Maseylia: Echoes of the Past carries the metroidvania into three dimensions, an attempt few developers have made this way. Sol Brothers, led almost single-handedly by Victor Abresol with help from two brothers and one collaborator, builds a vertical, interconnected labyrinth openly inspired by Moebius: clean lines, monumental architecture, and a palette that shifts by zone to guide orientation. Vertical platforming (double jump, 360° air dash, grappling hook) stands out as the game’s real strength, surprising even genre veterans. Environmental storytelling, following Hollow Knight’s “mysterious” model, entrusts the narrative to ruins, Beacons, and scattered fragments rather than cutscenes or direct exposition. The flip side shows up on the technical front: glitches, imprecise geodata, shaky camera handling in the more complex vertical sections, and underdeveloped combat, with unstable lock-on and weak enemy AI that drag down even the boss fights. The result is an ambitious, visually memorable title with smart design ideas, held back by widespread roughness that undercuts its potential. Not a title to dismiss, but an unpolished work that asks players for patience and clearly needs further refinement from the team.
Sol Cesto reaches 1.0 with an already mature visual identity and a system that, beneath the “pick a row and hope” formula, hides more calculation than it lets on: dynamic probabilities in plain view, teeth that alter their distribution, powers that break the movement rules. It works when the player manages to read the risk rather than suffer it; it creaks when chance takes back everything the math had built. An easy recommendation for anyone who loves the reasoned gambling of roguelites; a harder sell for anyone after dense execution or narrative.
There is a piece of advice that often follows those who write about video games: “Never become too attached to a game, otherwise you may lose the ability to judge it objectively.” It is a principle built on good intentions. Criticism requires distance, the willingness to acknowledge flaws even in works we admire, and the discipline to separate personal affection from critical evaluation. Yet there is another danger, one that is perhaps easier to overlook: becoming so accustomed to breaking games down into mechanics, systems, technical performance, and design choices that we lose sight of the reason we fell in love with this medium in the first place. Before we were critics, we were players. We were the people who stood in awe before impossible landscapes, who formed genuine connections with fictional characters, and who found comfort, inspiration, or even moments of personal reflection within stories experienced through a screen. Beneath all the discussions surrounding resolution, frame rates, level design, and mechanical depth lies the fundamental quality that has always defined video games at their best: their ability to make us feel something. The Midnight Walk is a reminder of that simple, yet often forgotten truth. It would be easy to conclude this review by focusing exclusively on what MoonHood has achieved: a handcrafted world sculpted from hundreds of pieces of clay, an artistic identity unlike anything else in the current landscape, a hauntingly beautiful soundtrack, and an extraordinary level of care that can be felt in every frame. All of that would be true. It would also be fair to acknowledge that the game’s intentionally restrained approach to gameplay comes with limitations. Its mechanics are deliberately simple, and while this minimalism perfectly supports the atmosphere and philosophy of the experience, certain systems and encounters could have benefited from greater depth, variety, and refinement. But reducing The Midnight Walk to a collection of strengths and weaknesses would only reveal a fraction of what makes it special. Some games are remembered because of what they offer: the number of mechanics they introduce, the size of their worlds, or the complexity of their systems. Others remain with us because of something far more difficult to quantify, the feeling they leave behind once everything has ended. That moment after the credits, when the screen fades and there is no immediate desire to move on to the next experience. When instead, there is a quiet pause. A moment spent remembering the journey, the characters, the places visited, and the emotions that accompanied every step. That is where the difference between a game that simply entertains and one that genuinely resonates becomes clear. During the journey alongside Potboy, The Midnight Walk repeatedly encourages players to slow down. Not through artificial restrictions, but through the natural pull of its world. There are moments when the player stops simply to observe the way a small flame illuminates the cracks of an unfinished clay surface, to listen to the silence of a world that has lost its sun, or to reconsider creatures that would have been instinctively labelled as monsters elsewhere. And perhaps this is MoonHood’s greatest achievement: not making players believe that this world is real, but making them care enough to see it differently. Throughout its entire adventure, The Midnight Walk quietly asks a question that extends far beyond its own narrative: what happens when we stop seeing darkness as something to fear? For generations, stories have taught us to associate darkness with danger, evil, and the unknown. It is something to overcome, something to illuminate, something from which we must protect ourselves. MoonHood chooses a far more thoughtful path. Here, darkness is not presented as an absence of hope, but as an essential part of existence itself. Because without darkness, light would have no meaning. And once our perception of darkness changes, so does the way we perceive those who live within it. The creatures encountered throughout the journey are not simply enemies waiting to be defeated. They are beings shaped by loneliness, grief, hunger, and the desperate search for warmth. They are not manifestations of evil, but reflections of a world that has forgotten how important compassion and understanding can be. This is where The Midnight Walk’s metaphor becomes truly powerful. Beneath its handcrafted surfaces and gothic fairy-tale aesthetic lies a deeply human observation: how often do we choose judgment before understanding? How often do we fear what is different before taking the time to listen? MoonHood does not suggest that darkness can simply disappear. Instead, it offers a more meaningful idea: not everything that exists within the darkness deserves to be feared. The brightest light is not always the one that reveals the path ahead. Sometimes, it is the one that allows us to see others more clearly. When the journey finally comes to an end, what remains is not only the memory of a remarkable artistic achievement, a world painstakingly crafted from clay, or a soundscape capable of transforming silence into emotion. What remains is something much harder to define. A small flame. A fragile source of warmth that continues to burn even when everything around it has fallen into darkness. And perhaps that is the true beauty of The Midnight Walk. MoonHood has created a game that understands creativity is at its most powerful when it is used to explore something deeply human. Because the most memorable games are not always the ones that overwhelm us with their scale or ambition. Sometimes, they are the ones that quietly change the way we look at the world. The Midnight Walk is one of those rare experiences. Not a flawless game, but an honest and deeply heartfelt one. A journey that does not pretend to have every answer, but possesses the courage to ask the questions that truly matter. And sometimes, the right question can be more powerful than any answer.
This Is Fine: Maximum Cope takes a meme that anyone who’s spent time online knows by heart and turns it into an honest metroidvania, with five worlds that map out five stages of distress – humiliation, fear, failure, loss, regret – each with a precise aesthetic and a boss that marks the passage to the next. The game structure doesn’t complicate the player’s life: abilities unlock quickly, the map clears in almost a straight line, and fast travel becomes available right away. The visual style bets everything on hand-drawn animation, true to the original comic-strip roots, without chasing technical ambitions it doesn’t need. The real battlefield the game plays on is tone: it starts playful and sarcastic, then grows steadily darker with Loss and Regret, without ever sliding into rhetoric or moralizing. It’s a simple setup, especially on the combat front, but it’s a simplicity that holds up well if you approach the game with the right mindset – more an experience to move through than a challenge to beat. Question Hound, in the end, confirms himself as a perfectly tragic character dressed up as a meme, and that’s exactly his winning card.
Creepy Tale: Snow Child is the most ambitious project Creepy Brothers have released to date, and the one in which their visual and narrative identity asserts itself with full confidence. A three-person Russian team – a programmer, an artist, a sound engineer – has built a hand-drawn interactive adventure that works on multiple levels simultaneously: as a hero’s journey, as a story about found family, as a meditation on identity and moral choice, and as the most structurally complex chapter in a series that critics have long described as anthological. Snow Child revises that description. There is a universe under construction here, with precise callbacks to previous titles and threads left deliberately open. At the centre of it all is Blizzy – an eleven-year-old boy with horns, raised by a creature called Furry in a forest somewhere between fairy tale and fable. When Blizzy breaks a seal he was forbidden to touch, he sets in motion a chain of events that sends him straight to Hell. What follows is a journey through an infernal city that is, unmistakably, Venice – lava canals, Gothic architecture, a Carnival poster in elegant nineteenth-century calligraphy – populated by some of the most memorable characters in the series: Adele, a Shakespearean antagonist with a sharpened tuning fork and a bipolar register; the Sarto, a Russian couturier who slips into Italian profanity when his composure breaks; Molek, a candy-loving devil with a habit of guiding human children through situations they shouldn’t survive. The writing is dry, often pragmatic, and gains warmth from a narrator who punctuates the story with philosophical questions. The gameplay matches this variety: stealth, platforming, environmental puzzles, quick-time events, and combat combine in a structure where each mechanic earns its place through narrative logic rather than the need to vary the pace. The art direction – hand-drawn, densely detailed, with a colour palette that functions as a storytelling instrument – represents the clearest evolution from Benjamin Lacombe’s early influence toward something entirely the team’s own. The original Russian voice acting and a tonally versatile soundtrack complete a remarkably cohesive package. Snow Child is one of those games you keep thinking about after you finish it. Not because it overwhelms you with feeling – if anything, it holds back – but because Blizzy, Furry, Gobbly and the rest stay with you, and their lives keep occupying your thoughts. This is exactly what happens when a story is written well.
1997 RELOADED is a project built around an idea that genuinely deserves to exist. Gaigo Studio imagined an entire alternate decade – the Roxyverse, a version of the 1990s in which grunge never happened and Los Angeles was the beating heart of alt-rock – and populated it with fictional artists complete with careers, feuds, and a credible mythology. The original soundtrack, performed by top-tier professional vocalists, stands as the project’s highest point and one of the most accomplished pieces of musical worldbuilding you will find in an independent video game. The problem is that the rest of the game struggles to match it. 1997 RELOADED is a kinetic visual novel – a format that transfers the entire weight of the experience onto the quality of the prose – and the writing does not always bear that responsibility. The dialogue tends to tell instead of show, the characters reconstruct the cold case with the tone of a police report rather than a conversation between teenagers, and the gap between the sophistication of the concept and the scene-by-scene execution is difficult to ignore. The art, entirely hand-drawn and produced without AI assistance, has moments of genuine personality – especially in compositions set against dark backgrounds – but proves uneven in close-up and suffers from the contrast between the drawn figures and the photographic backgrounds. Players who approach 1997 RELOADED primarily as a musical experience will find something unusual and worthwhile. Those who come to it looking for a story that matches its universe will have to contend with an execution that does not always live up to its ambition.
Dread Neighbor is a game that knows what it wants to be, and commits to it without hesitation. The multi-perspective structure is its most original contribution to the genre: five characters, five rhythms, one threat that has already passed through more lives than the player initially realizes. The progressive loop system holds up across all five chapters, and the three-ending structure – with a true ending that demands attention and resistance – gives the experience a depth that rewards those willing to look closely rather than simply follow the path. That said, the limitations are real. The progression is linear to a fault, and in certain passages the game guides so firmly that the scares become predictable before they arrive. The antagonist, visually one of the most effective elements of the entire experience, loses coherence in the chase sequences, where the realistic register the game spent hours building gives way to something less precise. These are cracks, not chasms – but they register. What remains after the final screen is the sense of having moved through something built with genuine care and a recognizable voice. ghostcase knows its territory, and Dread Neighbor, for all its imperfections, is a step forward worth taking.
There are video games where words fall short. Forgotlings is one of them: a work that resists easy description, because it does not simply tell a story — it builds an experience that continues to settle long after the screen goes dark. Throughline Games returns to the universe of Forgotton Anne with a prequel that expands its emotional foundations without betraying its spirit. The Forgotten Lands are not a backdrop: they stand as the direct consequence of our most daily and most overlooked act — forgetting. Here objects do not disappear: they awaken, acquire identity, seek a meaning that no longer depends on whoever once owned them. And in this space suspended between memory and abandonment, Forgotlings poses a question no game truly resolves — because the answer, here, is not the point. At the center stands Fig, a posing doll without a role or a past, who becomes a mediator between five tribes unable to speak to one another: the Videra, custodians of memory; the Aufero, engines of progress; the Servus, devoted to care; the Sonavi, perpetual explorers; the Karus, seekers of transcendence. Each carries a different answer to the same crisis — the loss of function — and none is right. None is wrong. They are all real, all partial, all profoundly human. The gameplay mirrors this complexity: it does not impose, it exposes itself. Combat stays deliberately marginal, almost as a reminder that violence is always the last resort. Exploration unfolds as a slow breath through environments built to be inhabited, not cleared. And it is in relationship management — through the Choice Wheel and the silent ritual of INA, the board game that becomes a shared grammar between tribes — that Forgotlings finds its most authentic voice. That said, this narrative vocation carries a cost: the dialogues are often very extensive, and at certain moments their weight slows the rhythm of the experience considerably. For those willing to embrace the game’s reflective cadence, this presents no obstacle; for those seeking a more sustained flow, it demands a patience that does not always pay off immediately. The art direction is extraordinary: thousands of hand-drawn frames, tribe-differentiated color palettes, a character design where the physical nature of each object becomes its expressive tool. Peter Due’s soundtrack, performed by the Theatre of Voices, does not accompany the game: it forms a structural part of it, carrying autonomous narrative information through leitmotifs that transform, interweave, and resonate well beyond any single scene. There are works that do not ask to be understood, but felt. Works that do not seek to impress, but to stay. Forgotlings is exactly this: an experience that does not consume itself as you live it, but settles slowly, like fine dust on the soul, returning at the most unexpected moments, when silence makes room for the truest thoughts. Throughline Games does not simply build a prequel: it makes a gesture that is more intimate, almost vulnerable. It returns to an already beloved universe not to expand it in the traditional sense, but to draw even closer to its beating heart. The Forgotten Lands are not just a world to explore – they are a shared wound, the inevitable consequence of something all of us, without exception, do every day: let go, forget, turn the page. Yet here, what we forget does not vanish. It remains. It breathes. It seeks. And it is precisely this seeking that makes Forgotlings so profoundly human. Because beneath the surface of objects coming to life hides a disarming truth: the need to exist in someone’s eyes, to have a purpose, to feel that one’s own being – however small, however fragile – still carries meaning. Fig embodies all of this with a rare delicacy. She is not a hero, not special in the conventional sense. She is incomplete. She is uncertain. She is, at her core, profoundly alone. And for exactly that reason she becomes the point of connection between worlds that can no longer recognize one another. Hers is a silent search, made of attempts, hesitations, small steps that often lead to no answers but open new questions. The five tribes she encounters are not simple narrative factions, but reflections of different ways of facing the same fear: the fear of no longer having a purpose. The Videra cling to the past as to an anchor; the Aufero look ahead with a determination that borders on obsession; the Servus find meaning only in being useful to others; the Sonavi never stop searching, as if standing still meant vanishing; the Karus pursue something higher, almost seeking to transcend their own existence. No judgment runs through any of this. No right or wrong. Only truth – fragmented, imperfect, but authentic. And perhaps this is precisely where Forgotlings manages to touch something so deep: in reminding us that we too, in different ways, belong a little to all of these visions. The game never forces your hand. It does not tell you what to feel, nor how to interpret what happens. It gives you space. It gives you time. And in this space, in this time, something happens. The gameplay becomes almost an emotional extension: combat is rare, distant, as if the game itself wanted to whisper that real answers do not live there. Exploration is never frantic, but contemplative, like a walk through a place you do not truly want to leave. And then there are the relationships. Fragile, complex, never obvious. Every choice on the Choice Wheel is not just a narrative direction, but a small act of trust – or of distance. INA, the board game, becomes something more than a mechanic: it is a shared language for when words no longer suffice, an attempt to understand one another even when everything seems to divide. Granted, this depth carries a price. The dialogues expand, linger, insist. There are moments where the rhythm slows almost to a halt, asking of the player a patience that today is no longer so common. But perhaps this is precisely the point: Forgotlings does not want to be consumed quickly. It wants to be lived. And truly living something requires time. The art direction amplifies every emotion without ever overwhelming it. Every hand-drawn detail conveys a care that feels almost affectionate, as if every element came into being not only to be seen, but to be felt. Colors tell as much as the dialogues; shapes speak as much as the silences. The music, then, does not accompany: it envelops. The themes interweave, return, transform – just like the thoughts that move through us when we try to make sense of what we are living. It is a constant presence, discreet but essential. In the end, Forgotlings does not leave you with a clear answer. It leaves you with something harder to define, but infinitely more precious: a feeling. The awareness that meaning is not something one finds once and for all, but something one builds, slowly, in the smallest choices, in the most fragile bonds, in the moments when one decides to stay instead of walking away. This is a game about what remains when everything else fades. About what we are when no one is watching. About what we choose to remember – and about what, perhaps, we should never forget.
Ink Inside is a hybrid action RPG developed by Blackfield Entertainment LLC and published by Entalto Publishing. It combines beat’em up and dodgeball combat mechanics with layered storytelling set inside a hand-drawn notebook universe. The game constructs its cosmology with care — the Great Folding, the Cores, the Genetic Memory — and keeps its mechanics and its lore in conversation throughout. A full voice cast, live-action cutscenes, and art direction built entirely by hand give the game a visual and narrative identity that is genuinely hard to replicate. An ambitious debut that declares its serial intentions clearly and follows through on them, delivering a strong first chapter and a world worth returning to.
Fate’s Theater delivers a compact experience that reframes the card game as a narrative tool. Through combinations of archetypes and a structure built around the tension between Fortune and Misfortune, the game generates rhyming micro-tales that compress entire situations into a few lines. The system stays intentionally light: rather than controlling outcomes, the player nudges them, leaving room for unpredictability. The real strength lies in the writing, which sustains variety and keeps curiosity alive. Limited mechanical depth may surface over time, but it fits an experience designed for short, immediate sessions.
My Father Lied is a narrative mystery built around puzzles that weaves a personal story with seven thousand years of Mesopotamian history, archaeology, and cultural memory. The game follows Huda, an archaeologist searching for the truth behind her father’s disappearance, turning a private investigation into a broader reflection on knowledge, identity, and the power of historical narratives. Through gameplay focused on observation, logic, and careful reading, My Father Lied demands patience and attention, then rewards them with a coherent and engaging progression. Its restrained art direction and 2D illustrated sequences reinforce the game’s reflective tone, while political and cultural themes remain central through to a measured, emotionally resonant ending. A dense and ambitious experience, recommended to players who value thoughtful storytelling alongside puzzle-solving.
HORSES is a deeply author-driven horror experience that uses the language of videogames to portray a world where violence does not appear as an exceptional event, but gradually integrates into everyday life. Through an essential structure, restrained narration, and a strongly symbolic staging, the game builds a subtle and persistent form of horror that works through habituation, impotence, and the growing difficulty of distancing oneself from an internalized system. The experience does not aim for immediate shock or spectacle, but for a constant sense of unease that moves through bodies, gestures, and spaces. HORSES observes violence from within, showing how it can become accepted, managed, and sustained over time through roles and routines, without the need for explicit justification. The result is an uncomfortable, coherent, and courageous work that rejects traditional entertainment in favor of a disturbing and self-aware reflection, one that leaves a lasting mark precisely because it avoids compromise.
Ayasa: Shadows of Silence grows from a sincere intention and a clear love for a genre that has reached a high level of maturity. From the very beginning, the game shows a strong desire to tell its story through images, silence, and symbols, alongside the ambition to build a dark, melancholic, and reflective experience. The problem lies in the lack of adequate support for this ambition within the game’s ludic and technical structure. The gameplay, built around stealth, environmental puzzles, and a completely defenseless protagonist, demands precision, rhythm, and consistency that the game fails to provide on a regular basis. The result often feels frustrating, not because of an intentionally demanding challenge, but due to structural limitations. Even on an artistic level—arguably the game’s strongest aspect—Ayasa struggles to truly stand out. The atmosphere works and the imagery leaves an impact, but the identity remains weak and heavily derivative, especially when compared with titles that have defined this visual and narrative language over the past years. The final outcome leaves a sense of bitterness rather than outright anger. Players can perceive the heart of the project, but they can also feel how the game reached release before achieving sufficient maturity. Ayasa does not represent a complete failure, but rather an immature debut that shows how, in this genre, intention alone cannot replace solid execution.
Midori no Kaori does not target players who seek complex challenges or deep management systems. It offers a slow, intentional, and deeply relaxing experience, designed for those who enjoy cozy games, automation, and the act of building spaces meant to be lived in rather than optimized. Its greatest strength lies in coherence: every design choice works to reduce pressure and support personal engagement. If the idea of building a zen Japanese restaurant, letting it run almost on its own, and returning to it whenever you feel the need appeals to you, this indie title deserves attention.
Yooka-Replaylee revisits its origins with care and purpose. Playtonic Games modernizes the 2017 platformer without losing its charm, refining controls, pacing, and accessibility while giving the series the polish it always deserved. A few imperfections remain — minor glitches, occasional camera quirks, and weaker Switch performance — but the overall result stands out as a thoughtful restoration rather than a simple upgrade. A bright, confident return that blends old-school charm with modern design sensibility.
Mai: Child of Ages marks a turning point for Chubby Pixel and for the Italian indie scene. It blends dungeons, puzzles, and combat into a journey where time unlocks themes of identity, growth, and memory. The game may not escape challenges and rough edges, but its vision and courage make it a work worth following, one that claims a place on the international stage.
Sub-Verge speaks to a precise audience: players who enjoy interactive storytelling, moral dilemmas, and narratives unafraid of dark outcomes. It demands patience, attention to detail, and a willingness to move forward through words rather than constant action. For others, it might feel more like an illustrated tale than a “traditional” game. But for those drawn to experiences blending psychology, science fiction, and underwater tension, Sub-Verge offers a short yet intense dive — with a final sequence that will hold your breath for you. And not just because of the oxygen. Recommended for anyone ready to immerse themselves in a tense, atmospheric tale where survival depends on the trust you earn.
Blue Prince doesn’t hold your hand, and that’s exactly what makes it memorable. It asks for patience, curiosity, and a willingness to explore beyond the surface. Its strange, shifting mansion becomes more than a setting—it transforms into a psychological and symbolic journey. Every room carries meaning. Every decision echoes forward. Behind its clean visuals and quiet tone hides one of the most cleverly designed gameplay experiences of recent years. It rewards those who pay attention, those who think, and especially those who come back after failing. Whether you treat it as a mystery to solve or a coming-of-age tale in disguise, Blue Prince leaves a mark.
Jump the Track delivers a sharp, stylish, and surprisingly heartfelt visual novel that mixes social satire, absurd humor, and pachinko mechanics to tell the story of a teenager rebelling against a rotten world. Short but packed with impact, the game hooks you with its striking visuals and smart writing.
The Lies We Tell Ourselves – Chapter One delivers a powerful and unsettling introduction to a psychological narrative that ventures deep into the human psyche. Through a symbolic, story-driven gameplay experience rich in atmosphere, the game invites players to explore Vincent’s fragmented mind, suspended between reality and nightmare, past and present. With refined writing, masterful art direction, and a haunting soundtrack, this opening chapter lays the foundation for an emotional and metaphysical journey that will linger with attentive and emotionally attuned players.