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Completing Nobody Wants to Die does not feel like merely finishing a video game; it is the culmination of a deeply layered, contemplative narrative experience that lingers long after play ends. The game does not chase instant acclaim or mass appeal – it calls for players willing to slow down, observe, and engage thoughtfully with its deliberate pace and design. What makes the experience truly remarkable is the seamless cohesion of its elements. Writing, art direction, gameplay, and sound design coalesce into a singular, purposeful vision, probing the value of life and the burden of human choice in a society that has lost all sense of limits. The game deliberately avoids easy answers or tidy resolutions, achieving a level of authenticity and narrative maturity that treats its complex themes with subtlety rather than reducing them to simplistic slogans or moralistic lessons. The narrative encourages reflection on humanity’s relationship with progress, the illusion of control, and the inevitability of endings. Science fiction here is not mere spectacle but a lens through which to explore contemporary obsessions and anxieties. Emotionally, the game evokes a persistent melancholy, an existential weariness that follows the player to the final scene, emphasizing the journey over the destination. It is by no means a flawless game, nor devoid of limitations, yet it exemplifies a rare authorial ambition in an industry often hesitant to embrace intimate, uncompromising storytelling. Its deliberate pacing, narrative ambiguity, and minimalist investigative mechanics may pose challenges for some players, but for those willing to engage, these very elements deepen the experience, amplifying its emotional and intellectual resonance. Ultimately, Nobody Wants to Die is a game that grows on the player over time. Its haunting visuals, carefully crafted dialogue, and purposeful silences invite thoughtful reflection, evoking the experience of engaging with a literary novel or an auteur film rather than the fast-paced consumption typical of mainstream games. It is best suited for players seeking reflection, narrative depth, and immersive engagement – a bold, melancholic, and profoundly human journey that showcases the medium’s enduring potential to explore life’s weightiest questions.
BrokenLore: UNFOLLOW is a psychological horror game that does not try to please everyone, and that may be its greatest strength. It is a title focused on atmosphere, meaning, and reflection rather than action or immediate impact. Despite structural limitations and a pacing that demands patience, it stands out thanks to a clear creative vision and sensitive themes.
Bye Sweet Carole is a work that lives in its fragility – and it is precisely there, within that fragility, that it finds its most authentic power. Vulnerable,imperfect,fully aware of its limits yet unwavering in its intent, Chris Darril’s creation hides nothing, makes no concessions and refuses easy compromises. Every choice, every flaw, every hesitation becomes part of its identity, contributing to an experience that transcends the label “video game”: it is an emotional journey, a dark fable that slips under the skin, unsettles us and lingers long after the screen goes dark.
In conclusion, ROUTINE stands out as an experience that leaves a deep and lasting impression – not through what it explicitly shows, but through what it hints at, suggests, and allows to resonate long after the console or PC is powered down. It is a game that demands patience, focus, and a willingness to engage with its deliberate pace – qualities that set it apart in a gaming landscape dominated by louder, faster, and more immediately gratifying experiences. Its most striking achievement is the creation of an authentic, almost oppressive sense of solitude. This is not conveyed through grand set pieces or sensational events, but through the meticulous consistency with which every element – environment, sound, and design – reinforces feelings of disorientation and vulnerability. Exploration of the lunar station is never mundane; even the simplest actions carry weight, and the pervasive tension turns every movement into an emotionally charged decision. Equally noteworthy is the trust ROUTINE places in the player. It does not guide, explain, or reassure; it expects careful observation, attentive listening, and personal interpretation. While this approach may frustrate those accustomed to conventional narratives, it is precisely what makes the experience compelling for players seeking introspective, unconventional horror. Emotionally, the game conveys a steady, understated unease. The tension is never forced, manifesting through environment, sound, and silence rather than sudden shocks. It is a slow-burning anxiety, one that lingers even in moments of apparent calm, making the experience deeply immersive and memorable. From a development perspective, ROUTINE demonstrates rare coherence and artistic clarity. Despite a prolonged and complex production, it maintains a distinct identity. It is not perfect, nor does it claim to be; its imperfections are embraced, reinforcing a sense of authenticity and a non-standardized horror experience. Exquisitely crafted and sonically immersive, ROUTINE is recommended for players willing to engage with atmospheric, reflective horror – games that demand thought and attention in exchange for a uniquely immersive experience. It is a solitary, unsettling journey, one that does not entertain in conventional ways but fully immerses the player in a hostile, silent world, leaving a mark long after the credits roll.
HORSES is a deeply author-driven horror experience that uses the language of videogames to portray a world where violence does not appear as an exceptional event, but gradually integrates into everyday life. Through an essential structure, restrained narration, and a strongly symbolic staging, the game builds a subtle and persistent form of horror that works through habituation, impotence, and the growing difficulty of distancing oneself from an internalized system. The experience does not aim for immediate shock or spectacle, but for a constant sense of unease that moves through bodies, gestures, and spaces. HORSES observes violence from within, showing how it can become accepted, managed, and sustained over time through roles and routines, without the need for explicit justification. The result is an uncomfortable, coherent, and courageous work that rejects traditional entertainment in favor of a disturbing and self-aware reflection, one that leaves a lasting mark precisely because it avoids compromise.
Ayasa: Shadows of Silence grows from a sincere intention and a clear love for a genre that has reached a high level of maturity. From the very beginning, the game shows a strong desire to tell its story through images, silence, and symbols, alongside the ambition to build a dark, melancholic, and reflective experience. The problem lies in the lack of adequate support for this ambition within the game’s ludic and technical structure. The gameplay, built around stealth, environmental puzzles, and a completely defenseless protagonist, demands precision, rhythm, and consistency that the game fails to provide on a regular basis. The result often feels frustrating, not because of an intentionally demanding challenge, but due to structural limitations. Even on an artistic level—arguably the game’s strongest aspect—Ayasa struggles to truly stand out. The atmosphere works and the imagery leaves an impact, but the identity remains weak and heavily derivative, especially when compared with titles that have defined this visual and narrative language over the past years. The final outcome leaves a sense of bitterness rather than outright anger. Players can perceive the heart of the project, but they can also feel how the game reached release before achieving sufficient maturity. Ayasa does not represent a complete failure, but rather an immature debut that shows how, in this genre, intention alone cannot replace solid execution.
Daymare 1994: Sandcastle marks a significant step forward from its predecessor while retaining the strong stylistic identity that defines the series. Technically refined and narratively focused, the game demonstrates how modern survival horror can evolve without abandoning its roots. New tools, refined gameplay mechanics, and a tighter emphasis on controlled action broaden the experience, creating a more structured – and at times more accessible – entry, without losing the dark, claustrophobic tension at the heart of the series. One of the game’s greatest strengths is its sustained sense of tension. Rather than relying on cheap jump scares, Sandcastle builds unease through layered atmosphere, careful pacing, and a rhythm that alternates intense sequences with quieter investigative moments. This approach reinforces the game’s identity, engaging players both emotionally and intellectually, and restoring the vulnerability and uncertainty that define survival horror. World-building is another standout element. The Sandcastle facility feels almost alive – a mutating, oppressive organism whose architecture, props, and scattered documents narrate a story of secrecy, scientific hubris, and past catastrophe. Exploration feels meaningful: each recovered document, unlocked room, and environmental detail adds context to the larger mystery, strengthening the player’s connection to the setting. The Frost Grip weapon is a bold, highly effective addition. It enriches combat and puzzle-solving, integrating seamlessly with the game’s resource-management mechanics and forcing players to make strategic decisions about when to freeze, fight, or flee. While additional enemy variety and more unpredictable encounters would have expanded the sense of danger, these points are refinements rather than critical flaws. Ultimately, what lingers after the credits is the game’s careful balance of narrative, atmosphere, and mechanics. Daymare 1994: Sandcastle is a mature, self-aware, and technically accomplished survival horror experience. It appeals both to fans of classic horror and to those seeking a modern, atmospheric take on the genre, while hinting at the series’ promising future.
Terminator 2D: No Fate represents a good proof of maturity on the part of Bitmap Bureau, not new to titles that recall the 90s arcade atmosphere. The care in the precise reconstruction of the scenes, the soundtrack and the pixel art are of great quality. The work on the feeling and gameplay is notable, making it breathe the air of the arcade rooms of the past. The mechanics themselves are a curse and a delight for the title because they reflect those years exactly, with their merits but also their defects. There is “dirt” and imprecision on some platforming phases but they do not compromise the gaming experience. The title is precisely a trial and error that rewards the player who learns the level and positioning of the enemies. The same goes for the boss fights: inspired and rewarding positioning and memorizing enemy patterns. In conclusion, Terminator 2D: No Fate is a valid product. It is suitable not only for those who loved the films, but also for those looking for an arcade classic that works, is challenging and is fun to play.
Total Chaos is a survival horror that treats fear as a constant condition, rejecting immediate shock and spectacle in favor of atmosphere, silence, and psychological tension. The game keeps the player in a permanent state of alert through oppressive environments, empty spaces, and distant, ambiguous sounds, making subtraction its primary expressive tool. Its identity emerges most clearly through its aesthetic, which reworks a retro visual language into something grimy and corroded: visual distortion, grain, and decay turn Fort Oasis into a hostile, decomposing place, closer to a diseased organism than a simple setting. This sense of alienation carries over into the gameplay, deliberately slow and punitive, built around limited resources, heavy combat, and constant choices between confronting danger or avoiding it. Despite some technical roughness and a deliberately stretched pace that may divide players, Total Chaos stands out for the coherence of its vision and for an audiovisual presentation with strong impact, supported by fragmented and ambiguous environmental storytelling. It is not a game designed to appeal to everyone, but it leaves a lasting impression on those who seek a more introspective, oppressive form of horror, focused on atmosphere rather than spectacle.
Ferocious stands as a striking example of a project that attempted to sprint before learning to walk. Its ambition to emulate AAA-scale design has resulted in an overengineered architecture that constrains rather than enriches gameplay. With careful simplification, system refinement, and combat rebalancing, the title could still evolve into a cohesive and rewarding experience. As it stands, however, it remains disjointed, often exhausting, and frequently frustrating – demanding a level of patience few players are likely to tolerate.
INTI CREATES CO. with Majogami definitely did a good job. The video and sound are well inspired and of good quality, the level and game design are interesting and intelligently placed. An unexceptional and predictable narrative but still enjoyable and the use of really fun and interesting combat system ideas. The feel of power that Setsuna gives you is strong, as well as being very fun to watch and play. However, everything is still immature. Majogami seems like a game with good potential but still with numerous microflaws. An experiment that, if cleaned up, can give rise to a good sequel. There are no macroscopic defects but many small stumbles and naivety which all together undermine the experience in the long run. For example the Jpop rock soundtrack that accompanies the player when transformed which, honestly, is intrusive. Another is the exhausting static narrative or the choice to tell the end of the story relegated to a new game plus. Last but not least is the ecchi element, inserted in context with even crude themes and especially with some characters who seem anything but of age. I understand those who may also feel uncomfortable although I repeat: there is no explicit sexual content for adults.
Our verdict on Daymare: 1998 begins with recognition of the commitment, care, and ambition that permeate every aspect of the game — from its layered narrative and oppressive atmosphere to environmental design, technical execution, and sound. Together, these elements create an intensely immersive experience rooted in the imagery of 1990s horror. What stands out most is its approach to fear – not as a sudden, shock, but as a slow, insidious process, built through uncertainty, silence, and environments that communicate more than words ever could. Players are plunged into genuine vulnerability, where dread arises from the smallest details and the constant awareness that danger could be anywhere. This mastery of atmosphere is one of the game’s greatest strenghts, proving that the most effective horror whispers, encourages inference, and compels players to both explore and anticipate what lies ahead. The experience rewards those who appreciate horror that blends tension with discovery. Its pacing alternates reflective calm – observing and interpreting the environment – with escalating moments of dread, where lighting, music, and sound merge to suggest that something is about to happen. This rhythm keeps the game dynamic, immersive, and never monotonous, striking a rare balance between narrative, atmosphere, and gameplay. Equally impressive is the obsessive care given to art direction and technical polish. The game does more than replicate an era or aesthetic – it interprets and revitalizes it. Every location feels purposeful, every object carries narrative weight, and the world as a whole is coherent, believable, and compelling, rewarding careful observation. Authenticity is another strength. Daymare: 1998 never pretends to be larger than it is, nor does it compromise its vision for mass appeal. Its craftsmanship is evident in meticulously constructed environments, puzzles seamlessly integrated into the narrative, and lighting that guides emotion as much as the player. In conclusion, Daymare: 1998 is a surprisingly immersive, compelling survival horror crafted with evident love for the genre. While not flawless, it evokes more emotion than many larger productions by focusing on essentials: atmosphere, tension, environmental storytelling, cohesive artistic design, and evocative sound. It is a must-play for those seeking authentic, meditative horror – narratively layered, technically solid, and designed to reward patience, curiosity, and careful attention.
Midori no Kaori does not target players who seek complex challenges or deep management systems. It offers a slow, intentional, and deeply relaxing experience, designed for those who enjoy cozy games, automation, and the act of building spaces meant to be lived in rather than optimized. Its greatest strength lies in coherence: every design choice works to reduce pressure and support personal engagement. If the idea of building a zen Japanese restaurant, letting it run almost on its own, and returning to it whenever you feel the need appeals to you, this indie title deserves attention.
Project Nightmare Case 36: Henrietta Kedward is a standout experience, drawing players into a meticulously crafted, eerie world rich in detail and atmosphere. Exploration, environmental interaction, and the uncovering of clues and symbols are central to piecing together Henrietta’s story and understanding the complex psychology of the characters. The game sustains a constant sense of tension and intrigue without resorting to cheap tricks, prioritizing immersion, narrative coherence, and high-quality art direction. Every environment feels authentic, every object narratively significant, lighting is carefully tuned, and dynamic sound design heightens the emotional and psychological impact of each moment. Its deliberate, reflective pacing rewards careful observation, deduction, and the thoughtful connection of fragmented details, offering a deeply satisfying investigative experience for fans of psychological horror. Each discovery matters, turning exploration into a meditative journey that engages both intellect and emotion. The seamless integration of world building, narrative, and gameplay ensures that every player action feels meaningful, reinforcing the story while enhancing the sense of psychological tension.The game tackles complex themes such as trauma, memory, and isolation with subtlety and depth, weaving them naturally into the story and environment. Henrietta’s narrative becomes more than a mystery to solve – it is an exploration of human emotion, motivation, and vulnerability. Even approaching the game with cautious expectations, players are quickly captivated: first by its striking visuals, then by a narrative that fully immerses and engages. In conclusion, Project Nightmare Case 36: Henrietta Kedward is a game of remarkable artistic and narrative achievement, delivering a cohesive, immersive experience where exploration, investigation, world building, art design, and sound design converge harmoniously. It is highly recommended for players seeking a title that combines psychological tension, narrative depth, and meticulous attention to detail – transforming gameplay into an emotionally charged, reflective, and unforgettable journey. In a crowded and increasingly formulaic gaming landscape, it feels like a fresh, exceptional breath of air.
Without completely reinventing the formula, Reus 2 represents a refined and deeper evolution of its predecessor. It’s a game that encourages creativity,experimentation,and wonder, always maintaining that unique charm that has made the Reus series beloved by fans. Perfect for those seeking a management experience that is different from the usual, meditative yet full of possibilities.
After spending meaningful time with it, we can say with confidence that Keeper is a singular, deeply resonant experience – one that draws the player into an environment as immersive and psychologically textured as anything found in either the independent or AAA landscape. Every component is crafted with deliberate care, generating a palpable sense of isolation and vulnerability; simple acts of exploration become emotionally charged, quietly shaping the narrative through atmosphere rather than exposition. What impresses most is the coherence of the whole. Visuals, animation, sound design, level architecture, and fragmentary storytelling operate in seamless concert, sustaining a delicate, continuous tension that makes the game both absorbing and meditative. Its mechanics – grounded in exploration and environmental problem-solving – encourage curiosity, interpretation, and moral reflection, making the player feel not merely present in the world but genuinely responsible for how they read it. The slow, contemplative pacing will inevitably divide players, but it is essential to the game’s impact: it fosters a deep emotional bond with the setting, making each small discovery feel weighted and meaningful. The sound design, in particular, is exceptional – modulating tension, isolation and mystery with precision, turning even the faintest ambient noises into narrative signals that enrich the experience moment by moment. For anyone seeking a thoughtful, psychological adventure, Keeper stands out as something extraordinary. It offers complete immersion in a coherent, mysterious, and beautifully realised world, where the story is not delivered but uncovered – rewarding patience, attention, and interpretive nuance. It demonstrates how games can serve as powerful forms of narrative expression and introspection, eliciting complex feelings without relying on speed, spectacle, or combat. And as a final, quietly dazzling touch, the bond between the lighthouse and the seabird delivers moments of tenderness and emotional clarity that linger long after the screen fades. Do yourself a favour: play it.
Neon Inferno is certainly a title that fully reflects the legacy of the run ‘n gun of the late ’80s and early ’90s. Plus he has a strong personality and mood. In terms of gameplay the game didn’t do anything new, but it reworks numerous elements creating an interesting and truly satisfying gameplay. The action, the frenzy and the extrication from the bullets with dodges and deviations make the player feel the strength of the characters he controls. The research and care in creating the settings with the pixel art style are truly remarkable. The audio section itself is in line with the arcades of that era with music and songs always on point and spot on. A critical issue may be the brevity of the title. In fact, Neon Inferno bases its replayability on the concept of repeating missions to improve your score. All with an increase in difficulty to the extreme of “one shot one kill”. Although I don’t feel like penalizing the development team’s vision too much, I must tell you that this may be a critical issue for some. For anyone who doesn’t think it’s a big mistake, will find a valid title. Made with awareness, care and respect for the genre.
There is something fundamentally unsettled about Black Ops 7 – not just in its mechanics, but in its identity. The game feels caught between two impulses: the need to reassure its long-time audience and the pressure to modernise a formula that is clearly ageing. The result is an experience that functions efficiently but rarely inspires, driven more by market logic than by a coherent creative direction. This is a transitional entry in the truest sense, yet not in a constructive way. Rather than using this phase to redefine itself, the series exposes its own fatigue: ideas are present, but fragmented; ambition exists, but it is constrained by structural conservatism. What remains is a product that plays it safe so often that it forgets how to be bold. More importantly, Black Ops 7 reflects a broader identity crisis within the franchise. For the first time in years, it no longer feels like a reference point for the genre, but like a follower – a highly polished one, certainly, but one increasingly disconnected from the innovative spirit that once defined it. Without a decisive creative shift, the risk is not simply a decline in quality, but a slow erosion of meaning. And when a franchise begins to lose that, commercial success becomes secondary. Because what keeps a series alive over time is not repetition, but its ability to evolve without losing its soul. Right now, Black Ops seems to be struggling to find that balance again.
Charon’s Staircase is an experience that leaves a mark – not through spectacle or shocking plot twists, but through the depth with which it explores universal and timely themes. It is a game about power, obedience, memory, and, above all, lost humanity. Its deliberate, unhurried pace reinforces this message: every step through Oack Grove is a step into the mind of someone confronting uncomfortable truths. What impresses most is the harmony between form and intent. Visuals, sound, gameplay, and writing all serve a unified vision: horror not as an event, but as a psychological condition. Charon’s Staircase does not chase jump-scares; it prefers to unsettle, to provoke reflection, and to push the player toward their own confrontation with evil. While the game has its imperfections, these are easily outweighed by its ambition. Its strength lies in suggestion rather than exposition, in evocation rather than explanation. It moves with a measured, deliberate pace, leaving behind a rich trail of images, sounds, and ideas that linger long after the credits roll. I approached it with scepticism, half-expecting little beyond standard indie horror fare. What I found instead was a work compelling not for its technical polish, which can feel dated, but for its storytelling, tone, and subtle approach to fear. Free of common genre clichés, Charon’s Staircase draws the player into a quiet, introspective journey that reminds us how confronting uncomfortable truths can unsettle us – and change us – if we allow it. For horror enthusiasts who value mood, psychology, and thematic depth, this is an easy recommendation. Its brief two-to-three-hour runtime leaves an impression far larger than its length suggests.
After diving deep into The Gunk, examining its narrative, world-building, art design, and gameplay, it’s clear that the game delivers a surprisingly rich and rewarding experience. What might seem like a simple mechanic proves to be far more than a gameplay loop. It becomes a narrative device and an emotional bridge to the alien world, giving every cleared area a real sense of progress and impact. Exploration is consistently engaging. The planet is meticulously crafted, with diverse flora and fauna, abandoned technological structures, and Gunk-corrupted zones that tell their story without a single line of dialogue. This environmental storytelling allows for seamless immersion, turning every new discovery into a moment of genuine wonder. Equally impressive is the synergy between gameplay and world-building. Unlike many games where mechanics and setting feel disconnected, in The Gunk every action has tangible consequences – on the environment, the creatures, and even the planet’s visual identity. This cohesion makes the experience more satisfying, giving players a tangible sense of agency and responsibility. Combat, while not overly complex or punishing, adds variety without ever breaking immersion, striking a well-balanced rhythm between exploration, action, and puzzle-solving. On a human level, the story of protagonists Rani and Becks, though simple, adds emotional weight. Their interactions and responses to the challenges of a contaminated planet create a relatable, human connection within an alien world, making the narrative feel grounded and engaging. Despite its relatively short length and straightforward mechanics, The Gunk delivers a complete, gratifying experience. Its visual fidelity, sound design, and environmental detail more than make up for any limitations in duration or difficulty. Most notably, the game excels at making players feel like active, responsible participants in the world, leaving a lasting, positive impression.