Etrian Odyssey - Thoughts

Playing through Hollow Knight awoke a cartographic instinct in me, igniting my curiosity in the Etrian Odyssey series. I always liked the idea of needing to manually map out a dungeon mid-exploration, but have been hesitant to engage with rudimentary RPG mechanics—especially when you factor in how long a game like Etrian Odyssey can take to beat. Grinding has always felt like a draconian solution to difficulty, a bygone holdover from when RPGs sought to inflate paltry playtimes. But when the 3DS Atlus sale popped up in January (and factoring in the absurd rise of DS & 3DS physical copies), I decided it was time to delve into this notoriously brutal series.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing about Etrian Odyssey is that it categorically doesn't respect your time. Shortcuts are far and few between, a party wipe returns you to the title screen, and the Yggrasil Labyrinth itself is an elaborate web of mazes that only get more absurd as the adventure goes on. The sixth stratum alone takes around ten hours to map out, due to frequent restock trips as well as a plethora of stupid pitfall traps and one-way doors. It's a thankfully optional part of the game, but the fourth and fifth stratums will surely push your patience to its limits long before you arrive at the postgame.

However, Etrian Odyssey blatantly wasting your time is an intentional design. You can save yourself a lot of hassle by looking up maps, build guides, item locations, or boss weaknesses... but what's the point? The gameplay is fairly rudimentary even for a JRPG, and the story (while decent for what it is) is extremely bare-bones with nary a memorable character in sight. The main draw of the game is navigating its horrifying thirty-floor dungeon packed to the gills with booby-traps and overpowered enemies—a challenge that's neutered heavily with outside help. You're the one that's meant to be sketching out each floor, uncovering powerful artifacts, discovering enemy weaknesses, and avoiding surprise-attacks by game-ending FOEs. To deprive yourself of any of these facets robs Etrian Odyssey of the best thing it has going for it: overcoming the unknown.

Despite its "impenetrable difficulty" reputation, Etrian Odyssey's sharp edges dull once you know what you're up against. Playing cautiously, I only wiped a handful of times overall; debut fights against bosses and FOEs comprised the majority of my losses. But what gives Etrian Odyssey its "hard" label is that it's entirely on you to set the pace while dungeon delving. You have to decide at every juncture if you have enough health to forge ahead, enough TP, the right equipment, right items, and (worst of all) the right party members. The game will never let you know when you're prepared to face a FOE or stratum boss, so it's up to you to summon the mettle to look death in the eye. Yeah, it sucks losing all the XP and loot you've accrued after a party wipe, but at least your map markings will carry over, ensuring that each venture into the manslaughter-maze will grant at least some progress. It's a game that brings intrepidness to the forefront but isn't afraid to punish you for recklessness either. If you don't take your time and dive too deep, you're probably gonna get your ass handed to you—an indelible lesson you'll learn very early on.

Unfortunately, what will turn off a lot of would-be fans of Etrian Odyssey is that it requires grinding—a ton of it. Enemies on a floor giving you a problem? Grind. Looking for stronger spells? Grind. Need better gear in the shop? Grind. And should you swap in a new character or respec an old one, you'll have to do nearly twice as much grinding as you normally would just to get them up to speed (you lose 10 levels on a respec!). Whenever you get stuck, there's rarely a smart or creative way to deal with the problem before you; losing to a stratum boss usually means you're lacking levels, items, equipment, or all three—and the only remedy to that my friend, is more grinding.

Plenty of other aspects in Etrian Odyssey are cool on paper but obnoxious in practice. Loot from monsters can be brought back to the town merchant to form new armor and weapons... but you have no idea what raw materials you'll need for those shiny new swords/axes/whips/etc. Side quests give you a reason to revisit previous floors of the labyrinth... but are often so vague that they require an FAQ to follow (good luck on Reversal of the Poles). And binds are an awesome debuff that allow you to control which moves your enemies perform... but not only do they often fail even at max level, but you also have no clue which binds prevent which moves. You may be able to deduce that spellcasting is done via the head, but good luck figuring out what legs and arms will constrict half the time, especially on unconventional monsters (arm bind on a Lucifird prevents... Bad Beak?)

And though I maintain that Etrian Odyssey isn't as difficult as it first seems, the game can definitely punish you for suboptimal choices. Specifically in party composition—and even more specifically, if you form your party without a Medic. And even with the uber-broken Immunize at my fingertips, my journey with Etrian Odyssey ended when I encountered the Drake superboss and wiped on turn one. Keep in mind that this was after my party had reached max level and fully explored the sixth stratum! So rather than looking up the "correct" class and build combos for postgame, I concluded I'd be better off moving on. The game is still there in case I ever feel the impulse to torture myself, but considering that I have hundreds of untouched JRPGs in my backlog (including seven more Etrian Odyssey titles), I'm more than happy to accept that the labyrinth has trounced me. At least finishing the main story wasn't that bad—the second and fourth stratum bosses are the only real roadblocks.

Etrian Odyssey is a brilliant game that's somewhat-spoiled by a time-consuming core. Despite the banquet of options at the start, the gameplay plummets in depth once your theorycrafting has solidified. With no easy way to alter your team composition and side quests that are opaque at the best of times, Etrian Odyssey is a crude and rudimentary experience. But it also poses an interesting question, one that transforms its archaic design from stale to electrifying: how far are you willing to delve? Do you brave one more floor with dwindling supplies and low TP? How about one more room? One more fight?

It's a simple, repetitive, and an overly laborious game—but it's also unabashed in its demands, challenging you to risk your play time on each return to its twisting depths. It's up to you to put in the work to hone your team, to draw the maps, to sniff out secret shortcuts, and best the game's daunting bestiary. It can be grueling, punishing, and annoying at times (as well as straight up impossible in the postgame,) but it offers that rare chance at achieving elation and satisfaction, a blessing found only when your perseverance is put to the test. For better or worse, Etrian Odyssey is an oldschool dungeon crawler at its core—and it's a damn cool one at that.

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Images obtained from: nintendo.com, emuparadise.me, arstechnica.net, alvanista.com

Linelight - Thoughts

Sometimes, all a game needs to hook you is a clever premise. Enter Linelight, a shortish puzzle game with only two actions: move forward and backward. Well, that's not true—there's also "pass time" and "magnetically pulse"—but for the most part, Linelight tasks you with solving puzzles on a single axis. It's not the flashiest hook for a game, but as limitations can often breed interesting gimmicks I was willing to give Linelight a try. And while there's a solid puzzle game here, Linelight's real draw is—unexpectedly—it's emotive soundtrack.

On first listen you might be unimpressed with Linelight's gentle score. But context is key, as the music was written to fit the game as tightly as a glove does a hand. Linelight's entire aesthetic is warm and hopeful, from its playful sounds to its vibrant lights, supported at its base by a mellow piano and electric drum. Other instruments guest star to accentuate each level's particular mood, but the entire journey is underpinned by the first two instruments you'll hear dancing together. That's not to imply the score is saccharine or juvenile either; while optimistic, there's always a tinge wistfulness and yearning to the soundtrack if you listen closely enough. It might seem silly to focus so much on an otherwise background element to most puzzle games, but like Linelight's peculiar gimmick, those that are interested in what they hear will find their time well-spent when the tear-jerking credits roll. And yes—a one-dimensional puzzle game about lines zipping about can get quite emotional, despite whatever preconceptions you might hold.

Coinciding perfectly with the upbeat music are the puzzles, which land in that sweet spot of being neither too hard or brainlessly easy (although the main path veers closer to the latter than the former). Most puzzles are about either sliding into switches or avoiding neighboring blips of light, but every world tacks on its own mechanic. Each is easy to understand but conceals a surprising depth, which Linelight explores every possible angle of. There's the aforementioned magnetism, as well as blips that move only when you do, spirals to extend the length of your line, and a devious gate that will duplicate your movements with lethal accuracy. These sound like the ramblings of a sleep-deprived math teacher, but as with everything in Linelight, playing is believing. Expect to expand your thinking as you play, especially when these mechanics get blended together.

Perhaps my only disappointment is I would've liked a bit more challenge to the game than what's presently here. There's a significant chunk of optional puzzles to burn your brain on (especially in the post-game), but for the most part Linelight is a laid-back and chill ride. In fact, where you'll struggle the most is usually on puzzles that demand some form of dexterity, like weaving through an intersection of blips or executing actions under a tight time constraint. In these cases you've usually figured out the solution but struggle to coordinate your movements with other actors, which can feel a bit trial-and-errory. Linelight's general difficulty definitely fits what the game is going for, but it does emphasize performing your solution as frequently as it does finding it.

I dove into Linelight curious what a one-dimension puzzler would look like, and I can honestly say I'm quite impressed. Oddly, it's not with Brett Taylor's brilliant ideas, but rather his deft execution. Linelight is a tender game, built with passion and care for what could've otherwise been a game jam throwaway. It's a moving experience that lasts the right amount of time, prickling your mind with a couple of thorny thinkers but never seeking to draw any blood. It's as clever as it is creative, as simple as it is beautiful; I'm glad I played it.

ScourgeBringer - Thoughts

Similar to Doom Eternal, Flying Oak Games' ScourgeBringer is best described as an acquired taste for the hardcore. Casual players may be drawn in by its sleek visuals and snappy controls, but it won't be long before their pride crumbles and they're sent fleeing back to the Binding of Isaac. I don't blame anyone that quits on it either—ScourgeBringer is a punishing uphill struggle, one you'll have to rise to meet as the game will never kneel for you. Sure, there are a number of aspects that make it easier to beat than Enter the Gungeon or Noita, but it'll still require 6-8 hours to get ahold of the basics. But the trickiest part about ScourgeBringer—and what makes the game so difficult to master—is that you'll often be fighting against your own impulsive thumbs. 

Expect your first run to be brutally short, as if stranded naked in the middle of the Sahara. Once you inevitably die you'll be brought before the Chiming Tree, ScourgeBringer's way of unlocking permanent upgrades for future runs. You'll find most of the upgrades to be relatively cheap too, as long as you can consistently make it to the second level. Halfway through the tree however, a gloomy realization will beset you: these aren't making the game any easier. Well, they technically are—increased max HP, item rerolls, and the screen-clearing Fury attack are all great abilities—but you'll eventually plateau in the power climb, consistently making it to stage 3 yet struggling to beat it. That poison-clouded cauldron will end many a run—and should you eke out a victory, the next two stages are waiting to dispose of you like ornery bouncers at a VIP club.

If you're a purveyor of the roguelite genre, you know firsthand that experience (typically) begets wisdom. And it's no different for ScourgeBringer; learning how the enemies behave (and therefore how to approach them) is more important than bumbling into a cache of OP upgrades. Familiarity allows you to visualize threat-level charts on the fly, zeroing in on which enemies will give you the most grief while leaving the table scraps for clean-up. This is all par for the course for games like Hades, Dead Cells, and Enter the Gungeon, but ScourgeBringer throws a quirky monkey wrench into the works: your dash provides zero invulnerability frames. That means that every new enemy, boss, and stage mechanic can prove to be alarmingly fatal, even if you've been coasting up to that point (speaking of, gooooood luck in your first fight against the Seeker of Power.)

Counterbalancing this vulnerability is an unlockable skill that's absolutely pivotal to your survival: the deflective parry. Being able to send incoming bullets back to their attacker sounds valuable—and it is!—but the problem is that ScourgeBringer has an exceptionally jerky flow to it. After every dash attack, parry, enemy death, and hit suffered, the gameplay will slow for a fraction of a second to accentuate the effect—which is great! It's a technique commonly employed by fighting games, providing some extra oomph to your blows while simultaneously pausing the action for a few frames, letting you plan your next move. But the parry suffers from both a short reach and delayed activation, meaning you'll often find yourself attempting it too early or too late thanks to stuttering beat of battle.

To make matters worse, ScourgeBringer is unapologetically slippery. You won't notice it at first, given how responsive and precise your character feels while parkouring around, but combat is another matter. Every swing of your blade sends your character dashing through an enemy at random angles, pushing them around the level as a cat might a toy. Like the jerky flow, this isn't exactly a bad thing as it keeps combat kinetic and uncomplicated, but positioning is crucial in ScourgeBringer. It would be like playing a beat 'em up where every strike warps your character around an enemy—it's fine when tackling one target, but quickly becomes a huge risk when accompanied by enemy fire or nearby traps.

It probably doesn't sound like I'm doing a good job on selling ScourgeBringer, but if you can adapt to its strange style and brisk pace, then you're guaranteed to have a blast. The Doom Eternal comparison at the start isn't an empty boast—having a firm grasp on all the tools at your disposal will transform you from a meek greenhorn into a bloodthirsty wrecking ball. Rooms can be cleared in a matter of seconds as you seamlessly transition between sword strikes and gunfire, disposing of your victims in an aerial ballet of carnage. Battles evolve from chaotic scrambles into calculable procedures, with once-fearsome foes (fall-bot, plasma saw-bot) struggling to make a dent in your health. As your skill blossoms, victory no longer becomes a question of "if" but rather "how"—and eventually "when."

The relentless rhythm of combat is by far the best thing about ScourgeBringer, but I also have to give kudos to the game's brilliant biome diversity. Stages not only vary in color palette and melody (although the whole soundtrack remains ridiculously aggressive), but also come with new enemy types, minibosses, room layouts, and environmental hazards. The hazards are definitely the most interesting bit—though spike traps and toxic gas hardly qualify as "unique" nowadays, the translucent blocks of Stage 4 and screen-wrapping of Stage 5 radically change your approach to combat. Not since the original Spelunky have I played a roguelite with such strong, distinct theming between its zones.

And like with Spelunky, you're going to need to play these zones by their rules. That often means slowing your roll and knowing when to strike—which can be admittedly frustrating in such a fast-paced game. Several enemies are designed to upset your rhythm and test your patience, from the toxic cloud of the alpha splat-fly to the screen-wide burst of the alpha quantum bomb. Bosses often set the pace of battle too, with the earliest ones (BodyBuilder, CandleMask) ironically doing the most damage if you're not actively paying attention to what they're doing. And if you manage to make it to the true final level, prepare for one of the most heinous stage hazards you'll see in a video game; either get good at ranged combat or pray you can tank your way to the boss.

Lastly, another eccentricity ScourgeBringer bears is that it's a somewhat... poor roguelite. ScourgeBringer, similar to Spelunky, has you hunting for a similar set of weapons and blessings each run, encouraging a habitual playstyle. RNG drops can enhance your abilities but they never alter how you approach the game; don't expect any dash builds, reflect builds, or gun builds, as you'll need to be using all three constantly to survive. On top of this, you'll have to fight every type of enemy a dozen times per run, and you better get used to the bosses as there's only one per stage (and not even their room layout changes from run to run!) It's better to think of ScourgeBringer as a long-lost NES game, albeit with a dash of randomness: the hard-fought path to your first victory will endow you with the memorization and reflexes required to easily earn a hundred more.

If an intense platforming-slash-bullet-parrying roguelite with phenomenal visuals and a frantic soundtrack sounds good to you, then by all means dive into the dark and unforgiving world of ScourgeBringer. But to get the most out of it, you'll have to be patient and fastidious, willing to learn from your mistakes and curb brash impulses. It's a cool game that I enjoyed a ton—so much so that I snagged all the achievements on Steam, which I don't typically do for roguelites. That said, I don't think I'll be going back to ScourgeBringer for repeated playthroughs, as it lacks the variety to warrant further exploration. However, the time you do spend with ScourgeBringer is fantastic, delivering an intense challenge that will keep you shaking at the edge of your seat. It may be a weak roguelite, but as a 2D action-platformer, ScourgeBringer proudly stands amongst the greatest.

Naboki - Thoughts

Would PUSH have been a better game without the fixed perspective? Naboki serves as the answer to this question, continuing its predecessor's penchant for tedious clicking—but this time in the thiiiird dimensiooon! There's actually a little bit of every one of Targoni's puzzle games here, letting you shift, rotate, and align blocks, all while taking into account the physical space these puzzle cubes occupy. It's a clever game that is unquestionably better than PUSH, however it bears an unfortunate flaw: Naboki is too short.

Now, I understand that complaining about the brevity of a Marciej Targoni game is an oxymoron, like whining about a Team Ninja title being difficult; the alleged foible is the appeal of the developer. But whereas PUSH and Up Left Out provide complete experiences, Naboki feels as if it was cut short, lacking 10 puzzles or so. Perhaps it's just my imagination—klocki lasts just as long (50 minutes) yet I didn't ding it for its length—but I still would've liked to see maybe a little more from Naboki. One or two more mechanics would've really hit the spot, or a couple more levels that utilize every mechanic you've learned thus far.

Although in hindsight, perhaps it had enough mechanics by the end; puzzles in Naboki become so convoluted that you can't help but bumble your way through. I wouldn't go as far as calling it "trial and error" but Naboki borrows from PUSH's tediousness, delaying your victory with a checklist of switches that need flicking. Thankfully, Naboki counters its predecessor's failing by offering the player freedom—in the form of the third dimension. Whereas PUSH was designed around clicking on stuff in a preset order, Naboki centers itself around exploration. You're expected to spin its puzzle cubes as inquisitively as a tot at daycare, hunting for the right spot to begin chipping away. While it can feel a bit plodding at times (especially when there's half a dozen switches on screen), Naboki manages to remain more playful than dull, largely because progress is never ripped away. Every step you take towards the solution is permanent; every block removed gradually reveals your victory.

Naboki can be a bit cumbersome at times—particularly if you struggle with object permanence—but it's still a fun game to spend some of your downtime on. I found Targoni's description of it as a "disassemble puzzle" to be quite apt, evoking the same strange catharsis found in unraveling a Lego structure brick by brick. Naboki is patient, humble, and sadly brief; give it a go if you like seeing your puzzles crumble.

Death's Door - Thoughts

[contains minor spoilers]

Acid Nerve taking a second shot at a combat-focused Souls-like was a gift I never knew I wanted. I left Titan Souls feeling that it was unremarkable—and as time has passed, forgettable too—but there's no way I could say "no" to seeing what a follow-up might look like. And from the reveal trailer, Death's Door knocked it out of the park: it had a charming art style, meatier combat, and no longer hinged upon getting lucky with a single attack. Acid Nerve took inspiration from The Legend of Zelda and Hyper Light Drifter while avoiding the pitfall of creating a copycat of either. After finishing it, I can say that Death's Door is all that and more—but perhaps most crucially, it's just a straight-up good game.

Before I go any further, I must confess that my experience with Death's Door is bizarrely tinged due to playing it soon after finishing Tunic. The comparisons are inescapable—both are isometric RPG-slash-metroidvanias featuring melee-oriented combat supplemented with various ranged attacks. But whereas Tunic has a stronger focus on world cohesion and puzzles, Death's Door is centered on arena brawls and stage variety. Coincidentally, the pros of one game happen to be the cons of the other: Tunic has flimsy and unrefined swordplay while Death's Door lacks any kind of meaningful discovery. There are unexpected secrets in Death's Door to be sure—the entire postgame is built on that premise—but you won't find the same variety of secret paths or unpredictable twists that are sprinkled across Tunic. Death's Door prefers to play it safe, adhering strictly to a "hub world > upgrade level > boss level > boss" formula, doling out abilities that will be all too familiar to fans of Zelda.

Thankfully, Death's Door manages to astound in spite its faults. The combat in particular is a lot of fun; imagine Hyper Light Drifter but slower and more methodical, pitting you against quirky enemies that you'll need to corral rather than decimate. I also enjoyed the levelling system, which allowed me to choose the stats I wanted to focus on first. I'm usually a big dumb STR player but this time I dumped my early level-ups into magic so I could pelt my foes from afar with ethereal arrows and piercing fireballs. Naturally that playstyle paired well with the lightning-fast daggers, letting me refill my mana reserves in a flurry of emerald strikes. While I found the weapon variety to be mostly lacking (every weapon feels carved from the same template), I was impressed by how different the magical attacks were, each of them filling a particular niche (well, after being upgraded). Tunic's combat eventually became laborious but Death's Door kept me enthralled all the way to the end. If anything, I was bummed out whenever I wasn't fighting.

Though Tunic takes top spot in the exploration category, Death's Door will still set the player wandering aplenty. I rarely get lost in video games but my internal compass sure was tested in this title; you'll stumble upon so many looping pathways and unlockable shortcuts that losing your sense of direction is unavoidable, especially whenever you return to the cemetery hub. On one hand, the labyrinthine nature of Death's Door is forgivable because you never really need to backtrack to finish its linear story. But on the other hand, completionists will see their playtime doubled—if not tripled—due to the numerous laps you'll run looking for goodies you could've sworn were nearby.

Yet even if you get lost backtracking through Death's Door's vacant estates, you'll have some great music and gorgeous visuals to accompany you. I think Tunic's vibrant aesthetic is more my speed, but Death's Door feels similarly handcrafted and cared for, designed to look soft without ever sacrificing detail or energy. Enemy design is also spectacular, managing to walk that thin line between being eccentric and familiar, letting you marvel at what you're fighting while intuitively understanding how to fight it. And atop all of this is David Fenn's emotive, majestic score that conveys the history of a setting a thousand times better than dialogue windows ever could. Lastly, the story and characters are quite charming—an impressive feat, given that the gloomy inevitability of death that underpins the entire game. Expect some surprisingly touching moments here and there, but know that Death's Door prefers to make you smile rather than weep.

One of the best aspects about Death's Door—something I didn't realize until writing this entry—is that it comes across as its own thing. From the story, to the art style, to the enemy design, bosses, and friends you'll make along the way, the game has a lot of personality. And it's not as though Titan Souls was lacking personality per se, but that Death's Door feels so much more polished and expressive. Acid Nerve not only learned a lot from their previous title, but have somehow captured that elusive artistry of marrying passion to workmanship, innovation to foundation. Death's Door isn't perfect, but it doesn't need to be—it's beautiful, fun, and memorable, a trifecta most games rarely achieve.

PUSH - Thoughts

Out of all of Maciej Targoni's simple puzzlers, I found PUSH to be the least appealing. It's not a terrible game per se, but it demands a lot of recalling and spatial manipulation, neither of which feel engaging to exercise. PUSH is one part memory matching game, another part code breaker, and a third part tedious fiddler—and it's the "tedious" part you'll experience the most. It's admittedly callous to criticize the game so harshly—especially considering its infinitesimal cost—but if you're looking for a nice, chill puzzler to soothe the brain-aches, Targoni himself has plenty better to offer.

PUSH starts off as simple as can be, requiring the player to click on matching buttons to solve each puzzle. Soon a pink knob is thrown into the mix which can rotate the object you're looking at, granting access to buttons hidden from your fixed view. The game carries on like this for a while, occasionally throwing a new gimmick your way like alternating black & white buttons or operating a jelly cube to push buttons you cannot. For the most part it's mildly entertaining, but a nagging suspicion will creep up the back of your neck, whispering that all you're really doing is mindless busywork.

Hook similarly suffered from this problem, the issue here is exacerbated in two ways: not only does a single incorrect guess reset a good chunk of the puzzle (if not the entire thing), but information is often concealed from the player, requiring constant rotations of the puzzle polyhedron. This isn't a big deal early on—so long as you can recall a handful of shapes—but the deeper you go the more the game tries to confound your memory. Eventually you'll be flicking switches faster than a mad scientist, checking each side in the hopes that you haven't forgotten a concealed button somewhere that could unravel the entire sequence. Understand that PUSH's hardest puzzles aren't its most complicated but rather its most obfuscated, where the solution veils itself in a surfeit of viewpoints.

Halfway through, PUSH doubles down on this approach, introducing buttons that must be pressed in a precise order. Thankfully the game denotes which button to start with, but deciphering the right path can still be an irksome experience. PUSH arbitrarily discounts buttons hidden from view, sometimes penalizing the player for forgetting a hidden button, yet other times discounting the hidden button entirely as part of its solution. You'll eventually grow accustomed to the game's strange reasoning, but it won't come with that special epiphany that defines the greatest puzzle games. Your comprehension will be a lukewarm "I guess" as you start over, trying to remember which button among the dozen hidden did you in.

Again, I don't think PUSH is a bad game; if you're a fan of Targoni & Hamster on Coke's work, you won't lose anything by ambling through PUSH. It's short, cheap, and at times kind of pretty in a minimalist way. But for me, it's just a little too unengaging to require the amount of memorization it asks of the player. Hook is for folks that like untying knots, Up Left Out has a huge variety of sliding tile puzzles, and PUSH... well, all it brings to the table is the feeling that you forgot your car keys over and over again.

Tunic - Thoughts

Ignorance is the double-edged sword of childhood. You are born into it and made happier by its presence, albeit unwillingly. As one grows older so too does their pool of knowledge, aging into wisdom like a fine wine. But with that maturity comes (or should come) the loss of naiveté, the juvenile fount of joy. Childlike glee dulls—if not fades entirely—over the years, an arduous realization that will cement itself into late adolescence and early adulthood. Though man is made better, surer, by the loss of ignorance, it takes with it an enviable bliss, one he may find himself devoting a considerable amount of his adult life toward reclaiming.

Basically, it's nice finding stuff that can turn us into a kid again. What I find common among media that evokes this is that they often challenge expectations, opening a door on your ignorance to reveal brand new possibilities. Despite being eagerly sought out, examples for this are numerous: the provoking layout of House of Leaves, Undertale's messages directly to the player, the gruesome deaths in Game of Thrones, the slow-boiling scenes of 1979's Stalker, the crushing waves of Nadja's Radiance of Shadows, and hundreds, if not thousands more. Yet foolishly, after each invigorating experience, one wonders if anything can drop their jaw like that again.

So let's talk about Tunic.

Tunic's inspiration is nakedly obvious—it's an isometric adventure game modeled after the original Legend of Zelda. Its references to Link's debut are plentiful, from the items you'll acquire, to the location of secrets, to the adorable art found inside the game's manual. Sprinkle in some Soulslike combat (stamina meter, health flask, corpse runs) and Tunic doesn't just make nods towards its idols—it full-on headbangs. Yet despite Zelda and Souls being perhaps the most trite combination for an indie dev to mash together, there are two more things about Tunic that propel it from mundanity into sheer brilliance.

The first is its presentation; Tunic is a really good looking game. Note that I played it immediately after finishing Elden Ring too, a veritable giant of unparalleled art direction! But whereas Elden Ring goes big and wide, Tunic aims small—its world is simultaneously soft and vibrant like polymer clay, inhabited by creatures as adorable as their chibi renditions in the manual. You play through Tunic as you would explore a diorama, peeking around its handmade nooks and crevices for secret paths and hidden goodies. And the cherry on top of this stunning sundae is Kwan & Lifeformed's equally gorgeous soundtrack, providing not only a lush and mysterious ambiance, but one that is piercingly meditative—if not mournful—most of the time.

While Tunic's aesthetics alone are plenty laudable, the second thing it has going for it is where the game truly shines: its in-game manual. To anyone that hasn't played the game, that probably sounds as unexpected as it does bizarre—and that's merely the first surprise Tunic has in store! The entire game doesn't just emulate Zelda out of adoration, but with mischievous purpose: Tunic recreates the experience of playing an imported Legend of Zelda game, with your only guide being a paper manual written in a foreign language. But it unveils its secrets slowly, meticulously doling out one double-sided page at a time. You'll first be given tips on your controls, then the surrounding map, then the items you've been gathering—all while trying to parse gobbledygook that could be hiding important information. And those precious few pages are just the tip of the iceberg—Tunic is a treasure trove of secrets, some of which can actually change the way you play.

A little ways in, Tunic will reveal its third—and arguably largest—inspiration: Fez. A big chunk of the game hinders on navigating Tunic's dense world, rewarding you not just for memorizing pathways but pushing against the game's boundaries in the hopes of a new discovery. Like Fez, its camera (albeit static) doubles as a hurdle to hide puzzles and pathways, provoking the player to question everything. Similarly, there's an unexpected endgame squirreled away inside of Tunic that a majority of players probably won't access, even with the cryptic language being an optional challenge to decipher. The more similarities I describe the closer I inch towards spoiler territory, so let me entice you with one more tease: the enigma that lurks at Tunic's heart is probably the best puzzle I've ever solved in a video game.

If the manual serves as Tunic's splendid soul, then you might be wondering how its body—the gameplay—fares in comparison. My answer is noticeably less enthusiastic: not too bad. Traversal is a bit slow at the start but gradually picks up as you uncover secret roads and unearth new items. Combat on the other hand feels unrefined, mostly due to your character's weighty roll. Tunic provides you with i-frames but you'll find them lacking compared to the swift and wide-reaching attacks of your enemies. Upon encountering the Garden Knight you'll see exactly what I mean—and battles only get more complicated and ruthless from there.

The final act in particular features a hyper-aggressive gauntlet, one that will undoubtedly waylay folks drawn to Tunic for its serene atmosphere. Combat-hardened players will be able to muscle through it (as well as the brutal last boss), but that doesn't prevent the endgame from feeling like an unprecedented spike in difficulty. It's important to remember to play Tunic more like Zelda than Dark Souls—your items are often more impactful than your sword, so don't be afraid lob grenades and blast away with magic. Tunic's insistence on the player utilizing their entire arsenal is what keeps me from deeming its combat as "poor", as you're given plenty of options to neutralize annoying enemies and dangerous threats. Plus, like with Zelda, combat is mostly an auxiliary diversion to the game's main draw: Grade-A Adventuring.

Anyone over thirty has likely played a fragment of Tunic before, whether it be roaming the grassy overworld of The Legend of Zelda, engaging in the dodge-centric duels of Dark Souls, or busting out the ol' pen and paper for Fez. But to reduce Tunic down to its core inspirations does a disservice to how skillfully it combines these aspects together, creating an experience that's constantly clever, unique, and fresh. It's a decent game for intrepid explorers but a must-play for the puzzle connoisseur, especially if you like thinking outside the box. Tunic may not be for everyone—players that frequently find themselves lost in games will undoubtedly suffer—but for anyone that sticks with it, you're guaranteed a memorable experience at the very least.