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Beast of Reincarnation is most compelling not because it reinvents the action RPG, but because of what it represents for Game Freak. For a studio so closely identified with Pokémon, stepping into a darker, more mature and mechanically demanding world is a meaningful creative departure in itself. The game does not always match the ambition of its ideas, but it consistently reveals a studio willing to experiment, to question the boundaries of its established identity and discover what might exist beyond them. At the heart of that experiment are Emma and Koo, whose relationship remains the game’s defining achievement. Game Freak could easily have treated Koo as a conventional companion, but instead makes him inseparable from both the emotional and mechanical structure of the adventure. The player does not simply watch their bond develop; they learn to depend on it. Emma’s attacks, Koo’s abilities, defensive options and opportunities for coordination gradually become part of a shared combat language, giving their relationship a tangible presence that few narrative partnerships manage to achieve. That philosophy carries directly into the combat system, which is at its strongest when it asks the player to understand rather than simply overpower. Timing, positioning, parries, evasive manoeuvres and Koo’s abilities all contribute to a rhythm that becomes increasingly satisfying as its rules reveal themselves. The Nushi encounters are the clearest expression of this design. These bosses are not simply larger enemies with more health; their behaviour, attack patterns and visual cues demand observation and adaptation. The most satisfying victories therefore come not from numerical superiority, but from understanding how an encounter works. Progression complements that approach without overwhelming it. New abilities, equipment and powers acquired through major encounters provide a clear sense of growth, while the ability to shape Emma’s build gives the player room to experiment with different approaches. The system is not particularly revolutionary, but it serves the combat well, ensuring that progression feels connected to the challenges the player is overcoming rather than existing merely as an external reward structure. The same confidence can be found in the game’s visual identity. Japan in 4026 is one of Beast of Reincarnation’s most convincing ideas because Game Freak understands that a post-apocalyptic world does not have to be defined by destruction alone. Here, civilisation has been gradually absorbed by the world that followed it. Trees split apart abandoned structures. Vegetation overwhelms infrastructure. Waterways reclaim spaces once controlled by humanity. Technology remains scattered throughout the landscape, but increasingly resembles the archaeological remains of a vanished age. This relationship between decay and renewal gives the setting a personality of its own. Some of the game’s most memorable images emerge not from its largest set pieces, but from quieter moments in which Emma and Koo move through landscapes where human architecture and natural growth have become almost impossible to separate. The world often feels as though it has continued living after humanity stopped being its dominant force. The irony is that the strength of this world also highlights one of the game’s greatest limitations. Beast of Reincarnation frequently creates the impression of an environment that should invite deeper exploration than its level design ultimately allows. The landscapes suggest hidden histories and possibilities, yet the structure remains relatively controlled, with exploration generally serving the forward momentum of the campaign rather than challenging it. There are optional discoveries and resources, but rarely the kind of systemic freedom that makes a world feel genuinely unpredictable. The narrative follows much the same pattern. Its strongest material is found in the personal journey of Emma, particularly in the relationship between memory, identity and loneliness. Her inability to fully understand her own past gives the story a natural reason to investigate the world alongside the player, while Koo provides an emotional constant as she gradually learns how to connect with others. These ideas give the narrative genuine weight, even when some of its broader developments fall back on more familiar science-fiction and JRPG conventions. For all its narrative ambitions, Beast of Reincarnation is therefore most effective when it remains intimate. Emma and Koo are more compelling than the mythology surrounding them, and their relationship often communicates more than the larger exposition ever could. The game has plenty of interesting ideas about humanity, technology, memory and the natural world, but it is the emotional simplicity of two characters learning to rely on one another that gives those ideas their strongest foundation. The soundscape reinforces that intimacy. Environmental audio gives the reclaimed wilderness an almost constant presence, while subtle details – from insects and vegetation to distant wildlife – make the world feel active even when nothing is happening on screen. Combat sounds provide equally important feedback, helping the player read impacts, parries and successful actions, while the vocal-driven soundtrack gives key moments a distinctly emotional character. Audio rarely feels like decoration; at its best, it becomes another way of communicating what Emma cannot always express herself. There are, however, moments when the experience loses that sense of cohesion. The pacing occasionally becomes uneven, with narrative interruptions breaking the momentum established by exploration and combat. Some secondary activities feel noticeably less developed than the game’s central encounters, while the RPG systems provide meaningful progression without offering the depth that more systems-focused players may expect. Technically, the move to Unreal Engine 5 demonstrates the scale of Game Freak’s ambitions, but it also reveals an uneven level of refinement across environments, animations and secondary details. These shortcomings ultimately prevent Beast of Reincarnation from reaching the level of greatness its strongest moments occasionally suggest. Yet they do not diminish the importance of what Game Freak has attempted. In fact, the contrast is revealing: whenever the studio embraces its new ideas, the game becomes considerably more distinctive; whenever it falls back on familiar structures, that individuality becomes less pronounced. That is ultimately why Beast of Reincarnation works best as a statement of intent. It is neither a flawless action RPG nor a genre-defining reinvention, and judging it by either standard would miss what makes it interesting. What Game Freak has created instead is something more valuable at this particular stage: a clear indication of where the studio might want to go next, and of what becomes possible when it steps beyond the enormous shadow of Pokémon. Beast of Reincarnation may leave some of its potential unrealised, but what it does accomplish is difficult to dismiss: it proves that Game Freak’s creative identity extends far beyond the world that made its name.
Now that we’ve reached the end of The First Berserker: Khazan, what stays with us most is the feeling of facing a game that knows its own strength extremely well. Neople hasn’t built a soulslike that’s flawless on every front, but it has built an experience where combat takes on absolute centrality and, in most cases, manages to keep engagement running high. This very specialization is what makes Khazan an interesting title even beyond its ties to the Dungeon & Fighter universe. Personally, I consider the combat system the most convincing element of the entire production. The need to learn enemy movements, manage stamina, alternate attack and defense, and exploit the right openings makes every fight particularly satisfying. The game almost never hands out its victories: when players finally manage to get past a boss that took numerous attempts, the satisfaction mostly comes from knowing they’ve sharpened their own skills, not simply from picking up stronger gear. The boss fights, as a result, mark the moments where Khazan shows its potential at its best. Some fights run extremely demanding but also deeply rewarding, since they force players to genuinely understand the game’s mechanics. Facing a boss turns almost into a kind of dialogue built on movement: the opponent throws out an attack, the player learns to recognize it, responds with a parry or a dodge, and waits for the right moment to counter. It’s a system that asks for patience but pays off handsomely once mastered. I also appreciated the art direction. Cel shading isn’t just a distinctive aesthetic choice; it gives the game an immediately recognizable identity. The characters, and especially the bosses, come with real craft behind them, while attack animations help make fights spectacular. Some settings feel less memorable and lean on fairly similar tones, but the overall result still lands convincingly. The mission-based structure, on the other hand, ranks among the aspects that won me over least. On one hand, it keeps the experience focused on action and makes it easy to jump into different activities; on the other, it cuts down the sense of discovery that often ranks among the most fascinating elements of soulslikes. Players explore the game world through separate, relatively linear levels, with few moments where they truly feel lost inside one huge interconnected environment. The narrative, too, could have hit harder. Khazan’s story has an interesting premise and touches on potentially powerful subjects, but some characters and some situations don’t get the room they need to fully develop. The protagonist mostly works as a warrior and as the central figure of the action, while his more emotional side could have used more depth. Even so, the story still manages to hold enough interest to carry players through to the end. Difficulty, finally, is bound to split the audience. Personally, I see it as a positive that the game demands effort and precision, since that’s exactly what gives real value to victories. That said, some difficulty spikes come across as particularly sharp and can make the experience frustrating for players unfamiliar with the genre, especially when they reach a boss fight without having had enough chances to properly prepare for its mechanics. Either way, The First Berserker: Khazan left me with an excellent impression. It’s not a game trying to compete on every single front with the best soulslikes, but it carries a strong enough identity to stand out. Its strength lies in the precision of its combat, the quality of its boss fights, the variety of its weapons, and a recognizable art direction. I can only credit a production that shows just how well Neople has adapted to a genre completely different from what it’s known for, and I can only call this title a soulslike that looks great, plays solid, challenges players, and above all entertains — one worth recommending to anyone who puts the combat system at the center of their experience. Players looking for a massive world to explore or an extremely complex narrative might come away less satisfied. For everyone else, Khazan’s journey stands as convincing proof that even a series born mainly in the territory of online action RPGs can find a new dimension through a single-player experience built with ambition and personality.
Zirian chases his sister Allira into Tick Town, a dimension where time has stopped and the Clock Tower holds her prisoner behind four chains that need breaking one by one, scattered across the macro-areas of Tearvale. Weird Beluga, already behind Clid the Snail, builds a third-person action-platformer around this mission that looks openly to Jak and Daxter, Ratchet & Clank, and Kingdom Hearts, relying on a clockpunk world painted entirely by hand – no AI involved, by the studio’s own declared choice – five lighting setups for every major area, and a mechanical companion, Cuckoo, who joins Zirian in both exploration and combat. Beneath the action-platform surface, the game works through a story of grief and family legacy rooted in the loss of Gramps, one that time travel – literal, through Minutero, the sword he left behind – turns into a question that follows Zirian through the whole adventure. Platforming stays the strongest part of the experience from the earliest hours; combat, shakier at the start, only gains depth halfway through, once combos finally enter the picture.
Halo: Campaign Evolved is a visually ambitious, technically interesting remake, but it can’t replicate the most important part of the work it aims to celebrate: that extraordinary combination of shooting, sandbox, AI, and freedom that turned Combat Evolved into a masterpiece. It’s a project that proves, once again, that rebuilding a classic is far easier than truly understanding its legacy.
Helix: Descent N Ascent is Badass Mongoose’s first project, a small Belgian studio founded by Cedric De Muelenaere and Gillian Sampont, and it’s a puzzle-adventure that builds its identity around a black-and-white aesthetic inspired by 1980s indie comics, 1990s manga, and the 1970s Franco-Belgian tradition. The game entrusts its narrative almost entirely to imagery: environments, dialogue-free cutscenes, and carved panels that recount, in fragments, a vanished civilization’s myth. The heart of the experience, though, remains the gameplay: five abilities – Block, Drone, Hook, Cage, and Hourglass – that combine first in pairs and then, in the second half of the game, in triplets, generating a puzzle system that keeps offering new solutions for the entire adventure. A consultable map system guides progression clearly, flagging where to return once you’ve learned new combinations, and some passages open through Donkey Kong-style arcade minigames. Jim Guthrie’s soundtrack accompanies every area with the same power to create a suspended territory already evident in the demo, never slipping into repetition. After seventeen hours of play, the overall experience confirms and deepens everything promised since the 2024 announcement: a quiet adventure, intelligently constructed, able to hold up over the long haul without losing its own voice.
Killing Floor 3 is at its best when it embraces the fundamentals that have always defined the series: cooperative Horde combat, satisfying gunplay, and the constant pressure of working together to survive increasingly chaotic encounters. The foundation remains solid, and when played with a coordinated team, the game can still deliver some genuinely enjoyable moments. The problem is everything built around that foundation. Progression can feel unnecessarily cluttered, balance is inconsistent, and the underlying structure becomes repetitive long before the experience has exhausted its ideas. More importantly, Killing Floor 3 repeatedly hints at a much more ambitious game without ever fully committing to it. Its maps, lore, and environments suggest a world with far greater narrative potential, yet the absence of a dedicated campaign leaves much of that promise unexplored. The result is a competent and often entertaining cooperative shooter that feels frustratingly close to being something more. Killing Floor 3 proves that its core formula still works, but instead of using that foundation as a springboard for meaningful evolution, it remains largely within the boundaries of what the series already knows how to do. The ingredients for a more ambitious sequel are there; the game simply never brings them together.
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.
Death Stranding 2: On the Beach stands as the fullest expression of Hideo Kojima’s creative philosophy. It’s an ambitious work, imperfect and surprising, and deeply personal. Kojima Productions doesn’t simply build a bigger sequel to the first game: the studio delivers an emotional and philosophical journey that questions humanity’s future, the meaning of relationships, and the value of bonds in a world increasingly dominated by technology. Sam Porter Bridges returns as the protagonist of an even more complex adventure, backed by an extraordinary cast and a screenplay that alternates intimate moments with cinematic sequences of real impact. The team refines the gameplay without losing its identity. Exploration grows richer. Combat feels more satisfying. The world turns more unpredictable. But the game’s real strength lies in its ability to make the player feel something. In an era where many titles try to hold their audience through sheer quantity, Death Stranding 2 chooses instead to build an experience grounded in meaning. It’s a game that demands patience. It demands attention. It demands a willingness to let go and get carried away. This work certainly won’t win over every player’s taste. But anyone who chooses to get pulled into its vision will discover an original, memorable experience: one of the boldest and most visionary of this generation.
Reaching Steelrising’s credits, the impression is one of having played a work that perhaps doesn’t reach the heights of the best soulslikes on the market, but that still manages to stand out thanks to a strong identity. In a genre now full of imitators, Spiders chooses to walk its own path, betting on an unusual setting, a charismatic protagonist, and an original reinterpretation of the French Revolution. What we appreciated most is precisely the world building. The steampunk Paris the developers imagined manages to feel credible, fascinating, and different from any other setting released in recent years. Every district, building, and character helps build a narrative universe that keeps sparking curiosity and encourages further exploration, showing how much good art direction can make a difference even in a lower-budget production. The gameplay also works well overall. The combat system is fun, the weapon variety lets players experiment with different builds, and Aegis’s greater agility gives fights a more dynamic pace than many other genre entries. The game still manages to offer a satisfying, well-balanced challenge, even if it’s almost never frustrating. Naturally, a few flaws do show up. On the technical side, the typical limits of an AA production emerge, while the level design and enemy AI don’t always surprise. The narrative, too, despite starting from an extremely interesting idea, could have developed some characters further and handled certain situations with more incisiveness. Even so, I personally consider Steelrising a successful title. Spiders’ ambition in tackling the project is evident, and above all, so is the will to offer something that wasn’t a simple copy of the genre’s great classics. The result is an experience with its own personality, one that manages to entertain from start to finish while showcasing its artistic imagination above all. I recommend it both to soulslike fans who want to try a setting different from the usual and to those looking for a demanding action RPG that’s slightly more accessible than the genre’s most extreme titles. With a few inevitable compromises, Spiders’ work stands as one of the most interesting productions of recent years and shows how creativity and courage can offset, at least in part, far more evident production limits.
DOOM: The Dark Ages – Revelations is an expansion that ultimately leaves a lingering sense of disappointment. This is by no means a bad DLC: its gunplay remains among the strongest in the genre, its technical execution continues to set an exceptionally high standard, and several narrative sequences provide worthwhile additions to the Slayer’s story and the broader mythology of the series. Yet, for every strength, Revelations is accompanied by choices that prevent it from reaching the same heights as the main game. The decision to introduce greater complexity into the combat system once again, the return of mechanics that have historically struggled to complement DOOM’s strengths and a narrative that moves too quickly through events of considerable importance ultimately hold the expansion back. The Dark Ages succeeded in streamlining the modern DOOM formula without sacrificing its depth, creating a combat system that felt immediate, readable and remarkably satisfying. Revelations, by contrast, occasionally feels as though it is retracing ground that the series had already learned to leave behind. That is ultimately what makes the expansion so frustrating. There is a genuinely compelling story buried within Revelations, and its revelations could have formed the foundation for a far more substantial chapter in the Slayer’s journey. Instead, several important developments are compressed, relegated to the background or resolved with a degree of haste that undermines their dramatic weight. Rather than functioning as a fully self-contained expansion capable of building upon the exceptional foundations established by The Dark Ages, Revelations feels more like a bridge to what comes next. From a broader narrative perspective, that purpose is understandable: the expansion introduces important developments, reshapes elements of the Slayer’s past and leaves the door open for the next stage of the saga. As a standalone experience, however, that same approach becomes its greatest limitation.
Hell Clock: Cursed War is a DLC that certainly adds new content, but more importantly, it represents the mature version of Hell Clock. Rather than judging the fourth act, I prefer to reassess the entire project after nearly a year of patches and updates. It arrives after nearly a year of continuous updates that have significantly improved the areas where Hell Clock previously fell short. Performance is now consistently solid, even during the most chaotic encounters. Loot management has become far more flexible, and creating or refining a build is considerably more satisfying than before. These improvements fundamentally enhance the overall experience. For that reason, Cursed War is the perfect opportunity either to discover Hell Clock for the first time or to return after its original release. It isn’t the DLC alone that transforms the game, it’s the months of dedicated work Rogue Snail has invested in refining the experience. Today, Hell Clock: Cursed War finally feels like the game it promised to be a year ago: a fast-paced, distinctive action RPG that confidently carves out its own place within the crowded Diablo-like genre.
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.
By the time the credits roll, the game leaves the impression of a title that knows exactly what it wants to be and never tries to be anything else. It doesn’t aim to revolutionize the survival horror genre or compete with the market’s most ambitious productions; instead, it builds a compact, coherent experience that cleverly exploits one of the film saga’s most original ideas: making silence the main source of tension. What convinced us most is how the game turns a narrative rule into a gameplay mechanic. Paying attention to every sound, scanning the environment before moving, and planning each step become natural actions that keep tension high without constantly resorting to combat or sudden scares. This very coherence is what makes the experience compelling from start to finish. We also found the noise-detection system a genuinely clever, innovative touch. Personally, I also appreciated the choice to tell an original story. While it doesn’t reach particularly lofty narrative heights, the game expands the A Quiet Place universe respectfully, introducing new characters and a plot that fits well with what we’ve seen in the films. This solution proves far more interesting than a plain retelling of the films’ events. It’s true that the gameplay tends to repeat the same dynamics for much of the adventure, and the linear structure narrows the experience’s variety; players looking for a mechanically rich horror game or a strong action component might find the pace too controlled. However, none of this undermines the work’s overall value. A Quiet Place: The Road Ahead does exactly what it set out to do: deliver an atmospheric, immersive survival horror experience faithful to the saga’s spirit. It’s one of those games that work mainly because of how all its pieces come together, with narrative, gameplay, and sound design collaborating to build a believable experience. The narrative, visuals, and sound all impressed me, so I’d recommend this game both to fans of the film series and to anyone looking for a different kind of horror, one less focused on action and more on psychological tension. It’s not a title set to revolutionize the genre, but it stands as a smart, well-crafted adaptation, proving that even a smaller-scale production can deliver deeply engaging moments when it’s built on a clear, coherent vision. It’s definitely earned a spot in my collection. I hope it earns one in yours too.
Developed by Serafini Productions and published by Serafini Productions and Soft Source, it was released on May 31, 2026, on Steam and on June 1, 2026, on PC, PS5, and Xbox Series S|X.
After finishing Aphelion, the feeling is one of having lived through a journey that bets much more on emotion than on spectacle for its own sake. Even while using a fascinating science fiction setting with visually imposing scenery, the game chooses to tell a deeply human story, centering the relationship between the protagonists, their sense of responsibility, and their desire to keep exploring even as every certainty falls away. This choice defines the entire production and lets the work stand out within a genre where action and big plot twists often take center stage. One of the aspects we appreciated most concerns precisely the consistency of the experience. From start to finish, Aphelion never loses sight of its own identity. It doesn’t suddenly try to turn into a shooter, doesn’t throw in superfluous mechanics to artificially inflate variety, and doesn’t constantly chase spectacle. Every element, from the narrative to the gameplay to the audiovisual side, pulls in the same direction, helping build a balanced, believable adventure. This is a quality we shouldn’t undervalue today, especially in a market where many productions end up overloading themselves with systems and content and lose sight of their original vision. The art direction undoubtedly stands as one of the highest points of the whole production. The alien scenery constantly conveys that sense of wonder and isolation that should accompany any good space exploration story. Every vista communicates something to the player, not just on an aesthetic level, but on an emotional one too. The narrative won us over too, and we especially appreciated the developers’ choice to tell the story without constantly resorting to long exposition dumps or overly explanatory dialogue. They let much of the information emerge through exploration and the interactions between the protagonists, letting the player feel like an integral part of the journey. On the gameplay side, though, the mechanics always do their job competently, but they rarely surprised us. The mechanics the developers introduce work, fit well into the progression, and feel pleasant to use, but they hardly ever come across as truly innovative. Personally, I don’t consider this a particularly serious flaw, since the game doesn’t base its value on mechanical complexity. Still, it’s undeniable that greater gameplay evolution would probably have made the experience even more memorable. The challenge level also stays fairly contained. The exploration sections and puzzles generally stay accessible, letting the player focus mainly on the narrative. What keeps coming through, though, is the quality of the overall construction. Aphelion proves that revolutionizing a genre isn’t necessary to make a good video game. Having a clear vision, developing it with consistency, and taking care of every detail so all the components work in the same direction is enough. The title achieves exactly that: it builds a harmonious experience, where narrative, gameplay, graphics, and sound complement each other without any single element overpowering the rest. This is a title that manages to stand out through the quality of its execution and its ability to emotionally engage the player. It belongs to that group of games that would rather leave players with memories tied to characters, landscapes, and emotions than to a constant chase after the shock factor. And for that reason, I can only recommend it wholeheartedly.
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.
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.
NINJA GAIDEN: Ragebound succeeds in bringing the series back to its 2D roots without feeling like a mere exercise in nostalgia. The Game Kitchen demonstrates a deep understanding of the source material, reinterpreting it with respect while also injecting its own stylistic and gameplay identity. The result is a fast-paced and demanding 2D action-platformer that embraces the franchise’s punishing nature while refining it through smart, modern mechanics. A few minor shortcomings do little to undermine an otherwise solid foundation. The game is capable of delivering moments of great satisfaction while balancing them with more punishing sections that remain faithful to the series’ original spirit. What we have here is a convincing return, one that speaks both to longtime fans and newcomers alike. Despite its modern presentation, Ninja Gaiden still embraces the very mechanics that made the franchise both beloved and dreaded by generations of players. To quote The Leopard: “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change
Reaching the closing credits of Necrophosis, the predominant sensation is not the one one normally experiences after completing a horror video game. What lingers is not a handful of tense moments, a series of particularly memorable enemies, or a surprising narrative sequence. What remains is above all a collection of images, emotions, and reflections that resist cataloguing — almost as though the experience left a trace closer to that of an artistic work than to that of a traditional entertainment product. And this is probably the greatest achievement of Necrophosis: building an identity strong enough to continue existing in the player’s mind long after the journey concludes. The current horror landscape often features technically impeccable games that lack a true personality. Productions that work, entertain, and perhaps frighten for a few hours, but that end up rapidly blending into many similar experiences. Necrophosis, by contrast, carries a clearly recognizable voice. From the very first minutes it communicates a precise vision and never abandons it, demonstrating an artistic coherence rare even within the independent scene. What strikes most is the courage with which the developers chose to follow their own idea without evident compromises. The game never seeks to adapt to the expectations of a wider audience. It introduces no superfluous mechanics to artificially increase variety, adds no action sequences to break the rhythm, and does not simplify its narrative to appear more accessible. This choice makes the work inevitably divisive, but also gives it an expressive force that many more conventional titles cannot reach. Personally, one of the aspects I appreciated most concerns the way the game uses horror. In Necrophosis, fear almost never arises from immediate threat or from the possibility of attack. It arises rather from observation, from the contemplation of a world that seems to exist beyond any human logic. The environments are not simply unsettling: they constantly transmit the sensation of standing before something that should not exist. This kind of discomfort differs greatly from that generated by traditional horror and, precisely for this reason, proves particularly effective. The artistic component also deserves recognition as one of the greatest strengths of the experience. Some settings reach levels of visual imagination truly remarkable, demonstrating a creativity that one rarely encounters in larger and more expensive productions. Not every area strikes with the same intensity, but overall the journey manages to maintain a surprisingly high aesthetic quality from beginning to end. Naturally, the game has room for improvement. Gameplay represents probably the least memorable aspect of the entire production. While it correctly performs its function and integrates well with the narrative context, it rarely reaches the same level of excellence the artistic direction displays. The interactions remain relatively simple and, in certain moments, the progression may appear more functional to the exploration of scenarios than genuinely stimulating on a ludic level. The rhythm may also not convince everyone. Necrophosis demands patience, attention, and a certain predisposition toward contemplative experiences. This is not a game that rewards haste or that continuously seeks to surprise the player with new events. On the contrary, it builds much of its power through the gradual accumulation of images, symbols, and suggestions. For some this choice will represent one of the greatest merits; for others it may transform into an obstacle to engagement. The narrative follows a similar philosophy. I very much appreciated the willingness to leave room for interpretation and to avoid excessively didactic explanations. However, it cannot be denied that some sequences may prove so cryptic as to make it difficult to distinguish between intentional mystery and a lack of clarity. This is a delicate balance that the game manages to maintain for much of the time, though not entirely without risk. What continues to make Necrophosis special is its capacity to evoke contrasting emotions. Few horror games manage simultaneously to disgust, fascinate, intrigue, and unsettle with the same effectiveness. During exploration one often finds oneself observing something profoundly disturbing without managing to look away. This combination of repulsion and fascination probably constitutes the heart of the entire experience and represents one of the elements that most readily lodges in memory. I can only consider Necrophosis: Full Consciousness one of the most interesting and artistically courageous independent horror productions in recent years. This is not a perfect game, nor an experience destined to win any type of audience. It demands a willingness to interpret, patience, and a certain sensitivity toward unconventional forms of storytelling. For those willing to accept its rules and surrender to its vision, however, it offers a profoundly unsettling and surprisingly fascinating journey. Absolutely recommended.