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.
33 Immortals is an ambitious game that never quite reconciles the two sides of its identity. At its best, it delivers a compelling premise, a striking artistic vision, and a cooperative gameplay loop built around genuinely clever ideas. At its weakest, those same ambitions are undermined by a limited pool of content, insufficient enemy variety, and a sense of repetition that arrives far sooner than a roguelike should allow. Thunder Lotus doesn’t redefine the genre, nor does it challenge the benchmarks set by its most celebrated contemporaries. What it does deliver, however, is something arguably just as valuable: a game with a clear creative vision, a distinct personality, and an unwavering commitment to making cooperative play genuinely enjoyable. Beneath its rough edges lies an experience that understands a simple but often overlooked truth – that above all else, videogames should be fun. And 33 Immortals is exactly that. Especially when shared with friends, its strengths consistently outweigh its shortcomings, making it easy to overlook many of its structural flaws. Those willing to accept its lack of long-term variety will find a cooperative roguelike that may not reach the genre’s summit, but still earns a recommendation – particularly at its asking price.
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.
I spent a long time thinking about how best to close this review – not so much about what to say, but about how to say it honestly. Because writing about GRIME II is not simply a matter of summarising what has been played; it is an attempt to give shape to something deeper: what was felt, what was experienced, what – quietly –has stayed with me. And that is never simple. Some works can be neatly summarised. Others can be analysed with clarity. And then there are those rarer cases that, while allowing both, still resist any attempt to be contained within a fixed definition. For me, GRIME II belongs firmly to that latter category. And so, after searching for more elaborate, more carefully constructed, more “correct” words, only one remains – simple, instinctive, and entirely genuine: thank you. Because GRIME II is, above all, a work that knows exactly where it comes from. It understands what the first installment was, what it achieved, and where its limits lay. But, most importantly, it knows what it wanted to become. And for that reason, it never tries to be anything other than itself. It does not chase trends, it does not force a reinvention, it does not betray its own identity. It simply evolves. It builds on the strong, unmistakable foundation laid by the first game and expands it with a more considered, more ambitious, more clearly defined vision. And it does so by finding a precise centre, a clear identity: art. Not as decoration. Not as atmosphere alone. But as substance. As the thread that binds everything together. As the principle that runs through every system, every environment, every idea, and ultimately every moment of the experience. That coherence is what makes GRIME II so immediately recognisable. Of course, it is not a perfect game. Some of the rough edges, rigidities, and imperfections already visible in the first entry return here as well. At times the pacing stumbles; at others, certain limitations become difficult to ignore. But, honestly, that is not what lingers. What remains is something else. It is the feeling of standing before a living work. The impression of something carefully shaped, deeply intentional, and fully felt. The kind of experience that, even through its flaws, still manages to leave a mark. Because GRIME II does not stand out for perfection. It stands out for identity. For coherence. For the way it remains entirely, uncompromisingly itself. And so, in the end, the feeling is clear. GRIME II is exactly what I personally wanted from this sequel. A work that grows without losing itself, that changes without distorting itself, that improves without forgetting what it is. An imperfect experience, at times rough, but profoundly sincere. And for that reason, difficult – perhaps impossible – to forget.
Bye Sweet Carole is a work that lives in its fragility – and it is precisely there, within that fragility, that it finds its most authentic power. Vulnerable,imperfect,fully aware of its limits yet unwavering in its intent, Chris Darril’s creation hides nothing, makes no concessions and refuses easy compromises. Every choice, every flaw, every hesitation becomes part of its identity, contributing to an experience that transcends the label “video game”: it is an emotional journey, a dark fable that slips under the skin, unsettles us and lingers long after the screen goes dark.
Twilight Monk is undoubtedly a solid game, especially considering it is the first major project from Aquatic Moon Games following their debut with IKEDA. Its artistic direction, diverse enemy roster, fluid animations, and a straightforward yet self-aware narrative stand out as clear strengths. The level design and map structure are meticulously crafted, showcasing how the studio has adeptly internalized the lessons of the great classics, achieving a well-balanced interplay between portals, save points, and the strategic placement of items and secrets. This all reflects a meticulous attention to world-building. Conversely, the gameplay feels somewhat unrefined, with promising concepts that are not fully realized and certain naïve design choices that can easily undermine an otherwise fundamentally simple game system. Although the combat mechanics are notably weaker—particularly when measured against the benchmark set by recent standout titles—this does not entirely diminish the overall experience, which remains enjoyable. Twilight Monk certainly serves as a good entry point for newcomers to the genre and offers a pleasant pastime for enthusiasts, provided they are willing to accept a modest difficulty level and some roughness in its execution.
There are video games that take you by surprise—titles that quietly tiptoe onto the scene without fanfare or flourish, yet, the moment they reveal themselves, they resonate with an unexpectedly powerful voice. Such words perfectly capture our experience with SEDAP!: a game that slipped in under the radar but swiftly unveiled its full potential—save for a handful of minor, never truly intrusive imperfections—by captivating, engaging, and gifting players an evening teeming with energy, chaos, and delight. It is a cooperative adventure best shared with your trusted partner-in-crime, amidst unruly ingredients, mouthwatering dishes, and a rich culinary culture waiting to be discovered. From the exquisite art direction to the finely tuned sound design,from the tight, fast-paced gameplay to a soundtrack that seamlessly blends into the game’s vibrant rhythm, SEDAP! stands as an essential addition to any fan of the genre. It’s an experience we wholeheartedly recommend to anyone who loved Overcooked and PlateUp! and is eager to rediscover that same cooperative spirit, now reimagined through a heartfelt and flavorful tribute to the vibrant culinary traditions of Southeast Asia.
Koira isn’t just a game—it’s a deeply emotional experience that invites you to slow down, reflect, and feel. As the old saying goes, it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey itself—and Koira makes every step along the way worth taking. Yes, there are bumps—some bugs, a rough save system, and occasional design lapses—but Koira’s heart shines through. Studio TOLIMA’s debut is a beautiful first step, rich with promise and artistic voice. If this is just page one, the story ahead is bound to be something special.
Symphonia is far more than just a video game—it is a deeply heartfelt tribute to the Romantic era of music, a testament to the unwavering love and passion its creators have poured into their craft. The result is an experience that, even in its simplicity, stands out as both unique and profoundly memorable. While not without its imperfections, it is an exquisitely crafted work, executed with the utmost reverence for music as its beating heart.
You know, it’s often said that letting emotions guide you is a mistake, but this time, we feel compelled to share something more personal. For us, Copycat wasn’t merely a game—it was a fleeting yet meaningful life experience. We won’t tell you Copycat is without its flaws, to do so would be disingenuous, not only to what we’ve previously expressed but to ourselves as well. However, it’s precisely these imperfections that make it so beautifully emotional, gripping, and undeniably moving in its imperfect beauty. This is a deeply touching, reflective journey that anyone—no matter your age—should embark on, whether you’re a cat lover or not. It stands as a tribute to the unconditional bond between humans and animals, but it’s also a profound meditation on loneliness, loss, and the essence of family. Despite some understandable limitations, Copycat succeeds in delivering a universal message, one that leaves an indelible mark on the heart of its players.
Creatures of Ava is a delightful yet imperfect surprise. While the game is undeniably enjoyable and features several commendable elements, it falls short of fully realizing the promising ideas envisioned by its developers. This feels like a missed opportunity, as the initial narrative appeal suggested the potential for a more impactful experience. With a bit more fine-tuning, the gameplay mechanics could have evolved into something truly exceptional.
Wéko The Mask Gatherer is a good action-adventure game that is easy to learn and equally simple to master, offering an intuitive and straightforward experience. It adeptly combines the intriguing concept of masks with core features that have made other action-adventures popular. However, despite its strengths, it falls short of the genre’s elite due to some inherent naivety, a byproduct of inexperience. The soundtrack, while well-suited to the game’s narrative and setting with its atmospheric tracks, lacks a distinctive flair and fails to make a memorable impact. Nevertheless, the game is enjoyable and pleasant, making it an ideal choice for those new to the action-adventure genre or anyone seeking a relaxing experience without too much complexity. However, don’t be too quick to dismiss it if you’re an older gamer. Wéko The Mask Gatherer has its own unique charm and may pleasantly surprise you with its engaging gameplay from start to finish.
Setting aside some naivety and technical aspects that require immediate attention, Cookie Cutter is a Metroidvania that will provide you with hours of wholesome fun, intense and blood-pumping battles, and a story that, despite its apparent simplicity, hides beneath its seemingly bare shell a soul waiting to be discovered. It’s an ideal choice for those seeking an unconventional Metroidvania in terms of themes and expressive language, yet equally enjoyable and familiar in gameplay mechanics.
If you’re looking for a captivating and somewhat atypical point-and-click adventure, if you’re passionate about animation styles as bizarre as they are classic, or if you simply want to enjoy a beautiful story with crazy puzzles all in one package, then The Many Pieces of Mr. Coo is the game for you!
MythForce is a video game as bold and ambitious as it is imperfect, with many well-conceived ideas and a captivating concept, but unfortunately, it can’t translate them into a good execution. The result is a video game with good features scattered here and there and notable flaws and limitations that make it a forgettable Roguelike, not up to the task of carving out a significant space in the genre and competing with other great Roguelikes.
Blade of Darkness is a classic homage to its origins. It is nostalgic, violent, powerful, and memorable. SNEG’s remastered succeeds in almost everything it sets out to do, introducing noteworthy innovations to the technical and graphical aspects while preserving the original work’s identity. The gameplay and story remain unchanged, faithful, and untarnished since the 2001 release. While there may be some minor technical limitations and slightly dated graphics compared to contemporary standards, Blade of Darkness shines with numerous strengths and only a few minor weaknesses. It is a must-have for anyone seeking action, blood, and a bit of wholesome fun.
DOOM Eternal is not simply an updated or improved version of DOOM (2016) or a more of the same. We are witnessing a true evolution that redefines and innovates its standards with new proposals that almost always manage to be efficient and perfect for use.
Moo Lander is the new action-adventure RPG developed by the Bulgarian team The Sixth Hammer. A memorable and unusual adventure with a compelling narrative, difficult environmental puzzles, and furious combat
Scorn has left an indelible impression on us. One of those video games that must be experienced in their entirety, resulting from years of development, passion, and expertise, squeezing the players’ minds into a psychological journey where the illusion of nightmare meets realities. It is a new first-person survival horror game with a strong artistic component, a technical and sound sector that pays close attention to the smallest details, a gameplay based on the resolution of complex puzzles, and a simple but unusual combat system.
A Plague Tale: Requiem is everything I’ve hoped for. The ideal and definitive sequel for anyone who has played the prequel or has simply empathized with or grown attached to the De Rune family. This is why I’d like to share with you today an extremely personal review of a project that captivated me from start to finish, dragging me into a whirlwind of emotions, passion, and indescribable sensations.