated by Gretel's only method of healing: the Healing Grenade. Far from the passive remedy provided by a potion, the Healing Grenade coats all enemies caught in its blast with a green mist, causing them to leak healing orbs when damaged for a short period of time. This simple interaction is, to me, one of the most efficient teaching methods I've seen a game employ to encourage the intended playstyle. Hell's denizens will give you no room to breath during a fight, so your only choice is to suck in air and carve that room with your own two hands.

Additionally, combat has a high emphasis on juggling, crowd control, and space control, with the third of that trio being the most important in my experience. While the first two are your standard action game faire - keep enemies in combos with aerial attacks and make sure their numbers don't get too overwhelming - space control is what truly makes Magenta Horizon unique among similar titles. Gretel is a highly mobile fighter, boasting the expected suite of a floaty double-jump, an invincible dash, and an air-pogo straight out of Hollow Knight. Your most interesting mobility tool (and the first feature of the game I ever saw) is the hook attack, a sweeping lunge which pulls you to - and if possible, through - any target it hits. Proper utilization of the hook attack will allow you to glide across the battlefield, weaving between enemies with ease as you cut them down to size. This high-mobility isn't just for show though; Gretel isn't particularly tanky, which means survival is a matter of deliberate positioning and calculated offense. While the dash and hook provide some brief invincibility and her heavy attacks provide some armor, swinging wildly without regard for the space you have to work with or the enemies clogging it up is a recipe for failure.

Wide-bodied enemies will stop you from dashing through them, shielded enemies will block all damage unless you hook their defenses away, and flying enemies will dominate the usually-safe airspace unless you dedicate yourself to swatting some flies. Each enemy in any given encounter provides a threat to both your health and mobility, and your success hinges on properly navigating through these hazards and eliminating the most crippling screen-hogs as quickly as possible. Each room becomes a dance; an order-of-operations waltz where your partner is desperately trying to stamp on your foot with every discrete movement, and your job is to get through the night without scuffing your shoes too much.

And while we're on the topic of tangos (or other related rhythmic movements), I would be remiss not to mention the delightfully explosive soundtrack which Magenta Horizon flaunts. I don't have a complex understanding of music or how to describe what makes it good, but there are some downright electric earworms in this game. Act 2 in particular has some explosive horn sections which really get my pulse pounding as I'm pounding whatever is still pulsating on-screen. Even more impressive than the soundtrack is the utterly awe-inspiring art of this game. When playing it for the first time, the only word I could find to describe this game's visuals was "addictive." There's this enthralling property to Maddi's art that just puts my brain in a stranglehold; like a religious tapestry in motion, Magenta Horizon is truly a delight to behold.

I could wax poetic about a dozen minute details that I love about this game for WAY longer than even I would entertain (like the majesty of the charge attack, the bliss of my beloved XXYX, or the electrifying dopamine of a specific ranged attack's sound design), but I think you get my point. As an almost entirely solo venture, Magenta Horizon is an incredibly polished product: a tour de force of action game excellence which is - more than any other verbose praise I could offer - tremendously fun to play. At the time of this review, I'm about 1/4th of the way through SSS'ing Act 2 on the hardest difficulty. The game is absolutely kicking my teeth in, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't spitting out my canines with a wide, gummy smile. I am immensely impressed with what Magenta Horizon already has on offer, and I am beyond excited to see what's in store for the third and final act. Do yourself a favor and download the demo. Right now.

Risk of Rain 2 is the video game equivalent of opium. I need you to know that - in the event that you decide to purchase and play this game - you’re signing yourself up for perhaps one of the most immediately addictive and enthralling pieces of entertainment media I have ever consumed. I got this game in January, and within the first four days I had put over 30 hours into it. It’s February now, and I’ve got nearly 200. Every single unlock, every challenge and goal, every incremental gain in terms of skill or progress; every finite aspect of Risk of Rain 2 is polished to a laser-sharp edge designed to keep you engaged and to keep you moving.

I’ve played other roguelikes before - believe me, I have. This isn’t my first rodeo at the perma-death parade. I’m no stranger to the cycle of death and rebirth which compels this chemically-captivating boa constrictor of code. Hades held my interest long enough for me to 100% it, and while I loved Zag and the Underworld Gang, there’s no denying that the variability in runs is somewhat… lacking compared to other titles in the genre. Nuclear Throne was my drug of choice once upon a time too, and while it certainly still holds up and Fish certainly can roll, it doesn’t even hold a candle to the crystallized concentration of pure and instantaneous fun that Risk of Rain 2 presents with each and every run.

To put it in the most understandable terms possible, Risk of Rain 2 is the best roguelike I have ever played, and second place is not even close. The instant I started my first run, everything felt immediately right, like I’d stepped back into my own skin after a long trip away. The intangible, indescribable magic that binds Risk of Rain 2 together is borderline overwhelming, and it has still not released me from its spell. I recommend this game with equal parts caution and reverence, with the keen understanding that you will either magnetize to it instantly or be repelled like a matching charge.

The key ingredients are simple. The first is time: the longer your run continues, the stronger the enemies you fight grow. Enemies will level up at certain timed intervals, scaling infinitely until you either finish your run or it finishes you. In order to combat this incremental carnage, you’ll be outfitted with your own ludicrous power-scaling in the form of infinitely stacking items. With the key exception of certain effects that max out at specific percentages - such as crit-chance topping off at an expected 100% - having a little luck on your side can lead to downright ludicrous results in terms of build-crafting. Sure, the Soldier’s Syringe will only increase your attack speed by 10%, but each extra syringe is an extra 10%, and that’s flat.

By the end of your runs, you become nothing short of godlike - an enigmatic force of nature that looks in a direction and spews nothing but blood, bullets, and sticky-bombs. The fun factor of stacking a dozen items just because you thought it would be silly to see what happens is absolutely intoxicating, and following your gut when it tells you "hey, what if you do this" will always lead you to your most memorable runs. Sure, you could have a nice balance of attack, defense, passive effects, and all that other jazz, but what if you turned all of your items into sodas that increase your sprint speed by 25% per stack? Balance is for the birds, and Risk of Rain 2 urges you at all points to throw away the scale and embrace pure, unadulterated chaos.

I’d have to be seriously misguided not to mention the art direction and music - especially the music. I may not understand all the nitty-gritty behind music theory, but even I can tell you that the soundtrack of Risk of Rain 2 is downright masterful. Tense, introspective, emotional, and all-times captivating, the soundtrack which Chris Christodoulou has composed is simply inspiring. Calming synths and bombastic guitars coalesce into music which can only be described as utterly electric.

As for the art design, I consider myself something of an aficionado when it comes to discussing armor of all varieties (which is to say that I have specific tastes and talk about them too much). The character design in Risk of Rain 2 is delightfully sharp and informative. One look at the Captain - his outfit, his color palette, his posture, his blocky prosthetic - and you immediately understand everything you need to know about him. The generic, simple, sectioned design of the Commando’s armor communicates instantly his status as a rank-and-file nobody with nothing to his name but the skills to survive. Without even delving into how distinct each of these characters play - which in some cases feels as if you’ve just booted up a different game entirely - the brutally effective art direction of Risk of Rain 2 tells you everything at a glance.

I think I'll leave things there. There are dozens of secrets and intricacies that Risk of Rain 2 has in store, and discovering them is half the fun to begin with. I could rant and rave all day about every minute detail of the minute-to-minute gameplay, but I could never convey so expertly how fun this game is from minute one as just playing it could.

That, reader, is Risk of Rain 2. Blindingly-fast, effortlessly engaging, and endlessly fun.

Hey. It's been a while since I've done this, so I'm gonna ramble for a bit. Consider this a charming (if overly verbose and somewhat annoying) anecdote before the recipe and feel free to skim through until you start seeing some words that look vaguely like unbridled praise. The phrase you're looking for is "And then I played Chicory."

It's rare that a game comes along in someone's life that feels as if it was completely made for them. Three years ago, when I played Wandersong, I felt for the first time in my life that I had truly been seen. I felt as though the game itself had taken a peek inside of my soul and shown me parts even I had yet to discover. I felt a joy - a sheer, unadulterated, all-consuming happiness - that I truly believed could never be replicated or even approached.

Then the world kinda, sorta, maybe ended. Just a bit.

That's a bit dramatic considering I'm lucky enough to still be here, but 2019-2021 was nonetheless a pretty rough period for me (as I imagine it was for a lot of folks the world over). A lot has changed since then, both for me personally and for the world we all live in, and despite my generally optimistic outlook on life it's been admittedly difficult to resist growing just a little cynical and apathetic. Games became a passive hobby for me: more of a way to pass the time than a way to genuinely engage with art and entertainment media. I had begun to wonder if maybe games themselves had become jaded, an industry of profit rather than passion.

Of course, this was partially my fault. I'd devoted myself rather completely to live-service titles or otherwise endless games. Titles which could theoretically be played forever, but that you only really play until you realize it's more of a routine than a passtime. Whatever feelings of fun that once came with the game are long gone by the time you stop playing it. When you finally do close it for that last time, it's less of a fond farewell and more like dropping off a check to pay an overdue bill. I've been feeling this sort of way about games - a dispassionate melancholy, very rarely spiked with moments of long-gone wonder - for longer than I realized. I haven't even written (or even attempted to write) a review for anything in years now. The last time I did was for Wandersong, that joyful spark I was sure I would never feel again.

And then I played Chicory.

You know that scene in Ratatouille? THAT one? Of course you do. Chicory was my first bite of that humble, beautiful plate of ratatouille. Within minutes of beginning, I felt a rush of warmth and nostalgia like I had never thought existed. That feeling - that sheer, unadulterated, all-consuming happiness - did not fade for even one moment of my nearly forty hours with this game. Every single second of this game fills the very fibers of my being with the sense that I am home, where I truly belong.

The art direction is charming and endlessly inventive. The music is masterful, marvelous, and moving. The writing is clever, sincere, heart-warming, tragic, playful - fun. The gameplay constantly iterates on itself in ways which feel intuitive and ingenious at the same time. Chicory is exceptional in every sense of the word. There is not a single thing which it attempts that it does not earnestly succeed at with flying colors. I would say that the game's only flaw is that there isn't more of it for me to play, but that would be categorically untrue. There is precisely as much Chicory as is necessary and not a single ounce more. Chicory is a bolt of creative lightning that has rocked me to my very core.

I can think of no higher praise for the game than to say this: I followed this game religiously when it was first announced. I carefully monitored the Kickstarter, the Twitter pages of the game and the devs, and the Steam page waiting for any and all news I could get about Chicory. I bought the game as soon as I possibly could when it finally released, and then... life happened. I told myself time and time again I would find a chunk of open time to truly enjoy the game to its fullest, and then a year passed. During that span of time, I heard nothing but overwhelming praise for Chicory from every available source, and despite all of that... Chicory still OVERdelivered.

I don't know that a perfect game exists, but if it does, that game is Chicory: A Colorful Tale.

Wandersong made me cry.

Wandersong made me bawl. Wandersong had tears streaming down my trembling face and ugly whimpers tumbling out of my mouth at two in the morning on a school night. Wandersong made me weep tears of genuine, absolute, unadulterated joy and warmth and contentment at a journey well-traveled, at friends well-made, and at songs well-sung.

Wandersong made me cry, and I would do it all over again if I could only experience it just one more time for the first time.

REVIEW
Wandersong

GENRE
Puzzle/Adventure

WANDERSONG is yet another entry into the great hall of Indie Darlings that humbly began with a Kickstarter and a dream. Crafted by the charming trio of developer Greg Lobanov, sound designer Em Halberstadt, and musician Gordon McGladdery, Wandersong follows the story of a lowly Bard and his quest to save the world from certain and cyclical destruction. Every couple centuries, the goddess Eya sings a new song and brings a brand new universe into existence, replacing the one before it. Though it seems to be a definite end, it’s up to the Bard and his ever-expanding entourage of allies to seek out the Earthsong and ensure the survival of their planet and life as they know it; and wouldn’t you know it, it turns out to be one doozy of an adventure!

Regardless of where your adventure may take you, Wandersong presents you with only one way to resolve conflict: to sing! Using a radial color wheel, controlled by either a controller’s analog stick or your computer’s mouse, you can control the Bard’s melodious voice through a variety of octaves whenever you please and whatever your pleasure. Prancing about town? Sing a Solfège! Fighting dangerous beasts? Use your vocals, not violence! Chattering away in a cutscene? Every good drama needs its Greek Chorus! The world is your unwilling audience, and with Wandersong’s simple controls it’s easy for anyone at all to feel like they could receive standing ovation. Aside from a DEDICATED DANCE BUTTON, singing and jumping are all the actions available to you when you play, which may seem like it would get rather dull rather quickly. What’s so wonderfully vibrant about Wandersong, however, is its willingness to reinvent the wheel with which it lets you sing. Your voice is more than just a tool of time-wasting, and throughout your adventure that little control-wheel will be pushed to its absolute limits in terms of gameplay applications. Sail ships with shanties, shine lights with serenades, and cast spells with song; everything is possible to sing your way through in a world made of music.

And Wandersong’s world truly is made of music. I’m surprised I made it this far without so much as mentioning the utterly stupendous soundtrack that Wandersong is host to, completely separated from your Bard’s ballads. Every single track in the game is catchy as a head cold, incorporating emotional motifs and character-specific instruments to tug at your heart strings and keep you bouncing in your chair at all times. That’s not even to mention how the world itself reacts as you sing along with it! Whether it’s the environment and characters bumping and bouncing in tune with your tunes or the soundtrack itself kicking it up to 11 by adding extra instruments and even a backing chorus, Wandersong knows how to deliver a truly delightful audio-visual experience.

What’s most delightful of all about Wandersong is its writing. Like any good play, it delivers a steady stream of comedy, drama, dramedy, and every emotion in between. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said this game made me bawl. Everything about this game’s writing -- it’s superb delivery of jokes, its incredible humanization of its characters, its applaudable commitment to positivity -- absolutely overflows with genuine emotion. Lobanov says in his developer commentary that this game was a passion project brought about by his 5,000 mile bike trip around the US, where he witnessed the kindness that people were capable of, and gained back a sense of hope that he wanted to share with the world. Optimism is the thread that binds this game together, and in a world of cynicism and bleak games with harsh morals… it’s just so refreshing.

Wandersong is a cold glass of water after a hard day of yard work. Wandersong is your pet snuggling right up next to you in bed on a cold winter night. Wandersong is coming home from school on your birthday to the smell of your favorite meal and the sight of your family. Wandersong is pure, unadulterated joy given form. From start to finish, Wandersong is concerned with one thing and one thing only: making you smile. It was somewhere between noticing all of this game's similarities with Night in the Woods -- a game developed by Pittsburgh natives with a heavy Pittsburgh influence -- and finding out that one of the towns was based on Lobanov's hometown of Philadelphia that I realized how at-home this game makes me feel. I have never in my life related so much to a game’s core message and protagonist more than I have with this game. It’s so easy to be unkind. It’s so incredibly easy to ask that, if nothing matters, what’s the point in even trying? Wandersong is here to say that, if nothing matters, the point of trying is to make it matter.

Wandersong is as simple as they come. The gameplay can be enjoyed by anyone and wouldn’t even breach of the surface of the word “challenging.” Most characters, barring our colorful main cast, are onenote and simple-minded in what they want and how they express that. Wandersong is the kind of game that you can guess the ending of as soon as you watch the first trailer for it. At the end of it all though, Wandersong made me smile wide and laugh loud. It made my heart sing and my brain dance. It makes me want to belt out my best Solfège and tap and twirl and prance and not care who sees. It makes my entire being beam with happiness. I won’t make some huge claim about how Wandersong will make you a better person, or about how it will change your life. It won’t. What Wandersong will do is make your day better. It will show you how to be better. Wandersong is my favorite game. Period. You owe it to yourself to waltz your way into something so unyielding happy and wholesome.

You’re worth it readers, you deserve to be happy.

Dark. The depths of this accursed kingdom are so very, very dark. Lanterns provide a form of solace, but it seems as though the shadows themselves hunger for all which they do not already consume. It tears and claws at the light with its oppressive shade. Through small flickers of light I catch glimpses of life, blinding-orange and harboring a hunger all its own. I have walked this kingdom weak and weary for so, so long. Every encounter with the fauna of this land is nerve-wracking: a constant reminder that I should never have come here. If only I had known…

Bugs really, really gross me out.

REVIEW
Hollow Knight

GENRE
Metroidvania

ORIGINALLY appearing as a Kickstarter project in November of 2014, Hollow Knight is a visually enthralling metroidvania with intuitive gameplay and an intriguing narrative. Developed by independent studio Team Cherry and released in February of 2017, Hollow Knight follows the story of The Knight; a mysterious traveler to the once-great kingdom of Hallownest. Though his purpose in this land is originally unknown, my purpose in writing this is most certainly the opposite. What I’m here to do is unload my stream of consciousness onto the internet and hope that the end result resembles something of a recommendation or warning for the product I’m talking about! See? Simple.

Speaking of simple, Hollow Knight -- like all good metroidvanias -- begins with a very simple set of tools at the player’s disposal; all of which are taught to you through a delightful and immersive tutorial. You can jump; either tapping the button to perform of a small hop or holding it for a graceful leap with generous air-control. You can attack; swinging you sword (called a “nail” in the wonderfully rich fiction of this world) directly in front of you, above you, or below you if you’re airborne. Lastly, you can use soul -- a substance collected from attacking foes and stored in the top-left of the screen -- to heal yourself should you take any damage. That’s the full scope your abilities from minute one, but -- like all good metroidvanias -- you obviously gain loads more by the end of your journey. Whether combat-based or movement-centric, every upgrade feels natural as it integrates with your starting arsenal, and are both immediately understandable while still allowing for a number of complex applications.

Where complexity most rears its head is in Hollow Knight’s ever-customizable charm system. Throughout your journey, you may find, earn, or purchase charms which will augment or otherwise improve your abilities and how they function. From the Wayward Compass, which allows the player to see their location on the map, to the Baldur Shell, which defends The Knight from a limited number of attacks when they focus soul, each charm allows the player to tailor their moveset to better suit their playstyle. Some even have synergy with one another, making certain combinations of charms particularly interesting and deadly. Be careful though, you’ve only got a set amount of charm slots, and trying to force one that can’t fit may lead to unforeseen outcomes.

What’s not unforseen is Hollow Knight’s incredible attention to detail, with particular care given to the exploration of the game world. Almost every single time I said “I wonder if I could use that to…” the answer would be “Of course you can, and that’s not even the best part…” Backtracking -- like all good metroidvanias -- is central to discovery-based excitement of Hollow Knight. Every single nook and cranny in this insect kingdom begs to be explored and toyed with, and Team Cherry is none too happy to heartilly reward the inquisitive player. From the very first screen of the game, Hollow Knight teaches its players that exploration is both encouraged and rewarded. That rewarding feeling from exploration carries over into the combat side of the game as well, providing players with a rush of adrenaline and accomplishment with each standout boss fight that presents itself. From the clunky and beginner friendly False Knight all the way to the overwhelming and challenging Watcher Knights, Hollow Knight creates interesting encounters that both teach the player to master their tools and stand as memorable roadblocks to your progress as you progress.

Most memorable of all encounters in the game will be your interactions with the various denizens of Hallownest. Sometimes cute, most times creepy, and at all times charming: interacting with the various NPC bugs of Hollow Knight is an absolute treat. Each interesting insect has an immediately recognizable design and personality that sticks with you from your very first encounter with them. Often times they’ll have their own goals to climb toward as well, and your paths may intersect in a variety of creative ways, each one providing another snippet of dialogue. While all the most important characters are designed by Team Cherry themselves, a good amount are actually created by the very people that backed the game as a Kickstarter! In particular, I have to give a shoutout to my bag-headed bestie, Cloth, for being so wonderfully chummy and relatable. Having a generic avatar design sure does pay off in the long run, eh?

Hollow Knight has had quite the long run itself, with four free expansion that come bundled with the base game proper and a seperate paid expansion that features a new playable character with their own quest and story. The four expansion, Hidden Dreams, The Grimm Troupe, Lifeblood, and Godmaster, all add a considerable amount of content to the base game (though Hidden Dreams and Lifeblood were more akin to updates than full expansions). I would highly recommend seeking out all of the content added by these additions, with the wholehearted exception of the final challenge of Godmaster. While the first 80% of the expansion is pulse-pounding, challenging, and enjoyable, the final 20% was so unbearably fun and, dare I say, poorly designed that I can only describe it as a wine stain on an otherwise pure-white shirt. I finished the challenge on principle and completionist urge alone, and that added a mind-bendingly torturous 20 hours to my total playtime. Attempt Godmaster’s finale at your own peril, and for the love of god, give up if it’s too difficult. It’s not worth it.

Hollow Knight as a whole, however, is absolutely worth the asking price and more. I can say without a doubt in my mind that had I paid sixty dollars for this game instead of fifteen I would have been satisfied with my purchase, wholesale. This game is unbearably big, and every moment of my playtime (with the glaring exception of Godmaster’s finale) was spent in absolute joy and awe. I bought this game in the tail end of 2017 and didn’t truly play it until a full calendar year later. Hollow Knight was an adventure worth having, and one I would sincerely recommend to anyone who plays video games. It is an instant classic, a glimmering indie darling, and a criminally underpriced masterpiece. Momodora allowed me to wade into the pool of metroidvania; Hollow Knight threw me into the depths and taught me to swim.

Take that dive, readers. You might just fall in love.

Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged back in... It's me! I'm the garbage that didn't make it to the curb, and I haven't written a review in GOD knows how long. Not for any particular reason, mind you, it's just been a while. Now, I know what you, my wonderful, adoring fans, are surely saying to yourselves now: "Who the hell's this kid? Did he just actually type out 'wonderful, adoring fans' unironically in a video game review? Why am I still even reading this?" Well, dear reader, you're reading my stream of consciousness right now because it's a very old structural joke that I insert into the beginning of all my reviews to get the writin' juices flowing! And now that my mind and fingers are properly, uh, lubricated, let's dive deep into the wonderful, adorable gem of a game.

REVIEW
OneShot

GENRE
Puzzle/Adventure

ONESHOT, originally released in 2014 as a free RPGmaker game, is a hyper-meta puzzle-adventure that follows a child, Niko, on their quest to return the sun to a dying world. Given that this game has already been on the market, so to speak, the question becomes "Is there any new content, and if there is, does it make it worth the price of admission?" That question right there is a puzzle that requires an adventure to answer. So come, take my hand and allow me to be your guiding light on this journey. Opinions form quickly, and as I see it, I only have one shot.

Adventure is the name of the game, and gameplay is structured into two primary parts: discovery and puzzle-solving. Each new area you arrive in brings with it its own interesting terrain and structure; whereas one area may be a simple circle that connects itself in simple and obvious ways, another may be a bundle of islands and ruins that forces you to explore and learn your surroundings. That said, fast travel is an option available from the get go, so traversal of the map, while interesting and fun on the first go, never becomes tiresome or boring. You're allowed to see the sights and bask in them and from then on you can transport to a number of set locations at any time, provided you're not inside a building. Once you've learned where you're at, however, you can engage in the fun part, finding out where you're going and how to get there. OneShot follows in the footsteps of classic adventure games of old, making you find items around the map and implementing them in interesting and unexpected ways to surpass roadblocks to your progress. Items you discover can be combined with others in your inventory given that the combination makes sense for solving a puzzle, and can even be shown to select NPCs to trigger interesting dialogue exchanges.

In terms of difficulty, OneShot neither overwhelmed me nor bored me. Puzzle solutions ranged from simple and logical to creative and nonsensical. Items are often used to solve puzzles in your way, yes, but they're not the only way things get done. As I said, OneShot is a uniquely meta experience, and plays with the fourth wall like a ball of yarn, slowly unraveling it in a joyful frenzy until all that's left is a bare, frayed string. You, the person playing the video game, are often tasked with looking into the files of your own computer to solve puzzles in the game, and it's a treat every time it occurs. Puzzles strike a nice balance between in-game and meta, never leaning on either too hard to feel gimmicky whilst also keeping both sides fresh and surprising. The gameplay of OneShot, while simple when taken as a whole, is wholly creative and readily accessible at the same exact time.

Creativity, may I add, leaks from this game like a Smash Bros. roster to Reddit. From the very first foray into the environment, OneShot delivers dreamlike visuals that remain both inherently familiar and wondrously bizarre. Craters filled with liquid and bright shrimp, dazzling like stars in the sky. Catwalks high above a neon-red city skyline, begging to be explored. Even a simple house can be brought to life by the unique visual style of this game, though immense credit must be given to the soundtrack and sound design as well. Nothing creates tone and atmosphere quite like music does, and the soundtrack to OneShot, while not something i think I'd listen to in my free time, does a tremendous job of conveying the emotions of both the landscape and its characters. Gentle, nostalgic acoustics and pianos accompany harsh synthetic whirrs to create a world which can be at times both inspiring and hopeless. I came into my first playthrough of the game absolutely on edge, as it the opening visuals of a dimly lit, broken down house were backed by mysterious, implacable synths. I truly felt the weight of this otherwise charming world's fate on my shoulders and I carried its last, flickering hope to its destination. OneShot is an emotional experience, and its audio and visual presentation only serve to amplify the impact in ways that a simple narrative not.

If anything negative is to be said of my entire experience, it's this. OneShot is by no means whatsoever a time-consuming game. At the time of writing, I have nine hours of playtime in this title and in that time I have completed the game 100%. I'm by no means a completionist, and I would be well within my means to say that anyone could reasonably do the same as me in less time. That said, OneShot is not short by virtue of incompleteness. This game has a story to tell, a narrative to experience, and it does just that. The adventure is had and any questions that may linger are answered, not that the game doesn't make you work to find your solutions. OneShot comes and goes like a good dream, enjoyable right up until the moment when you snap back to reality and realize that it's gone.

I wish I could truly explain what it is about this game that moves me in the way that it does. Everything about it, from the charming visuals to the endearing characters draws me in in a way that i just don't quite know how to put into words. I play this and catch glimpses of Undertale, where the game points a ♥♥♥♥♥♥ eye at me and asks me what it is I want from it. I hear echoes of Hatoful Boyfriend, wherein a simple exterior collapses to reveals a shining cave full of rich characters and lore. I feel pangs of emotion directly from my own life, of growing up and fearing what may be but being guided towards it nevertheless. OneShot may only be a flash in the pan to most; a simple, charming indie game with a nice hook and interesting characters in a sea of games with just the same qualities. I think it's more than that. I think with that one shot it had, it shined like that far off star that you just can't take your eyes off of. Sure, that one star is just like the one next to it, or the one after that, or even the one after. But if you stop and stare, if you connect yourself to that seemingly unmemorable light in the distance, you might just make a connection that sticks.

You only have one shot, readers. Make it one to remember.

I’m gonna do something a bit differently from how I usually do in these reviews. Now, the paragraph up here that you’re currently reading is what I like to call the ‘hook’ of my review. You read an over-detailed and usually funny anecdote about the game I’m reviewing and then I give you the name and genre, both of which you already know considering you’re on the game’s steam page. After that redundancy I get into the meat of the game, and you probably stop reading about a paragraph or two in because I’m a maniac who consistently goes over the word limit on Steam and has to delete a chunk of his work to put it on the market. I’m gonna swap the format this time.

Warframe is a riveting and highly rewarding looter-shooter. It’s a well-oiled and meticulously crafted addiction machine designed to sap as much time out of your day as possible and then convince you to come back tomorrow. I’m going to be transparent; this game is a grind. There is no reason to play the game other than to play the game. The story is background noise and the lore is a neat addition, but you’re playing this game to shoot stuff and feel badass doing it. In-game rank is tied to mastery, which is gained by leveling items up to 30 and then probably throwing them away to try another new toy, encouraging players to try new things. The game is visually stunning and chock-full of things to do at all times. The customization options are rich, and the premium currency can be traded for and earned free of charge if you learn about the in-game economy. I have not spent a dime on platinum in this game, and you probably won’t have to either. In short, if you love the gameplay, you will love warframe. If you don’t like the gameplay, you didn’t exactly pay for the game so you’re guilt free if you stop playing. That’s all the info you’d look for in a review. Now, if you’ll stick with me for a bit longer, I’d like to tell you a story.

REVIEW
Warframe

GENRE
Action

The year is 2015, and the month is probably November, just as it is at the time of writing. By that time, I was a highschool sophomore. I was, and still am, a ruthless slacker, so I was playing some Warframe instead of doing my year-3 Spanish homework. I was relatively new to the game, so I was trying to get through Venus so I could farm the boss for Rhino warframe parts. I’m not quite sure if Venus was the second planet in the game like it is now, this was before the starmap got redesigned to make sense to a human being. Be that as it may, I was blazing a trail through Venus when I picked up a random player during an exterminate mission. He was a mastery rank below me and using Excalibur, the beginner frame that I’ve never chosen because he looks dumb and Mag is way cooler, I swear. We continued silently, as most players are wont to do when playing with randoms, until about halfway through the mission when he piped up.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was about to get my first real-world test on foreign language. While I did pass, today I couldn’t begin to tell you what he said aside from the rough translation: “Can you help me get through Venus?” Even when I first saw it, I immediately dismissed the query with a quick “No hablo espanol mas. Lo siento.” (“I don’t speak much Spanish. I’m sorry.”) Accepting my self-doubt, we continued onward until I took another look at his message towards the end of the mission, and, to my disbelief, realized that I not only understood it but could also respond in Spanish. So I did just that, essentially saying: “Oh wait, I DO understand what you said. Yes, I will help you through Venus.”

Thus began an hour-long journey with some random guy over the internet who didn't even speak the same language as me. Neither of us talked much aside from simple sentences, considering that’s about all I knew. Before we knew it though, we stood in front of Jackal, the robotic, quadruped boss of the Venus system. A grueling fight ensued as we beginners slowly figured out how to defeat the creature, eventually triumphing. Having fulfilled my word, we parted ways. “Goodbye, friend.” he said.

I spent the rest of the day farming for and building the Rhino warframe components with a dopey, self-fulfilled smile on my face. Not only had I proved to myself that I knew how to utilize Spanish on at least a basic level, I’d been helpful to someone. I went into school the next day with an epic tale to tell my friends, the one you’ve just read now, and the knowledge that when I got home I could start the agonizing 72 hour build for Rhino. When those three days had finished, I don't think I’d ever felt more accomplished in my gaming life for years. Equipping my new frame, I felt as if the game had truly began. Swiftly passing by the many months of gameplay that ensued, I was learning about Prime items when I noticed that two Prime frames were getting vaulted soon: Nova and Rhino. Thus began a rigorous week of grinding which ended, once again, in triumph. A day before being vaulted, Rhino Prime was mine. I got to play with my new toy three days later, and, in the coming weeks, maxed him out to level 30. Rhino would come to be a symbol for me of Warframe, being both a representation of the point where I truly began playing as well as where I stopped.

Just as sudden as a paragraph-break without a proper segue, I stopped playing Warframe and moved on. To give you a frame of reference to when I stopped, Inaros was the newest frame in the game, being that he was released maybe a week prior to my quitting. I had just gotten plenty of new games thanks to sales and all, so of course I had to play those. With 100 hours on record, the game sat unplayed and unthought of in my library until October of 2017. Fresh off of milking Nuclear Throne for all the fun it was worth, I was looking for another game to occupy my every waking hour. Remembering the fond memories of the quirky sci-fi shooter of old, I downloaded the game again. It was like a brand-new product. Plains of Eidolon had just been released and the amount of content added to the game since my leave was downright overwhelming. What’s Endo? What are Void Relics? Why are some people coming out of their warframes?

That was 100 hours ago. But what’s more important to this story is what happened just two days ago. I’d been meaning to learn about clans for a while now, as I’d been skimming the wiki and looking at all the stuff clan research labs could get you. So I went to the recruiting chat, and someone named The WeatherPony took me under his wing and showed me around his clan dojo. I got to look at just exactly what I was missing and, at the end of the tour, join the clan myself. I was astounded. Every single turn I took during this game, someone more experienced was there to help me steer if I needed it.

And then I remembered my old Spanish friend. I realized that, even back then, this game was about learning and teaching. You reach out for help, and several hands will reach back. You rely on others and they rely on you. You coexist. I think that’s beautiful -- this wonderful, unspoken synergy between players. Bonds like that transcend explanation. They transcend language itself.

If you’re still reading by now, which I would imagine you’re doing so while groaning at how wonderfully ‘poetic’ I’ve gotten, I encourage you wholeheartedly to try Warframe. It’s free, it’s fun, and it’s overflowing with content. You’ll be confused. Trying to figure out the game will be like trying to learn a foreign language. You’ll stumble over the basics while others excel. You’ll misunderstand so, so much and maybe never really get it. You’ll think about just giving up entirely and dropping it off your schedule. If that happens, I encourage you to ask for help; I’m sure one of the thousands of teachers will notice your raised hand. And when you sit back down in your seat and see someone else struggling with the same concepts, I encourage you to become the teacher. We’re in this together, Tenno.