This game has heart; the kind of heart that is difficult to pin down but impossible to deny. It is a wonderful story about terrible people, and a vivacious, tremendously sad tribute to nature itself. There is so much beauty and joy in this expensive, exhausting thing. Somehow that makes it even more perfect—a breathtaking eulogy for a ruined world, created by, about, and for a society that ruined it.
Most every task the game has set before me has been entertaining, challenging, and rewarding. Yet I feel my former student's weariness mixing in with my usual optimism. There's always something else to go do, but on the other hand, there's always something else to go do.
It does not reinvent; it refines. It does not rebuild; it polishes. It contains few ideas that I haven't seen in other games, yet it feels fresh all the same due to how much care has been put into every character, every battle, every frame of animation, and every square inch of its massively minuscule subterranean civilization.
Detroit tells a story of robots who look and act relatively human, making their way through a nonsense world where everyone, even the humans, doesn't actually look or act human at all. It's a fragmented radio broadcast from a valley within the uncanny valley, so many layers deep in unreality that it could never hope to make it out intact.