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Jamboree may not be about to hit the tournament circuit, but its very recognition of demand for a Mario Party with game balance is encouraging. Its basic game rules preserve series norms in all their highs and lows, while its motion-based gimmick modes offer nostalgic throwbacks to the wrist-twisting game designs of the Wii. But it’s the overtures to a more tactile, grounded, skill-rewarding board game experience that indicate developer Nintendo Cube’s interest in a future, and not just a past, for the genre of party mayhem.
The themes here are painted with a broad brush, but their refusal to get down to specifics doesn’t mean that they don’t still ring true. The game bittersweetly fixates on parenthood, as you watch Neva herself grow and outpace Alba as the seasons pass, and on the destruction of the natural world, which in turn makes it more hostile and violent. And then there’s the connective thread between the two—that even when it feels like everything is falling apart, because sometimes it literally is, the only thing you can do is keep moving.
It’s with all that in mind that it’s fairly easy to forgive just how little has been done to bring Shadows of the Damned up to code in 2024. Especially by contrast to the botched remaster of Suda51’s Lollipop Chainsaw, it’s almost a relief that the worst that can be said for this release is that it’s indistinguishable from the original, aside from a mild spitshine of the textures and it running at 4K60. Without trying to run an expensive graphical arms race, Shadows of the Damned is forced to stand on charm. Given just how many unique experiences exist outside the AAA bubble right now, the fact that Garcia Hotspur’s wild profane trash-sploitation adventure still does is a timely reminder of what can happen in the arena of AA games.
ReFantazio has a nearly hour-long, combat-free epilogue that jumps forward in time to demonstrate the consequences of the decisions you’ve made, and it’s not only as compelling as everything prior, but it’s perhaps the most political part of the whole campaign. Here, too, ReFantazio shows you what it values, which is both the big life-or-death boss battles that put your ideals to the test and the ripple effects of their consequences.
There’s a unique thrill to playing as Zelda: Sorcerer Supreme, but some hours into Echoes of Wisdom, especially the more that Zelda conjures bigger and badder creatures to smite her enemies, it still leaves the player wondering when, exactly, we get to play as Zelda: The Hero of Time. Nintendo remains a market leader in giving players what they didn’t know they needed rather than what they adamantly wanted, and Echoes of Wisdom is an excellent showcase for why that is, but it’s hard to shake just how many of Zelda’s problems could be solved just by letting her have a sword and an ocarina in the first place.
More than once, as I repeatedly threw myself against Kill Knight’s considerable challenges, I suddenly felt a tear running down my face and realized that I hadn’t blinked in what felt like an eternity. It was as though I had returned to my body from some unknowable elsewhere.
Silent Hill 2 has been reborn by a series of smart, subtle, and elegant choices, including an expanded take on the original’s haunting soundtrack by Yamaoka Akira himself. Bloober Team haven’t made a game to replace the original so much as it’s made one that honors it, giving a uniquely and distressing tale a way to retain its power in a modern gaming landscape.
Despite the spectacular presentation and thought-provoking story, though, there’s a nagging sense that Phoenix Springs is just a bit too vague. The game is drenched in interesting themes—the horror of immortality, the fragility of memory, the clashing of nature and technology—and yet it never seems willing to pin any of these ideas down with specifics.
It’s more than just a big, beautiful celebration of PlayStation gaming over the last 30 years or so, but an absolute triumph of just straight-up, uncompromised, guileless fun in video games in general.
That context lends real stakes to the fictional pursuits of Jot and his two childhood friends: Violet, a witch who dabbles in painting, and Thrash, a mountain troll with a penchant for drumming. Their successes are Sam’s, and the player’s. The Plucky Squire emphasizes the importance of our dreams, hoping to motivate players in the same way that the book within the game aims to cheer on Sam. Creativity doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be inspiring. And in that regard, The Plucky Squire knows how to always pick itself up and keep going.
The sharp, imperfect edges of that art become vital, rejecting the seamlessness of higher-budgeted works that obscures the effort that went into their creation. As stop-motion is a jerky and imperfect approximation of motion that’s nevertheless bursting with character, everything about Judero’s construction is nothing short of evidence of its humanity.
You’ll occasionally come across signs bearing dreamlike musings: “the sea shells form a bridge between us,” “there is a dark shape on the horizon,” and so on. As you travel further, the wind changes direction and the evening sky shifts from orange to purple. Platforms get sparser and require leaps of faith or hope. And when you inevitably miss and Waldorf falls into the sea, he wakes up on an ice floe, surrounded by sleeping walruses, waiting to dream again. It’s the clearest example of UFO 50’s willingness to experiment paying off in something as fun to play as it is interesting conceptually, but in a crowded field, it’s far from the only one.
When it isn’t tipping its hat to Yars’ Revenge, the game offers only simplistic platforming.
Whatever dissonance hovers in the air at the start of I Am Your Beast will have dissipated by the time you reach the final level. “You’re creating a no-win scenario for yourself,” screams Burkin as he throws the full force of the government at you. In response, Harding simply, satisfyingly, and coolly rejects those terms. As the lyrics to that final level’s original track kick in, you’ll come to know what he knows: that there will always be another level, and that you will always be someone else’s beast—unless you find a way, however bloody, to be your own man.
Your might proves substantial enough to bend even clichés to your will. When, during a cutscene, a monster in the background looks like it’s about to get the jump on Titus, one of your buddies casually blasts it from out of the frame. The bait and switch feels like a winking admission by Space Marine 2: This is an unabashedly over-the-top ride, but it won’t stoop to boring contrivance. Your strength is too profound, your time too important, to abide that.
That leaves the character work to build up a compelling story, Frank Stone’s core cast of kids is incredibly likable. All of them have big dreams of leaving their hometown for various reasons, but only one—uncanny Chloë Sevigny doppelganger Linda—ever gets to realize them, and her dreams come with a terrifying caveat. As for the ancillary adult characters, they vary in terms of likability, but they all coalesce into an oddball ensemble worth fretting about as they take on unknowable horrors. Maybe the greatest, simplest compliment that can be paid to Supermassive’s work here is that after years of only watching and reading about the game from the sidelines, Frank Stone made me want to start playing more Dead by Daylight.
This continuity also deepens your connection to the world in interesting ways. Since every step Jemma takes affects everything around her, it means that she’s always moving other people in ways they find helpful or annoying. Sometimes she solves problems and other times she just breaks things. The resulting consistency and believability suggests an actual world with real problems that need solving, fulfilling the promise of Arranger’s subtitle by turning a smart, winsome puzzler into something that also feels like an adventure.
Everyone can easily hop on a grind rail and travel around, but seasoned gamers will have endless opportunities and reasons to kill and look cool doing it. Even still, it’s not hard at all to button mash one’s way to glory, as long as one remembers where the shield button is from time to time. Expert gamers might be disappointed at how little the higher difficulties add to the mix, but it’s hard to be mad when the base experience is such a sick and sanguine little delight.
Over the course of Bloodless, Tomoe leads dozens, if not hundreds, of challengers to flee from her in fear. Their apparent lack of conviction—their willingness to take flight rather than die fighting—suggests a commentary on violence that the game fails to flesh out. Tomoe’s exchanges with new and old acquaintances, which transpire in sluggish scenes filled with trite dialogue, are similarly devoid of depth, texture, and specificity. Bloodless clearly has something to say about the cataclysmic potential of power and the cycles of suffering it locks people into, but by making its world feel universal—like it could be anywhere—it ends up nowhere at all.
There are kinks in the game’s armor, like skittish enemy AI and a bunch of absolutely gratuitous cameos (you’ve been warned Solo haters). For all of its efforts to stretch out to forge its own identity, Outlaws can’t resist occasionally returning to the nostalgia well. But such grievances are likely to run off you like water off a duck’s back. In the end, everything here, down to the scaleable difficulty, clever upgrade system that bypasses usual RPG-levelling mechanics where skills and upgrades are tied into missions, and the surprisingly fun minigames, is so well executed that you’ll always feel like your wildest galactic scoundrel fantasy has been realized.