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Spirit of the North is an adventure that places atmosphere and artistic expression at the heart of its identity. Through its imagery, music, and deliberately understated storytelling, Infuse Studio creates an experience that seeks to engage players on an emotional level rather than through conventional gameplay spectacle. Its journey unfolds across evocative Nordic landscapes, ancient ruins, and abandoned places that hint at the remnants of a forgotten civilisation. By allowing the environment to carry the narrative, without relying on dialogue or traditional exposition, the studio establishes a distinctive approach to storytelling, encouraging players to piece together the history of this world through what they see and discover. This emphasis on atmosphere is reflected in almost every aspect of the presentation. The landscapes, architectural remains, and supernatural effects associated with the game's spiritual elements give the world a coherent visual identity, while the soundtrack reinforces its sense of solitude and quiet wonder. The fox is equally well suited to this setting. Its presence offers a perspective that feels removed from the conventions of the traditional adventure protagonist, allowing the journey to unfold through observation and interaction rather than dialogue or elaborate characterisation. At its best, Spirit of the North understands the value of restraint, giving its environments room to breathe and allowing individual scenes to make an impression without overstating their significance. The same level of assurance is not always evident in the gameplay. Although exploration and environmental puzzles provide a consistent framework for progression, the mechanics rarely develop enough to maintain a comparable level of interest. Puzzles tend to rely on relatively familiar ideas, with limited variation in their execution, while platforming sections occasionally expose shortcomings in movement and control precision. The environments can also feel more expansive than the activities they contain, leaving stretches of traversal that do little to deepen the experience. These limitations become increasingly apparent as the adventure progresses, particularly when the promise of discovery is not matched by equally engaging interactions. The narrative presents a similar contrast between intention and execution. Its reliance on environmental storytelling is entirely consistent with the game's broader creative direction, and the absence of dialogue helps preserve the contemplative atmosphere. However, the limited information provided about the world and the events that shaped it can make the story difficult to follow. Some of the ideas introduced along the way suggest greater thematic and emotional depth than the narrative ultimately achieves. A more developed account of the civilisation's fate and the journey's central relationship could have given these elements greater significance without necessarily compromising the game's minimalist approach. Ultimately, Spirit of the North is an adventure whose artistic ambitions are more fully realised than its gameplay design. Infuse Studio has a clear understanding of the atmosphere it wants to create, and the visual and audio presentation frequently succeeds in bringing that vision to life. The problem is that the experience built around it does not always offer enough variety, refinement, or narrative substance to sustain the same level of engagement. Its slower pace and minimalist structure are deliberate creative choices, but they cannot entirely compensate for puzzles that lack depth, occasional frustrations in traversal, or an exploration loop that becomes predictable over time. Despite these shortcomings, Spirit of the North remains an appealing experience, particularly for players who value atmosphere, environmental storytelling, and a more reflective approach to adventure games. Those expecting intricate puzzles, consistently polished platforming, or a richly developed narrative may find it less satisfying. Its appeal ultimately depends on an appreciation of what it sets out to achieve, rather than on the mechanical depth of what it offers. I regard Spirit of the North as a distinctive, occasionally captivating adventure that never quite fulfils the potential of its own artistic vision. Its world is memorable, its presentation often beautiful, and its approach to storytelling gives it a character of its own. Yet the limitations of its gameplay and narrative prevent those qualities from coming together as convincingly as they might have. It is not an adventure that excels across the board, nor one that is likely to satisfy every kind of player. What it does offer, however, is a quietly evocative journey that makes its strongest impression through the images it creates and the atmosphere it leaves behind. In that respect, its achievements are worth recognising, even if the experience as a whole falls short of the promise of its underlying ideas.
At its core, Honeycomb: The World Beyond has the makings of a distinctive survival experience, built around the promise of bioengineering and the mysteries of an alien ecosystem. Unfortunately, its most compelling ideas rarely translate into equally rewarding gameplay. Clumsy traversal, an overreliance on scanning, and quest objectives that offer too little direction repeatedly undermine the sense of discovery that should make exploring Sota7 so compelling. What makes these shortcomings particularly frustrating is that the game’s underlying concept remains genuinely promising. Frozen Way’s ongoing efforts to address some of its rough edges offer reason for cautious optimism, but there is still work to be done before the experience can live up to its ambitions. For now, it remains a survival sandbox with a compelling premise and plenty of promising ideas, held back by design shortcomings and uneven execution that prevent it from delivering the experience it strives to be.
The Doll Shop is a hand-drawn narrative game by Atelier Sentô, an interactive comic that tells the story of four days in the life of a solitary doll restorer in a snow-covered Japanese village, amid the disappearance of a little girl and the return of a childhood friend. What works is the writing, more layered than the demo let on, and a psychological horror that rests entirely on terror, with no jump scares and nothing graphic on screen, yet reaches an extremely high level of unsettling. The watercolour art direction, meticulous in every detail, is the other great strength. The only shortcoming flagged concerns the mechanics: compared with other narrative games, repairs and exploration take up little space, a limitation that is understandable in a work built on illustration and story. Multiple endings, usually a weak point for those who write them, here shed light on different sides of a complex protagonist without compromising the solidity of the plot. It is aimed at those looking for narrative depth and aesthetic taste rather than elaborate mechanics, and its story is hard to forget, both for how it presents itself and for everything rotten it hides beneath.
The first thing that hits you it's the way the game looks: cardboard, adhesive tape, chalk circles drawn on the screen, shops you recognise by their light before you read the sign, a soundtrack that could carry a game twice this size. Aesthetics first, then, because aesthetics is the most accomplished part of Stupid Never Dies, and the one that made me stay. Then the characters, who are ironic and written with a sharpness that is rare in this genre. Julia is the only one with a real backstory, and the others are defined by how they behave rather than by where they come from – which, it turns out, is enough: Doc, Acelino, Bessie, Goyle and Dullahan are three-dimensional in the way that matters, and they stick. Underneath, the design is built with judgement. Eleven styles, five receipt rarities, OT parts, four currencies, two dozen status ailments: on paper it reads as unmanageable, and instead each piece arrives once the previous one has become automatic, explained by the shop that houses it. The systems accompany the art direction instead of competing with it, and the variety is real rather than cosmetic – the styles change how you stand on the field, the enemies have behaviours you have to read, and the wishlist keeps producing new tasks so that the next dive is a plan rather than a repetition. A dive lasts ten minutes, dying costs only what you picked up since the last Landing Area, and the parried damage you pay back by eating. It's a roguelite that asks how far you want to push, not how much you're willing to lose. What doesn't work yet is smaller than all this, but it's there. Lock-on isn't missing – it works while biting, and missiles, harpy feathers and vampire bats are guided – but everything else has to be aimed by hand, and it's the one system that feels unfinished. The bosses each have an exclusive mechanic, which is the right idea, yet none so far has matched the difficulty of the Homunculus of the first KOM. Presents and the Loveforge remain opaque: the glass heart, the unlocked memories and the heart balance relate to each other with no explanation, and you either work it out or you don't. And four hours in, three styles out of eleven, ten bosses out of thirteen and half the layers are still missing. Then Julia woke up and shot Davy in the head. The story had sold itself as a rescue, and in one scene it became something else: the girl in the freezer is a war survivor who empties a magazine into the first face she sees, and stops being someone to look after. By then I was already planning the next dive, which for a roguelite is the only proof that counts.
By the time the credits roll, Well Dweller has established a clear sense of identity. Kyle Thompson’s latest adventure is built around a well-defined creative vision, prioritising exploration, atmosphere, and artistic expression over mechanical innovation. Its foundations may be familiar to anyone accustomed to the metroidvania genre, but the care with which its various elements come together gives the experience a character of its own. A distinctive visual style, thoughtfully designed environments, and a movement system that makes traversal consistently satisfying form the backbone of an adventure that understands its strengths and rarely loses sight of them. Of all its qualities, it is the world itself that leaves the strongest impression. The kingdom Glimmer ventures into is not merely a backdrop for combat encounters and platforming challenges, but an integral part of the experience, designed to reward attention and make curiosity a driving force. Its interconnected environments encourage players to remember inaccessible passages, reconsider previously explored areas, and recognise opportunities that only become apparent as Glimmer acquires new abilities. Progression consequently extends beyond the simple accumulation of skills: every new capability changes the way the world can be understood, opening up possibilities that were hidden in plain sight. This is where Well Dweller makes its most convincing argument. It does not attempt to reinvent the metroidvania formula, nor does it particularly need to. Instead, it demonstrates how much mileage a familiar structure can offer when exploration remains meaningful and the satisfaction of discovery is carefully sustained. The pleasure lies in gradually piecing together the kingdom’s geography, recognising the potential of a previously inaccessible route, and returning to familiar surroundings with a renewed sense of possibility. It is a well-established design philosophy, but one that remains effective precisely because the game gives players compelling reasons to keep moving forward. Glimmer is central to that appeal. A tiny bird armed with a matchstick might initially sound like the premise for a light-hearted adventure, yet the contrast between the protagonist’s apparent fragility and the hostile world surrounding him becomes one of the game’s most effective defining traits. His diminutive stature reinforces the scale of the dangers he faces, while his endearing design fits naturally within the uneasy interplay of innocence and grotesquery that defines the experience. The matchstick, meanwhile, is more than a memorable character detail. It serves as both weapon and tool, linking Glimmer’s identity to the mechanics of exploration and combat. This simplicity is part of its appeal: a modest idea that gives the protagonist a distinctive presence while contributing directly to the way the game is played. The same clarity of vision is evident in the artistic direction, arguably Well Dweller’s greatest asset. Its hand-drawn, storybook aesthetic brings together charming characters, decaying environments, and grotesque creatures without allowing their contrasting qualities to undermine one another. The result is a world that can feel inviting and deeply unsettling, sometimes within the same encounter. What distinguishes this approach is not simply the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness, but the consistency with which the game moves between wonder, humour, and menace. Its fairytale sensibility survives even its darkest moments, giving the kingdom a visual identity that feels both coherent and unmistakably its own. The soundtrack reinforces this atmosphere with comparable restraint. Eric Thompson’s compositions lend the adventure a wistful, occasionally melancholic quality, complementing its fairytale imagery without forcing every moment into heightened drama. The music adapts to the changing rhythm of the journey, supporting quieter stretches of exploration while bringing greater energy to more intense encounters. Working alongside the sound effects and ambient audio, it helps establish a coherent sense of place, enriching the world without competing with the visual storytelling or the demands of gameplay. Not every element is equally accomplished, however. Combat is perfectly serviceable and can be satisfying in its own right, but it lacks the variety and depth that distinguish the exploration. Once its fundamental mechanics become familiar, encounters are less likely to surprise, particularly when compared with the sense of possibility that accompanies a newly unlocked ability or an unexpected discovery. The broader design also remains firmly rooted in established genre conventions. Well Dweller refines a familiar formula rather than pushing it in a substantially new direction, and while that approach serves its overall vision, it inevitably limits the extent to which the game can distinguish itself mechanically. These shortcomings do not undermine the adventure, but they are worth bearing in mind for players who expect combat to be as developed as the systems surrounding exploration. Crucially, though, Well Dweller never appears to lose sight of what it wants to achieve. Its priorities are clear, and its strongest elements work together in service of a coherent experience. Exploration provides the structure, movement gives it momentum, and the artistic direction supplies the atmosphere that makes the journey worth undertaking. Combat is a less elaborate component of that design, but the game’s appeal does not depend on it carrying the entire experience. Rather, its greatest successes emerge from the relationship between navigating the kingdom, gradually mastering its obstacles, and becoming increasingly familiar with its strange and unsettling inhabitants. For those who value intricate combat systems above all else, this emphasis may leave something to be desired. Players drawn to interconnected environments, carefully paced progression, and the satisfaction of uncovering secrets through an expanding set of movement abilities, however, will find much to appreciate. Well Dweller knows where its strengths lie, and its willingness to build around them ultimately proves more effective than an attempt to broaden its ambitions at the expense of its identity. In the end, Well Dweller succeeds through the care with which it executes its ideas rather than any desire to reinvent the genre. Its art direction, interconnected world, fluid movement, and dark-fairytale sensibility combine to create an adventure that feels cohesive from beginning to end. It may not redefine what a metroidvania can be, and its combat rarely reaches the same heights as its exploration, but neither limitation obscures the qualities that make it worthwhile. This is a game with a clear creative identity, one that understands the appeal of its influences and finds its own expression within a familiar framework. Perhaps the clearest measure of its success is the feeling it leaves behind: the desire to push a little further, investigate the passage that remains just out of reach, or return to a forgotten corner of the map with the hope of finding something new. These are familiar pleasures, but they remain at the heart of what makes a well-crafted metroidvania so compelling. Well Dweller understands that exploration is most rewarding when curiosity becomes a reason to keep playing in its own right. By sustaining that impulse throughout the adventure, it delivers on one of the genre’s most enduring promises: the sense that there is always something more waiting just beyond the path ahead.
Studio Koba and Aeternum Game Studios have built a 2D action shooter that makes its own aesthetic identity and its unconventional approach two fundamental elements, but that does not coast on an original concept alone. The idea of embedding the adventure inside an old Game & Watch is not just an aesthetic gimmick: it influences how we read the environments, tackle the levels, and learn to recognise the elements we can interact with. The music, with its simple but carefully crafted vocal lines, also helps give the experience its personality. It is precisely this coherence between artistic vision and gameplay that makes the difference. The system based on the collaboration between Future Knight and Two More is another successful idea. The two protagonists' abilities offer interesting solutions both in combat and in platforming sections, pushing us to experiment and make the most of their quirks. A few imprecisions in Two More's controls and some checkpoints that are not always well placed can create moments of frustration, but they do not compromise the experience as a whole. The most evident limitation is probably its length. Five hours to complete the adventure and collect all the secrets is not much, while replayability relies mostly on hard mode and the pursuit of records. It is something to keep in mind, but it does not erase the merits of a game that knows what it wants to be and carries its idea through with coherence. In the end, Future Knight is a small project with a clearly defined character, capable of mixing nostalgia, experimentation and nonsense humour without sacrificing solid gameplay. It will not be a particularly long experience, but it is an adventure worth playing, especially for those looking for something different from the usual 2D action game.
Ultimately, Gears of War: E-Day is a compelling reminder of what makes the franchise endure, even if it falls short of fully realising the potential of its return to the past. The Coalition has recaptured much of the series’ defining identity, from its uncompromising brutality and visceral combat to the emotional bond at the heart of its story. What it has not quite achieved is turning those strengths into a consistently memorable campaign. The most successful aspect of the prequel is undoubtedly the relationship between Marcus Fenix and Dom Santiago. Their friendship gives the narrative its emotional heart, bringing back the humour, camaraderie, and underlying vulnerability that helped define the original trilogy. Tai further strengthens the connection to the series’ history, while Carlos and the references to established events give the story a broader sense of continuity. Crucially, E-Day does more than invite players to revisit familiar ground: at its best, it reminds us why these characters and their world mattered in the first place. That same understanding extends to the gameplay. The return to the franchise’s brutal origins restores some of the menace that made the Locust such formidable adversaries, while the familiar arsenal and cover-based shooting remain as satisfying as ever. The combat has weight, the weapons retain their distinctive character, and well-executed encounters demonstrate that the foundations of Gears of War remain remarkably resilient. There is no inherent need to reinvent a formula that still works this well. The challenge is to keep it engaging over the course of an entire campaign, and this is where E-Day proves less convincing. Its shortcomings become increasingly apparent as the hours accumulate. An overextended campaign, larger environments that too rarely translate into meaningful gameplay variety, and supporting characters who struggle to leave a lasting impression all dilute the experience. Boss encounters frequently favour endurance over ingenuity, while an intrusive interface and severe performance drops in demanding areas further compromise the action. Individually, these issues vary in significance; collectively, they prevent the game from achieving the consistency its strongest moments suggest is within reach. For all its merits, E-Day is not the triumphant return that could have reasserted Gears of War at the very forefront of the genre. Nor does it recapture the impact of the original trilogy in its entirety. Yet judging the prequel solely against the legacy it seeks to revisit would mean overlooking a more encouraging truth: The Coalition understands the foundations on which that legacy was built. The problem is not a loss of identity, but an uneven ability to translate that identity into an experience that remains compelling from beginning to end. The distinction matters most when the game returns to Marcus and Dom. Their relationship gives the campaign something that spectacle alone cannot provide: a personal stake in the unfolding catastrophe. Through them, Emergence Day becomes more than the beginning of a war; it becomes the defining experience of two soldiers whose friendship will shape the future of the series. It is in these moments that E-Day comes closest to recapturing the spirit of the original games, reminding us that beneath the armour, the chainsaw bayonets, and the relentless violence, Gears of War has always been a story about survival, friendship, and sacrifice. That is ultimately what makes this prequel worth experiencing, despite its shortcomings. It does not deliver a uniformly successful return to the series’ origins, but it does reaffirm the value of the characters, the world, and the combat that have sustained the franchise for so long. Its strongest elements provide a solid foundation; its weaker ones make clear how much further that foundation could have taken it. For The Coalition, the next challenge is not to rediscover what makes Gears of War distinctive, but to build on it with greater ambition and discipline. E-Day proves that the series still has a compelling story to tell and that Marcus and Dom remain at its heart. Whether that promise can be transformed into something truly exceptional will depend on what comes next. For now, this is a worthwhile return to the battlefield: one that honours the past, reclaims much of the franchise’s identity, and leaves room for a more assured future.
By the time I reached the end of Fading Echo, I found myself returning to a question that had accompanied me from the outset: how do we judge a game that gets so much right, yet never quite lives up to the promise of its own ideas? Emeteria’s adventure is a reminder that a game’s merits cannot be measured by its mechanical precision, the consistency of its design, or the extent to which it fulfils its ambitions alone. These are essential considerations, but they do not tell the whole story. There is also the experience a game creates, the curiosity it inspires, the world it draws us into, and the impressions that linger long after the controller has been put down. None of this, of course, should excuse shortcomings or grant a game credit for achievements it fails to deliver. But it would be equally reductive to judge Fading Echo solely by its limitations and overlook the qualities that make it worth experiencing. Its weaknesses are evident, from a combat system that struggles to evolve to encounters that lack variety and narrative ideas that never receive the development they deserve. These are not trivial flaws, nor should they be dismissed simply because other aspects of the game work well. Indeed, there were moments when the repetition of combat left me wishing for more imaginative encounters, a broader range of tactical possibilities, and a design that made better use of the knowledge players acquire throughout the adventure. Yet my frustration rarely eclipsed my curiosity. I remained eager to discover what lay beyond the next stretch of Corel, to examine my surroundings more closely, and to see what further possibilities One’s abilities might unlock. It is this tension between what Fading Echo achieves and what it leaves unrealised that ultimately defines my verdict. Acknowledging its strengths does not require overlooking its flaws; it means recognising that both are essential to understanding the experience as a whole. Where Fading Echo makes its strongest impression is in exploration and environmental puzzle-solving. Here, the relationship between One’s abilities and the world around her creates opportunities for genuine discovery, rewarding players who take the time to observe, experiment, and think for themselves. Some of the adventure’s most satisfying moments come from studying an environment, recognising how the properties of different elements interact, and finding a solution that was not immediately apparent. The reward lies not simply in overcoming an obstacle, but in understanding its underlying logic and working out the answer for yourself. That is the foundation of the game’s most successful design, demonstrating how a relatively modest set of mechanics can sustain compelling gameplay when given room to interact in thoughtful and inventive ways. I would have liked to see that same ingenuity extend to combat, where promising ideas too often give way to repetition, and some of the game’s other systems could certainly have been developed further. The contrast is difficult to ignore: the puzzles continually encourage players to reconsider familiar mechanics, while encounters rarely inspire the same degree of experimentation. Yet this disparity also makes the source of the game’s strengths easier to identify. Emeteria has found an engaging way to connect player abilities with environmental problem-solving; the challenge now lies in applying that same design philosophy more consistently across the experience. Potential, by itself, is no substitute for execution. It cannot compensate for an underdeveloped system or turn a missed opportunity into a success. What makes that potential worth discussing in Fading Echo, however, is that it rests on more than speculation about what the game might have been. It is evident in the coherence of its strongest mechanics, the care invested in its world, and the creative direction that emerges when its various elements work in harmony. Although the finished experience does not always do justice to these ideas, it feels like an attempt to establish an identity of its own rather than simply reproduce familiar genre conventions. For all its shortcomings, I consider Fading Echo a promising debut. It is neither a fully realised achievement nor an action RPG that will necessarily appeal to everyone, but it offers a clear indication of what Emeteria can bring to the genre. Some flaws could have been avoided, certain systems needed more substantial refinement, and greater variety would have made the adventure considerably more engaging. With a more assured approach to its weaker elements, the game might have become something far more memorable. Even so, there is a solid gameplay foundation here, along with a distinctive identity and ideas that demonstrate the value of creative risk-taking. Not every experiment succeeds, but its shortcomings do not erase the ingenuity behind its better moments. Instead, they reveal where those ideas needed to be pushed further, where the design could have been more ambitious, and where a more confident execution might have made all the difference. Ultimately, a review should do more than catalogue a game's strengths and weaknesses. It should consider what the experience sets out to achieve, how successfully it realises that vision, and why certain ideas work better than others. By that measure, Fading Echo is an uneven but worthwhile adventure: one whose limitations prevent it from reaching its full potential, yet whose best moments make that potential tangible. Emeteria has not yet brought all its ideas to fruition, but it has laid a foundation worth building on. I finished the adventure aware of what could have been better, but also genuinely curious to see how the studio develops its ideas and builds on this first step.
More than a decade after its original release, Slender: The Arrival remains a distinctive horror experience, sustained by an identity that has endured even as some of its underlying mechanics have begun to show their age. Rather than relying on mechanical depth or an elaborate range of gameplay systems, it builds its appeal around a handful of fundamental principles: first-person exploration, the absence of meaningful combat, the player's vulnerability, and, above all, the unsettling presence of Slender Man. With his stark silhouette, featureless face, and unpredictable appearances, the creature remains the game's defining asset, a reminder that horror can be remarkably effective without revealing too much. Atmosphere is where Slender: The Arrival continues to make its strongest impression. Dense woodland, isolated houses, derelict buildings, and dimly lit interiors establish a pervasive sense of isolation, turning even routine exploration into an exercise in apprehension. The threat need not be immediately visible to exert its influence; often, the mere possibility of encountering Slender Man is enough to keep the player on edge. By favouring anticipation, uncertainty, and the fear of the unseen over outright spectacle, the game still delivers moments of genuine unease, demonstrating the enduring effectiveness of its original approach to horror. The 10th Anniversary Update gives that vision a welcome technical refresh. Its substantial graphical overhaul and the addition of the Nightmare chapter enhance the overall package while preserving the foundations of the original experience. Yet the distinction between presentation and design remains clear. The updated visuals lend greater definition to the environments and bring the game closer to contemporary standards, but the underlying gameplay remains largely unchanged. Exploration, item collection, and sequences built around evasion can become repetitive, while some encounters no longer carry the same weight as they might have done upon the game's initial release. These limitations, however, do little to diminish its value as a point of reference in the evolution of independent horror. Slender: The Arrival is not particularly remarkable for its mechanical complexity or technical ambition; its significance lies instead in how effectively it translates an internet-born horror icon into a recognisable videogame experience. Its achievement is one of atmosphere and restraint rather than complexity. Brief, direct, and occasionally uneven, it demonstrates how a relatively simple premise can sustain an entire horror game when its setting, sound design, and central threat work in unison. Ultimately, Slender: The Arrival finds its greatest strength in the feeling that the player is never truly safe, never entirely alone, and never fully in control of their surroundings. The fear of being watched, the uncertainty of what might be waiting beyond the reach of the flashlight, and the inability to confront the threat directly remain central to its appeal. The 10th Anniversary Update gives the experience a more contemporary presentation, but it is the original design philosophy that continues to define it. Although its mechanics have not aged as gracefully as its atmosphere, the game retains enough of its unsettling character to justify a return. For those interested in revisiting the formative years of first-person indie horror, Slender: The Arrival remains an imperfect but worthwhile reminder that the most enduring nightmares are not necessarily the most elaborate, but those that leave the imagination to do the frightening.
Active Matter is not trying to reinvent the extraction-shooter genre. Perhaps it does not need to. Instead, it takes a familiar formula and gives it a personality of its own, using its setting, narrative framework, and supernatural elements to stand apart in an increasingly crowded field. It is a game that understands where its strengths lie, particularly when it steps back and allows the player to determine how much risk a raid is worth. There is rarely a definitive right answer. There is only the decision you are willing to live with. Do you search one more building for better loot, or leave while you still have everything you came for? Do you confront the creature blocking your path, or find another way around it? Do you enter the field with your best equipment, knowing exactly what is at stake, or take a more conservative loadout? These choices may seem small in isolation, but together they form the foundation of Active Matter’s identity. The game’s tension comes from more than the danger surrounding you. It comes from the value of everything you have already managed to secure. Loot matters because you can lose it. Ammunition matters because you cannot afford to waste it. And extraction matters because the closer you get to safety, the harder it becomes to justify taking one more unnecessary risk. Active Matter is at its best when it understands that the most effective source of tension is not always what is waiting around the next corner, but the knowledge that you could lose everything you have already earned. The experience is not without its weaknesses. The early economy can feel overly restrictive, some encounters lean too heavily into punishment, and certain supernatural enemies can demand an excessive amount of ammunition to bring down. The opening hours can also be a difficult introduction for players unfamiliar with the genre. These are meaningful shortcomings, and they prevent Active Matter from becoming a truly exceptional extraction shooter. What is encouraging, however, is how much progress the game has made since our previous experience with it. The current version is smoother, more stable, and more confident in its own design. Combat, exploration, inventory management, progression, and its supernatural threats now fit together with enough cohesion to give the game a distinct voice rather than simply another variation on a familiar formula. Active Matter is not going to be for everyone. It can be demanding, occasionally frustrating, and at times less generous than it should be. But there is a clear idea at its core, and when its systems align, that idea works. How much are you willing to risk before what you have becomes more valuable than what you might still find? That question sits at the heart of every raid. Active Matter does not answer it for you. It simply gives you enough to lose to make finding the answer matter.
Tiny Eden is at its best when it lets you forget about progression and simply lose yourself in the quiet ritual of tending to your garden. Its thoughtful soil and plant mechanics, beautifully crafted apartment, and striking contrast between nature and the grey city beyond give the experience a warmth and identity all its own. Unfortunately, that charm is gradually worn down by repetitive errands, sluggish unlocks, an unrewarding economy, and NPCs who never feel as alive as the world around them. Tiny Eden has a genuinely beautiful heart, but too many of the systems built around it feel less like natural extensions of its ideas and more like obstacles standing in their way. It has planted the right seeds; now it simply needs more balance, patience, and care to truly bloom.
Madbricks' Mexican Ninja is a light and fun 2.5D action roguelite, blending Mexican and Japanese imagery in a Nuevo Tokyo controlled by the Narkuzas. It does not revolutionize the genre and the plot is merely a pretext for the action. Still, the title is not afraid to show its intentions from the very start. What works is the identity: a 90s pulp aesthetic, irreverent and deliberately politically incorrect humor, a convincing envelope of visual and audio coherence, and it never makes the production's technical limits weigh on the experience. The build system of gods, Jutsu, synergies and costumes with buffs and debuffs is more interesting than one could have expected from the demo. Some limits remain: combat readability suffers when the screen fills with enemies and effects, the execution after the parry is not perfect, and paradoxically the levels prove more demanding than the bosses, the last one excluded. The variety of moves and Jutsu has clearly improved, as have the solutions against repetitiveness, from hidden forks to in-game quests. It is not an excellent title, but it succeeds in its intent: exaggerated, at times vulgar, with a precise idea that never tries to be reassuring. Even after completing the game, another run takes little time, and that matters in a roguelite. Worth trying for fans of the genre and of the politically incorrect.
By the time Puppet House reaches its conclusion, its identity is difficult to mistake. This is a small, tightly contained horror adventure, built around a simple premise and an equally straightforward design philosophy: explore the villa, piece together its mysteries, solve the puzzles standing between you and the next room, and survive the presence of a puppet that should never have come to life. There is nothing particularly revolutionary about that formula. Nor does Puppet House need it to be. Its appeal comes from the consistency with which its individual pieces fit together. The villa provides the atmosphere and the context; exploration turns the environment into a source of clues; puzzles give that exploration purpose; and the puppet periodically breaks the relative safety of investigation. It is a modest framework, but one that remains coherent throughout its brief runtime. The villa is unquestionably the production's strongest asset. It is more than the backdrop against which Rick's investigation unfolds: it is the foundation on which almost everything else is built. Its neglected rooms, ageing furniture, documents, theatrical remnants, and scattered belongings create the impression of a place suspended between abandonment and memory. There is enough environmental detail to suggest the life that once existed there without overwhelming the relatively compact spaces. More importantly, the setting rarely feels ornamental. The player is constantly encouraged to examine it, search it, and understand it. A seemingly insignificant object can become relevant later; a document can provide context as well as a solution; a dark corner can conceal the next piece of progression. Puppet House consequently understands one of the simplest principles of environmental horror: when the setting matters to the gameplay, the player has a reason to look at it more closely. Lighting and sound do much of the remaining work. Darkness restricts visibility, while the flashlight creates a narrow boundary between what Rick can perceive and everything beyond it. Floorboards creak, electrical fixtures hum, doors move, and distant sounds occasionally disturb the quiet. None of these techniques is particularly novel in isolation, but their combination gives the villa a convincing sense of presence. It is an atmosphere built less on spectacle than anticipation. The house does not constantly frighten you; it gives you enough reason to wonder whether it might. The puppet is central to that uncertainty. Its exaggerated, artificial appearance makes it immediately recognisable, and there is something inherently unsettling about watching an object designed to imitate life become an apparently living threat. The contrast between its original purpose and its murderous role is one of the game's strongest ideas, and the creature remains the image most closely associated with Puppet House. Yet the puppet is also where the game's ambitions begin to feel restricted. As an antagonist, it is memorable without ever becoming particularly unpredictable. Its appearances are largely tied to predetermined encounters and specific sequences, meaning that its presence is governed more by the structure of the adventure than by the player's behaviour. There is no genuinely dynamic pursuit system turning every return to the villa into a potential confrontation. The puppet can interrupt exploration, but it rarely owns the space between encounters. That distinction matters. A more persistent or unpredictable threat could have fundamentally altered the atmosphere of the house, forcing the player to reconsider familiar routes and making even routine puzzle-solving feel dangerous. Instead, the creature generally arrives when the game decides it is time for danger, before giving way to escapes and brief reaction-based sequences. It works. It simply does not go as far as the premise suggests it could. The puzzles are a more dependable part of the experience. They are not particularly difficult, but they perform an important structural role: they turn the villa into something the player must understand rather than merely traverse. Keys, combinations, codes, mechanisms, objects, and environmental clues establish a steady rhythm of observation and progression. Their accessibility is likely to divide players. Those looking for demanding escape-room challenges may find many solutions too readily signposted, with relevant information often positioned close to the obstacle it resolves. There are relatively few occasions when several distant clues must be pieced together through genuine deduction. But that simplicity also prevents the adventure from losing momentum. Puppet House is a short horror game, and its puzzles rarely allow frustration to overwhelm atmosphere. The emphasis is on keeping the investigation moving, not on testing the player's patience. The same compromise defines exploration itself. The villa appears interconnected, but the underlying progression remains highly linear. One solution usually points towards the next, locked doors communicate future destinations, and the player is rarely required to make meaningful decisions about where to investigate first. The structure is clear, efficient, and accessible. It is also restrictive. The house looks like somewhere worth getting lost in; the game seldom lets you. That is perhaps the greatest missed opportunity in the environmental design. A little more freedom could have made the villa feel less like a sequence of carefully arranged puzzle rooms and more like a genuinely lived-in space that the player was learning to navigate. The setting already possesses the character required to support that approach. The progression simply does not give it enough room. Then there is the question of duration. Reported playtimes vary, with some players reaching the conclusion in under two hours and others spending closer to three or four depending on puzzle familiarity and how thoroughly they explore. That variation is worth acknowledging, but the broader point remains: this is a very compact adventure. That is not automatically a weakness. Horror often benefits from restraint, and there is value in a game knowing when its central idea has reached its natural conclusion. In Puppet House, however, the brevity draws attention to everything the premise might have supported beyond what is actually presented. Peter Hill's history. The villa itself. The disappearances in Field Town. The ritual. The puppet. Each suggests another layer waiting to be uncovered. Yet the game generally introduces these ideas without giving them the space to develop into something substantially more elaborate. That is where Puppet House ultimately becomes most frustrating: not because it lacks ideas, but because its best ideas repeatedly feel one step away from becoming something greater. More elaborate puzzles could have strengthened the investigative side. Additional areas could have given the villa greater narrative weight. More unpredictable encounters could have made the puppet genuinely threatening. A deeper exploration of Peter Hill and the events surrounding the house could have transformed a compact mystery into a more substantial horror story. None of those changes would have required a completely different game. They would simply have required more confidence in the ideas already present. From a production standpoint, the same sense of restraint is visible in the presentation. The environments and lighting establish a coherent visual identity, while some inconsistencies in texture quality and asset refinement reveal the limitations of an independent production. These shortcomings rarely interfere with the experience, largely because the game's strongest visual qualities are rooted in composition and atmosphere rather than technical spectacle. And that, ultimately, is what makes Puppet House easy to appreciate even when it is difficult to fully recommend without reservations. It is coherent. It is focused. It knows what it is. It simply does not always give itself enough room to become what it might have been. The absence of combat is a good example of that clarity. Rick is not transformed into an action protagonist, nor does the game introduce weapons, ammunition, or combat systems that would conflict with its investigative structure. Instead, the player observes, searches, solves, and reacts. That keeps the experience centred on the mystery of the villa rather than turning it into another conventional action-horror title. For that reason, I would ultimately describe Puppet House as a worthwhile small-scale horror experience rather than a landmark of the genre. It is at its best when it focuses on what it does naturally well: atmosphere, environmental exploration, accessible puzzles, and the unsettling imagery of its puppet. Its weaknesses are equally clear. The puzzles rarely demand enough. The progression rarely gives the player enough freedom. The puppet rarely feels dangerous enough. And the campaign ends just as its setting begins to suggest that there might be considerably more beneath the surface. Yet those shortcomings should not obscure what the game gets right. There is a genuine sense of place here. There is a coherent visual and sonic identity. There is a central horror concept that immediately communicates what makes the experience distinctive. And, most importantly, there is enough craft behind the simplicity to keep the adventure engaging from its opening moments to its conclusion. The problem is not that Puppet House feels unfinished. It feels restrained. And perhaps that is the most accurate way to remember it. Not as a failed attempt at something larger, but as a compact horror game whose strongest ideas occasionally seem to be looking beyond the boundaries imposed upon them. The villa could have held more secrets. The puzzles could have asked more of us. The puppet could have hunted us more aggressively. The story could have dug deeper. Instead, Puppet House chooses to remain small. For some players, that will be precisely its appeal. For others, it will be the reason they finish the game wishing there had been one more chapter, one more room, one more encounter waiting beyond the next locked door. And that may be the game's most telling achievement: it leaves you wanting more—not because what is here is empty, but because you can see how much further these ideas could have gone. Puppet House will not redefine horror. It does not need to. It is a focused, atmospheric, approachable little adventure that understands its own scale and largely makes that scale work in its favour. But somewhere behind the walls of Peter Hill's house, there is the outline of a more ambitious game.
With BrokenLore: DON'T LIE, Serafini Productions once again finds its most effective source of horror not in what lurks in the dark, but in what can quietly unravel within the human mind. Junko’s story is shaped by loneliness, repressed memories, deception, and fragile relationships, creating a psychological horror experience that understands the value of restraint. Rather than constantly reaching for immediate shocks, DON'T LIE builds its tension through an atmosphere of persistent unease, allowing discomfort to linger long after the initial scare has passed. Its relatively short runtime does little to diminish its impact. DON'T LIE represents a clear visual step forward for the series, while its use of liminal spaces becomes one of its greatest strengths. Familiar environments are repeatedly stripped of their sense of safety and transformed into spaces that feel increasingly alien, oppressive, and difficult to trust. It is in these moments that the game’s atmosphere is at its most effective. The connection to DON'T WATCH further expands the narrative, adding another piece to the increasingly intricate mythology of the BrokenLore universe without making the experience inaccessible to newcomers. Survival mechanics, dialogue, and player choices also point toward a more interactive approach to storytelling, giving the player a greater sense of involvement in Junko’s journey. Combat, however, remains the weakest part of the experience, lacking the same degree of polish and purpose found elsewhere. DON'T LIE is not a flawless horror experience, but its shortcomings never overshadow what Serafini Productions is gradually building. If anything, they reveal a studio still experimenting, refining its ideas, and becoming increasingly confident in its own creative voice. There is a clear sense that BrokenLore is still taking shape, and DON'T LIE feels like another meaningful step toward defining what that universe can ultimately become.
Celestial Return is not a game that can be fairly reduced to either its shortcomings or its successes. Its most interesting qualities and its most evident limitations come from the same source: an ambition to bring several different forms of interactive storytelling into a single experience. There are clear points of friction. Map navigation can occasionally disrupt the otherwise measured pace of the narrative, the game's many mechanics are introduced faster than they can comfortably be absorbed, and the launch version was affected by technical issues that required further refinement. Yet these limitations sit alongside a production with a distinctive artistic voice, consistently strong writing, an accomplished soundtrack and an RPG system capable of giving genuine mechanical weight to narrative decisions. The personality system offers perhaps the clearest indication of the project's potential. By making the protagonist's personality an active part of the gameplay, Celestial Return gives its conversations a greater sense of role-playing, allowing the character being shaped by the player to influence the way certain situations unfold. The dice system complements that philosophy in a different way, introducing resource management and uncertainty that can turn seemingly simple choices into decisions worth considering. Not every system receives the refinement it deserves. This is where the game's greatest sense of missed potential ultimately lies. Celestial Return repeatedly approaches something genuinely distinctive, but it does not always give its ideas enough space to work together with the same clarity. The foundations are strong, the identity is unmistakable, and the ambition is evident; what is occasionally missing is the final layer of cohesion that would allow all of those qualities to reinforce one another. Even so, Celestial Return remains an intriguing proposition for anyone drawn to cyberpunk fiction, visual novels, narrative RPGs and investigative storytelling. It is uneven, but rarely uninteresting. And when its systems finally align with its writing, artwork, music and atmosphere, the result offers a compelling glimpse of the game it is capable of becoming.
By the time the credits roll on The Alighieri Circle: Dante’s Bloodline, what lingers is less the amount of content contained within its relatively brief runtime than the sense of possibility surrounding it. ONE-O-ONE GAMES has chosen an unusually rich foundation for an independent horror game: taking the legacy of Dante Alighieri, weaving The Divine Comedy into an original mythology, and placing that inheritance in the hands of a descendant who must confront a responsibility carried through generations. It is an immediately intriguing premise, but more importantly, it gives the game a personality that is difficult to mistake for anyone else’s. That personality is most evident in its atmosphere. Villa Alighieri is a particularly effective setting, its quiet corridors, natural light, family possessions and traces of previous generations creating the impression of a house that has accumulated history over centuries. Exploration consequently becomes more than a means of moving the story forward. Looking through rooms, examining objects and uncovering documents gradually turns the Villa into a fragmented record of the family that once lived there. The Abyss takes the same underlying idea and tears it away from anything familiar. Its distorted architecture, surreal landscapes and imposing scale provide some of the game's strongest visual moments, while its strange combination of Dantean imagery and unexpected elements gives it a character of its own. The Abyss is at its best when it feels less like a recreation of Hell and more like a place that should not exist at all. It is also where the game's approach to horror becomes clearest: rather than relying on constant shocks, it uses space, silence and uncertainty to create unease. Dante's presence is equally well integrated. The Divine Comedy is not treated as a convenient collection of references, nor is the Inferno simply reproduced for recognisable imagery. The pages, the ritual and the Alighieri family's connection to Hell form the backbone of the game's mythology, turning Dante's legacy into something inherited rather than merely remembered. It is a strong foundation—and one that ultimately exposes the game's greatest limitation. There is simply more here than the game has time to fully explore. Gabriele is a good example. His position gives the story a naturally compelling human conflict: he has inherited an ancient responsibility he never chose, yet he must still reconcile that duty with the life he has built outside the Villa. His relationship with Dalila and their daughter Ginevra provides an important emotional counterweight to the supernatural events unfolding around him. Yet the game's compact structure means that these relationships are given only limited room to develop. By the end, Gabriele's circumstances are clear, but his journey could have carried considerably more emotional weight with more time devoted to the person behind the obligation. The same is true of the wider Alighieri family history. The diaries and documents scattered throughout the Villa are among the most rewarding elements of the exploration because they hint at generations of people who lived through the ritual before Gabriele. They create the impression of an entire lineage shaped by sacrifice, secrecy and duty. But much of that history remains something the player reads about rather than experiences. That is an understandable compromise for a compact production, and the approach works within the game's existing structure. Still, I found myself wishing that some of those stories had been brought to life through memories, visions or short playable sequences. Seeing even a handful of these events unfold directly could have transformed intriguing background material into some of the game's most memorable moments. The question of runtime therefore deserves a little more nuance than simply calling the game short. At roughly three to four hours, The Alighieri Circle is not excessively long or short by definition. Its length would be perfectly appropriate if its ambitions were contained accordingly. The difficulty is that the narrative repeatedly suggests a much broader mythology, and the game reaches its conclusion just as that mythology begins to reveal how much further it could go. It does not feel unfinished so much as deliberately compact in a world that seems anything but. The gameplay follows the same philosophy. Removing combat and conventional progression systems is entirely coherent with the experience ONE-O-ONE GAMES has set out to create. Gabriele does not need weapons, statistics or skill trees. His vulnerability reinforces the psychological-thriller framework and keeps the focus on exploration, observation, environmental storytelling and puzzles. That approach works best when the player is encouraged to read the environment rather than simply move through it. Some puzzles make excellent use of documents, symbols, objects and details discovered elsewhere, allowing the solution to emerge naturally from the world. Others are more forgiving, while the linear structure occasionally limits the feeling of discovery that the setting itself seems designed to encourage. Once again, the issue is less the underlying philosophy than the degree to which it is developed. With no combat loop or progression system to provide mechanical variety, the remaining systems need to evolve alongside the player's understanding of the world. The Alighieri Circle does this to an extent, but not always enough to match the scale suggested by its setting. And yet, despite those limitations, the game has something that cannot simply be designed into existence: a sense of place. Villa Alighieri feels distinctly Italian without turning its cultural identity into a gimmick. Dante's legacy is embedded in the narrative rather than pasted onto it. The Abyss translates that literary inheritance into something visual, spatial and interactive. Even when the experience falls short of the possibilities it introduces, there is a clear creative voice behind it. That matters, particularly within a genre where familiarity can quickly become repetition. The Alighieri Circle: Dante’s Bloodline is therefore not a game I would remember primarily for its length or mechanical complexity. I would remember it for the idea at its core, and for the moments in which that idea genuinely comes alive. Its strongest qualities (its atmosphere, art direction, setting and use of Dantean mythology) give it a character that many larger productions struggle to establish. Its limitations are real. The linearity can feel restrictive, several puzzles are less demanding than they might have been, and the compact runtime leaves important characters, histories and locations less developed than their foundations suggest. But those shortcomings never overwhelm the experience. If anything, they make its strongest moments more revealing, because they show what this world might have supported with a broader scope. That is ultimately where I land with The Alighieri Circle. It is an intriguing, atmospheric and distinctly personal game that feels less like a finished statement than the beginning of a conversation. ONE-O-ONE GAMES has taken one of Italy's most recognisable literary legacies and found a way to make it relevant to an original videogame narrative without reducing it to mere decoration. For players drawn to psychological horror, environmental storytelling and mysteries rooted in place and history, there is plenty here to appreciate. And for anyone interested in seeing Italian cultural heritage interpreted through videogames, the project is particularly worth a look—not because it provides the definitive version of its idea, but because it demonstrates just how much room that idea still has to grow. Perhaps that is the most fitting conclusion for a game built around inheritance. What The Alighieri Circle leaves behind is not the feeling that the journey was too short, but the feeling that there was more of it waiting beyond the final door.
Resonance: A Plague Tale Legacy is not A Plague Tale: Requiem. That distinction is worth making from the outset, because Asobo Studio has little interest in retracing the path of Amicia and Hugo. Instead, it takes a character who was once little more than a supporting presence and places her at the heart of a story that is very much her own. Rather than living in the shadow of what came before, Resonance attempts to build a new identity from its foundations. Sophia is the reason that approach works. Her journey gives the game a clear emotional centre, while the writing surrounding her remains one of its strongest qualities. The narrative also takes greater risks with its structure, bringing past and present into increasingly close contact as Sophia’s visions begin to reveal connections between people, places, and events separated by centuries. What initially feels fragmented gradually takes shape as a larger mystery, giving the story a sense of momentum that extends well beyond the simple search for answers. The same willingness to change direction can be found in the gameplay. Resonance moves away from the stealth-heavy design of its predecessors and gives Sophia a far more direct relationship with danger. Its combat system is not sophisticated enough to compete with the genre’s dedicated action games, but it does not need to be. Parrying, dodging, and counterattacking are responsive enough to make encounters satisfying, while their relative simplicity keeps combat from overwhelming the broader adventure. It is a change that feels driven by the character rather than imposed upon her. Asobo Studio’s visual work remains equally impressive. The game’s environments have a strong sense of identity, from the crowded streets of Venice during Carnival to the quiet, enigmatic spaces of the island, while its lighting frequently serves a purpose beyond presentation. Strong art direction and confident cinematic staging allow some of Resonance’s most memorable moments to emerge naturally from the world around Sophia rather than simply placing spectacle on top of it. The experience is not without weaknesses. The island’s puzzle-heavy structure can become repetitive, particularly during its first half, where the frequency of environmental challenges occasionally works against the pace of exploration. Some combat encounters are more punishing than their mechanics justify, and not every escape sequence reaches the same level of direction or intensity as the game’s best set pieces. On Xbox Series S, there are also occasional frame-rate drops during the more demanding late-game sequences. More difficult to overlook is the runtime itself: just as several characters begin to develop into genuinely compelling parts of the story, the credits are already approaching. Even so, those shortcomings do not define the experience. What ultimately gives Resonance its value is the confidence with which it allows Sophia to exist independently of the characters who came before her. Her story is not about replacing Amicia, nor about recreating what made the previous games resonate. It is about confronting a past that has been deliberately obscured and discovering that the truth can be just as difficult to live with as the uncertainty that came before it. Beneath its plague, its rats, the Macula, and the lore surrounding them, Resonance remains interested in something much more recognisable: what people do with loss, guilt, fear, and the parts of their history they would rather leave behind. Its world may be filled with extraordinary forces, but its emotional core is grounded in people trying to understand what happened to them and deciding what to do with that knowledge once they finally have it. That is why Resonance: A Plague Tale Legacy works best when it stops trying to answer the question of what comes after A Plague Tale: Requiem and starts asking a different one: what can A Plague Tale become when someone new is given the chance to tell its story? The answer is Sophia. This is not Amicia and Hugo’s journey. It is hers. And by the time Resonance finds its own voice, it has done more than continue a familiar story—it has earned the right to tell a new one.
Denshattack! is one of those games that reveals far more beneath the surface than its first impression might suggest. At a glance, it is colourful, charming and almost deliberately unserious: a game that appears to have little interest in asking us to take it too seriously. But sooner or later, one question inevitably comes to mind: is this really all there is to it? Thankfully, it is not. What initially looks like a novelty built around the simple absurdity of putting a train on the rails like a skateboard gradually develops into a remarkably cohesive gameplay experience. Denshattack! has far more depth than its premise would suggest, and it rarely misses an opportunity to push either its challenge or its sense of spectacle a little further. More importantly, it has a knack for leaving us surprised by what comes next, and wanting to play one more run simply to see how much further we can take it. That is no small achievement for a game whose entire premise could so easily have remained a one-joke gimmick. Turning a train into a skateboard is an amusing idea; building an entire movement system around it is considerably harder. Yet Denshattack! makes the concept work. Tricks, drifting, manuals and alternative routes come together to form a system that feels responsive, rewarding and, above all, fun to play. The more comfortable we become with its mechanics, the more freedom the game seems willing to give us. It is at full speed, when the train is hurtling down the tracks and the game is throwing increasingly outrageous ideas in our direction, that Denshattack! feels most confident. Speed, spectacle and absurdity become inseparable, and it is precisely in that combination that Undercoders finds the game's strongest identity. There are shortcomings, of course. The narrative remains relatively straightforward, some of the bonuses attached to individual carriages have less of an impact on our playstyle than we might have hoped, and the final stages leave us wishing the story had taken one last creative risk. None of these issues, however, are substantial enough to derail the experience. The adventure maintains a remarkably consistent sense of momentum, constantly finding new ways to challenge us, surprise us or simply make us wonder what the developers could possibly do next. More importantly, Denshattack! knows exactly what kind of game it wants to be. There is a clear confidence behind its absurdity, and it becomes increasingly apparent that Undercoders had a very specific vision for just how far this idea could go. The result is an adventure that fully commits to its shōnen-inspired clashes between rival trains and their eccentric riders, steadily escalating the spectacle without losing sight of the gameplay that holds everything together. That confidence extends to the game's interpretation of Japan. Its world draws heavily from Japanese landscapes, architecture, folklore, traditions and pop culture, but it rarely feels like a superficial collection of references. Instead, Undercoders takes those influences and filters them through a deliberately exaggerated creative lens, creating a version of Japan that is recognisable without ever attempting to be literal. The result is playful, eccentric and surreal, but also surprisingly cohesive and, crucially, respectful of the cultural influences that shape it. Ultimately, that is where Denshattack! finds its greatest strength: it embraces the ridiculous without ever losing sight of why the ridiculous is fun. This is a wild journey through a dystopian Japan where trains become skateboards, railway networks become playgrounds and almost anything can happen once we stop worrying about the laws of physics. Boss fights escalate into spectacle, detours become opportunities, and every stretch of track feels like another invitation to see just how far we can push the system. In a landscape increasingly crowded with games trying to impress us through scale, realism or sheer technical ambition, Denshattack! offers something considerably simpler: an idea that is completely its own, executed with enough confidence to make it work. For a few hours, it asks us to forget what a train is supposed to do, ignore what physics says should be possible and simply enjoy the ride – launching ourselves down the tracks at ridiculous speeds, chaining tricks, drifting around corners, taking on eccentric bosses and discovering routes that were never meant to be taken in the first place. And perhaps that is the game's greatest accomplishment. It reminds us that sometimes the most refreshing thing a game can do is forget what it is supposed to be and simply have fun with what it could become.
Lost & Found: A This Bed We Made Story is the new self-contained episode from Lowbirth Games, available from August 5, 2026 on PC. Set in 1964, a few years after the events of This Bed We Made, it follows Sophie Roy in her new role as a ship hostess aboard the ocean liner Orpheus, dealing with a series of thefts that push her to put her nosy instinct back to work. Compared to the base game, the narrative stakes are lower – no murders, just missing objects – but the writing remains the real strong point: diaries, letters and vintage newspaper clippings (from the Gulf of Tonkin to the Harlem riots) build a solid historical setting without ever explaining it explicitly. The throughline, however, is Sophie's empathy: her relationship with onboard pianist Caleb Lyons and with some passengers confirms how good the character is at listening, a trait that counts as much as the theft investigation itself. The game also picks up the choices made in the previous chapter, asking at startup how your previous playthrough went, and offers its own ending based on how you resolve the investigation. On the technical side it convinces, especially thanks to the final soundtrack. Overall, a short appendix – about two hours – designed more for those attached to Sophie than for those looking for a sweeping mystery.
By the time we reach the end of REANIMAL, its greatest strength is impossible to miss: this is a horror game built on conviction. Tarsier Studios takes the sensibilities that have defined its work for years and carries them into an entirely new universe, once again finding fear in distorted imagery, oppressive spaces, grotesque creatures, and the uneasy feeling that the world around us has somehow gone wrong. REANIMAL is not interested in mechanical complexity for its own sake. Its priorities lie elsewhere, in the places where Tarsier has always been most confident: atmosphere, visual storytelling, exploration, and the emotional connection between its characters. For the most part, that focus pays off. The island is where that vision comes together most convincingly. It is far more than a backdrop for the story, functioning instead as a constantly shifting expression of the nightmare itself. Flooded facilities, ruined structures, forests, open water, and decaying interiors each possess their own visual language while remaining part of the same unsettling whole. Tarsier's creature design is every bit as effective. The monsters are grotesque without becoming excessive, and their impact often comes from the way they are revealed rather than simply from what they look like. A distant silhouette, an unfamiliar sound, a movement glimpsed at the edge of the frame: REANIMAL understands that what we imagine can be more frightening than anything placed directly in front of us. That confidence extends to its two protagonists. The relationship between the Boy and the Sister is never reduced to exposition; it is communicated through the way they move, react, help one another, and refuse to face the island alone. In co-op, that relationship becomes even more tangible. The shared camera can be awkward, particularly when the pace accelerates, but the underlying design philosophy is remarkably coherent. REANIMAL does not simply allow two players to inhabit the same world. It asks them to inhabit the nightmare together. Solving a puzzle, navigating a dangerous space, or escaping a creature becomes a shared act of survival, giving the cooperative mode an emotional dimension that many horror games never manage to achieve. If there is a clear gap between REANIMAL's ambitions and its execution, it is found in the depth of its mechanics. Exploration, puzzles, stealth, combat, and chase sequences are all handled with a strong sense of pacing, and the campaign benefits from knowing when to introduce an idea and when to move on. Nothing is given enough time to become particularly exhausting. The downside is that very little is given enough time to become genuinely sophisticated, either. The puzzles rarely demand more than careful observation, stealth remains relatively straightforward, and combat never develops into a substantial system in its own right. That is a limitation, but not necessarily a contradiction of the game's design. REANIMAL clearly does not want us to spend hours mastering a combat system or solving elaborate environmental puzzles. Its mechanics are there to keep the journey moving, to make us interact with the world, and to shape the rhythm between moments of discovery and moments of danger. The problem is simply that the extraordinary richness of the world sometimes makes us wish there were more beneath our feet mechanically. Tarsier has created a world we want to examine; the game does not always give us equally compelling reasons to engage with it on a systemic level. The story occupies similarly uncertain ground. Its reliance on imagery, symbolism, and environmental storytelling is one of its most appealing qualities, and there is genuine pleasure in being trusted to interpret rather than being handed an explanation for everything we encounter. Some of REANIMAL's most memorable moments work precisely because they leave questions hanging in the air. They encourage us to look back, reconsider what we have seen, and search for meaning in recurring images and seemingly insignificant details. Yet not every unanswered question feels equally purposeful. Some mysteries deepen the world; others leave us wishing the narrative had gone one step further. The issue is not ambiguity itself, but the balance between suggestion and development. REANIMAL is at its best when it gives us enough material to form our own interpretation. It is less successful when an idea feels introduced only to disappear before it has had the opportunity to fully resonate. The result is a story that can be haunting and thought-provoking, but occasionally frustrating in its refusal to provide the context certain moments seem to deserve. Still, those shortcomings are ultimately secondary to what Tarsier accomplishes so consistently well. REANIMAL is a game with an unmistakable voice. It does not need elaborate systems to establish its identity, nor does it rely on constant shocks to maintain its horror. Its environments, creature design, lighting, sound, pacing, and character relationships are all working toward the same objective. Very few elements exist simply for spectacle. Almost everything serves the mood. And that is why the experience works as well as it does. REANIMAL understands that horror is not necessarily about making the player feel powerful, nor is it about constantly asking them to overcome increasingly complex challenges. Sometimes it is about making a place feel wrong. It is about hearing something before we see it, entering a room we immediately want to leave, or catching a glimpse of something that our mind continues to reconstruct long after it has disappeared from view. Tarsier remains exceptionally good at creating those moments. There are imperfections, of course. The occasional technical hiccup and camera issue can disrupt the otherwise meticulous presentation, while the relative simplicity of the gameplay and the openness of the narrative will not satisfy everyone. But none of these issues obscures what REANIMAL is trying to achieve. This is not a horror game built around depth for depth's sake. It is a tightly authored journey through a world designed to unsettle us, and its greatest achievements come from the precision with which that world has been designed. We went into REANIMAL with high expectations. Tarsier Studios had already shown us how distinctive its approach to horror could be, and the prospect of watching that sensibility evolve within a completely new universe was more than enough to make us curious. Now, having reached the end of the journey, we can say with confidence that those expectations were not misplaced. REANIMAL may not have the depth to match the extraordinary richness of its presentation, and its story occasionally leaves us wanting answers that never arrive. But those are not the things we are most likely to remember. We will remember the island. We will remember the creatures moving through the darkness. We will remember the sound of something approaching before we could see it. And we will remember two children trying to hold on to one another while everything around them falls apart. That, ultimately, is where REANIMAL finds its greatest success. Tarsier Studios has not created the deepest horror adventure on the market, nor has it delivered a flawless one. It has created something more specific: a carefully authored, visually extraordinary nightmare with a voice all its own. And after spending hours inside it, that nightmare is difficult to shake.