Aaron Riccio's Reviews
Ultimately, Harold Halibut’s abundance of charm doesn’t translate to the game being charming, and in the end, while there’s plenty to see here, there’s just nothing to do.
As a whole, BIOMORPH doesn’t live up to the unique promise of its killer creature designs.
All that said, Showtime! is relentlessly charming, and its short, relatively uncomplicated plays will probably kill with a younger demographic. In fact, the setting also plays to the game’s favor whenever secret areas are too obviously telegraphed: Being able to see the strings, like the ones holding up Kung Fu Peach’s martial-arts marionette rival, is a part of the overall aesthetic and performance, not a mark against it. In the end, and perhaps above all, it’s just peachy to see such love given to the arts, with Darkle foes dispatched as much by dazzlingly synchronous ice skating and “the power of song” as by lassos, katanas, and a properly parrying kick.
Despite being occasionally funny, the game is never fun.
Ultros respects its players enough to make them work hard for the best ending. Accordingly, it never feels like a waste of time to manually connect your save points to the overall network (so that you can fast travel between them) or to gather the right seeds, spray them into the proper orientation, and occasionally splice together parts into hybrid platforms. If anything, these deliberate actions serve to sow a deeper sense of purpose and understanding of conservation in players. In doing so, Hadoque’s marvelous creation stands leafs and branches above not only other puzzle platformers, but most other socially conscious games as well.
Though the length of Ghosts of New Eden’s campaign is useful in establishing the intimate relationship between Red and Antea, it makes the rest of the game feel padded, especially if you’re doing the enjoyable, story-rich sidequests. There just aren’t enough enemy types or Manifestation skills to keep combat feeling fresh, and what you learn within the game’s first 10 hours is more or less what you’ll be doing for the subsequent 20 to 30.
It’s fascinating to see all the ways in which time flows (or doesn’t) throughout the game’s varied regions, as in the frozen Raging Seas, a series of eternally fixed waves and ships locked in battle, some mid-explosion. These places not only serve narrative purposes, but also thematic ones, in that the astral clockwork calendars of the Upper City demonstrate the terrifying effects of broken time as much as the encounters that Sargon may have with alternate versions of himself, some of whom would stop at nothing—including “self”-harm—to break the city’s curse. Put simply, time isn’t merely an effect in The Lost Crown—it’s the consequential core of the game.
It’s indicative of the game’s clear messaging that despite multiple car crashes, a delirious dream sequence, a high-stakes infiltration, and more, the moment that most stands out is a relatively quiet one: Trevor sitting at a piano, playing an original piece that he’s composed. For all the time spent controlling him up to that point, this is the first time where Angela, and by extension the player, can see him as an independent person, one capable of making his own decisions (in this case, his art). That glimpse of his humanity is a moving little flourish that attests to American Arcadia’s belief that we all deserve freedom from coercion and an unreal life.
The aha-moment click of solving a puzzle is consistently satisfying, and on that level alone, The Talos Principle 2 delivers in spades. But where it soars is in the way that the discrete parts introduced throughout the game slowly begin to come together, revealing something akin to one massive, interlocking bit of machinery. If you buy into the game’s conceit, that humans are themselves machines, then these aha moments are more than just the thrill of accomplishment and more like a celebration of our inquisitive humanity and capacity for growth.
Though Jusant gets a bit fanciful in its last level, abandoning its natural elements for an astronomical excursion, the rapturous feeling of climbing the seemingly unclimbable continues to drive the game forward. This is where Jusant’s deliberate, precise mechanics are so vital, as the more responsive the controls, the more responsible players are for each outcome. Nothing is impossible, the game suggests. You just have to take it one step at a time.
Thankfully, every inch of Wonder is bursting with personality, from Mario squeezing through a pipe after eating an Elephant Fruit to your being able to place cardboard cutouts to mark a path for others online and in co-op. That this short and relatively easy game never forces you to master (or even use) abilities like a grappling hook or gliding cap speaks to just how much it’s trying to do, but such minor flaws don’t come at the expense of joy. Wonder is a platforming playground for all ages that, at its best, redefines Mario’s world as one of unlimited potential.
Umbral is a beautiful dark twisted fantasy, and then there’s all of Axiom to explore as well. The developers have made the most of these realms, layering distinct challenges atop one another. And the result is the best of both worlds: Axiom’s dense, gothic world (and its interconnected twin in Umbral) and a second life with which to better appreciate the masocore combat.
Mirage ought to have been more than the dim illusion of where the series has already traveled.
The chaotic adaptability in the face of whatever weird mash-up of things that Moving Out 2 throws at you is what makes it more than just a delivery machine for so many puns. The silliness of being a F.A.R.T. is predicated on enjoyable, rock-solid gameplay. If you want to see everything the game has to offer, your moving techniques will have to change right along with the dimensions themselves. That is, after all, what moving’s all about: never sitting still.
Atlas Fallen only falters when it feels as if it’s slowing down its flow, as with an ill-considered sidequest that requires you to carefully follow wildlife to their buried treasures. The faster the game moves, the better it plays, whether that’s in combat or as you traverse a sunken city, occupied swamp, or desert ruin. Stick around past the sluggish first act and both the gameplay and plot get the hint, speeding ahead with the most enjoyable kind of recklessness.
It doesn’t help just how stubbornly Illusion Island’s gameplay traffics in the familiar. It’s not until the last level that it takes off the training wheels and offers much of a challenge for older audiences, but it’s disappointing that it’s game over just as the campaign is getting a head of steam up. Illusion Island, then, has enough magic to make you wish there was more of it.
The background music that plays in each of the hub worlds is jazz, and it’s just as intentional as any of the photographs. Jazz is filled with spontaneous moments of harmony, which turns out to be the main ingredient and lure of Viewfinder. This is a game that, as you retrace the steps of four disparate people who did their best to save humanity, lets you riff along the way.
In all, the game has everything you’d expect of a Meat Boy title, right down to the narrative—a playful, unobtrusive shaggy dog story that builds to a predictably but no less hilariously crass punchline. Turns out that Dr. Fetus building this entire game just to flip Meat Boy the bird is, yes, frivolous and excessive but also, like Mean Meat Machine itself, perfectly fitting.
The most delightfully surprising thing about Harmony is that using the Augural board never feels clinical, given that the choices you make throughout attest to the game’s belief that logic and empathy aren’t mutually exclusive. You almost always know what the rewards are for each of your choices, so picking an option that, say, doesn’t yield egregore, the crystalized energy that fuels each Aspiration and serves as a sort of skill check for certain nodes, demonstrates a real commitment to helping others, not for one’s own sake, but for the sake of others.
Most radio shows have a clear and compelling sense of identity—some sort of distinguishing characteristic that they commit to. That certainly applies to Killer Frequency itself, as it’s a stylishly campy ode to ’80s slashers that’s as unpredictable as it is breezily entertaining. Which isn’t to say that it’s a featherweight experience. The game, after all, touches on the almost sycophantic relationship between a killer who wouldn’t be as feared without news coverage and a show which would have far fewer listeners without relaying said coverage. In all, Killer Frequency is an accessible, relatable adventure that won’t leave you wanting to touch that dial.