Okami HD is worth playing as a piece of gaming history or if you’re especially fond of the gameplay loop popularized by the Legend of Zelda series. Okami’s art style and its celestial brush mechanic are both impressive, and I’m surprised there haven’t been more iterations on them since Okami’s release. The game also stands out as one of the earliest Zelda-like games (that I can remember) that still manages to have its own identity — both mechanically and in its personality. As for Okami HD’s short comings, they aren’t as easily overlooked as they may have been in the past. The game’s crass and bawdy humor feels like an attempt to make a kid-friendly version of comedy popular at the time with South Park and Family Guy. Far more egregious than its lame jokes, though, are the game’s minor, but very repetitive, technical and mechanical issues that should have been excised in the remastering process.

Okami’s most notable and positive feature is its art style. It’s beautiful cel-shaded design, inspired by traditional Japanese painting styles, isn’t just a joy to look at and see in motion — it compliments Okami’s themes of regrowth and the importance of storytelling. Every time you restore an area that’s been taken over by Evil vibes, a beautiful cinematic plays as the zone erupts in bright and vibrant colors. Those restorations are paired with gaining “praise,” which is the game’s form of experience, from the people whom your heroic deeds have saved or improved the lives of.

The art direction also adds to Okami’s standout mechanic of the “celestial brush.” Rather than linking multiple game mechanics to an assortment of equipment and weapons, like the Zelda games it takes inspiration from, Okami has you paint different symbols on the screen with a calligraphy brush to enact different skills. It’s an interesting way to change up the formula of a Zelda game, and it’s (usually) a fun way to interact with Okami’s world. One of the most frequent uses of the brush is drawing circles around plants to induce a sudden bloom of leaves and petals, and it never stopped being a joyful and satisfying visual experience.

Another way Okami differentiates itself from Zelda games is in its characters’ personalities — chiefly through humor. Both Amaterasu, the white wolf you play as, and her partner, a “poncle” (sort of like a fairy in western traditions) named Issun, are frequently the butt of the game’s jokes. And while Amaterasu doesn’t speak, Issun talks enough for them both, as he constantly fires off quips and expository ramblings. Unfortunately, most of Okami’s “jokes” retread the same sophomoric material with Issun obsessing over boobs, making snide and sarcastic remarks at the people you’re helping, or erupting into over-the-top tirades in response to minor misunderstandings. And, look, I’ve played enough Japanese games and watched enough anime for this stuff to elicit nothing more than an eyeroll from me — but it’s so constant in Okami that my eyes were turning into spirals.

Whereas Okami’s humor only annoyed me, its technical and mechanical issues are where I began to actively dislike my experience of the game. None are particularly terrible, but there are so many minor issues that feel like obvious fixes for a remaster like Okami HD. The most frustrating of these are the constant breaks in flow caused by load times, repetitive short cinematics tied to collectibles and the game’s day/night cycle, repetitive notifications for item pickups, and how certain menus and dialogs are structured. You’re able to skip the repeated cinematics, but you must wait for them to start before you can prompt a skip. Okami also has one of the most frustrating cameras I’ve experienced in a while. The camera is fine 90% of the time, but nearly every platforming challenge lacks a view that conveys depth and distance clearly. Though relatively minor, these issues add up over Okami HD’s runtime: just completing the campaign takes about 40 hours; if you, like me, feel compelled to try and complete every collectible list and side quest, you’re looking at 60 hrs or more.

I think every game-ophile owes it to themself to play Okami HD — for about 5 to 10 hours — and experience its art direction, the celestial brush mechanic, and to enjoy a piece of gaming history. It’s an interesting variation on one of gaming’s cornerstones, the Legend of Zelda series, but stands on its own merits. But despite those merits, it doesn’t earn the time needed to play through it completely.

What I like about Okami HD
• The art direction — this game is gorgeous, and it’s a damn shame there aren’t more titles that do similar things with cel-shaded graphics.
• Overcoming blighted regions by regrowing and renewing the lands, plants, and animals looks amazing and feels very cathartic in our current age of climate crisis and mass extinction.
• Okami’s narrative is a threading together of different Japanese myths and legends. I don’t think it works as a complete story, but the retellings are fun to experience as standalone missions tweaked to incorporate gameplay mechanics.

Why you might want to skip Okami HD
• The constant stop and start to the flow of play, caused by a variety of Okami’s mechanics, interfaces, and load times, can be a “death by a thousand cuts” experience for your patience. Especially if you’re a completionist.
• Okami’s crude humor is so constant, and specifically misogynistic, that it gets grating very quickly.

I’ve wanted to go back for Persona 4 Golden’s platinum trophy since I first beat it, and, thanks to some recent trips, I had an excuse to break out my Vita and return to Inaba and the Velvet Room. As I close in on finishing this playthrough, what has stuck with me aren’t reaffirmations of what I loved during my first experience of P4G; rather, I find myself surprised by parts of the game I didn’t recognize before — both negative and positive.

The first time I played Persona 4 Golden was about 5 years ago (2017); yet replaying it feels like rewatching a 90s or 00s anime from my years in high school. I mean that as both a compliment and a critique.

There’s a nostalgic warmth to living with P4G’s characters over the course of the game’s adventure, mystery, and slice-of-life coziness. Replaying my favorite parts of the game evoked the same rush of joyful anticipation I get rewatching my favorite episodes of Trigun and Yu Yu Hakusho.

On the flip side, I also find myself frequently surprised at how misogynistic, homophobic, and body shaming the game gets — just like how I feel when rewatching episodes of basically every anime from my youth. I remember being uncomfortable with the game’s campout and beach “episodes” the first time I played but BOY HOWDY are those scenes rough.

I’m not treading new ground by calling out the Persona series for handling these topics poorly (look up “Persona 5 Angel and Julian”). At this point, it seems like critics and fans alike have chosen to begrudgingly accept these shortcomings as blemishes on an otherwise great series rather than detriments that ruin the games.

In contrast, I haven’t seen many people contending with how critical P4G’s mechanics are in carrying the narrative. For a game in a series and genre known for its storytelling and character dynamics, you’d think the story and characters would be, well, better.

Not that the narrative elements aren’t good! And from what I can recall of the gaming landscape when Persona 4 first released (2008), I think its praise is well earned. It’s just that, on this second playthrough, the clutter and cliches filling out the main plot, and many of the side stories, have been hard to ignore. Adding to my disappointment, characters I remembered as endearing are a lot less so this time around. (Not you Kanji and Nanako, you two are perfect.)

I think what makes folks so enamored with P4G’s story and characters is the way the mechanics communicate and reinforce the idea of each relationship. You don’t just have an earnest conversation with a friend where they open up to you — you level up your relationship with them. A number goes up, and, if you work hard at it, you can “Max” out your relationship. You literally couldn’t be a better friend! And, if you’re really thorough, you can make everyone in your life feel that way about you. It makes the grind feel less like a Skinner box and more like gratifying wish fulfillment.

At least primarily — you are rewarded for developing your relationships with items, skills, and stat bonuses. And there is animated fanfare celebrating every time a number goes up. But if that’s all the experience meant to players, I don’t think P4G’s story and characters would be so fondly talked about. Rather, those rewards serve to illustrate the close relationships you develop with the cast. Not by playing on strong emotional queues, like the dialog scenes, but more subtly through the intersection of game mechanic and narrative.

Every time you fuse a persona, you think about the relationship you have with the character associated with its arcana. Every time a party member helps someone back up during combat, they have that skill because you’ve helped them feel more connected to others. Yes, you’re given rewards for leveling up your relationships, but, more importantly, those rewards contextualize the meaning of those relationships and prove their trueness.

Persona 4 Golden is still one of my favorite games after this second playthrough, but my relationship with it as a text is much different now. I love (most of) P4G’s story and characters, but now my joy comes from its style, silliness, and schlock; and I look to its mechanics for substance.

What I love about Persona 4 Golden
• The characters and setting of Inaba feel real thanks to detailed narrative arcs that are believable thanks to their depth and how time passes in game.
• Kanji-kun and Nanako-chan are precious and must be protected always.
• Yukiko’s terrible sense of humor.
• The omelet cookoff scene.
• That opening title song is a bop and a half. Opening with a harmonica? Come on!
• The densely interconnected mechanics that make player choice feel impactful in ways I haven’t encountered in many other JRPGs.

Why you might want to skip Persona 4 Golden
• As stated above, there’s a lot of problematic shit in this game. There are unavoidable scenes containing sexual harassment, homo- and queerphobia, and body shaming.
• Semi-related to the previous bullet: This is a very horny game about high schoolers in unavoidable ways that will almost certainly make you cringe.
• Two of your party members are straight up sex pests. Yosuke needs counseling.
• The densely interconnected mechanics that encourage multiple playthroughs and limit how much you’ll see on any one playthrough — especially if you play without a guide.

Crimsonland isn’t a game anyone needs to play, but there’s a lot of fun to be had with this simple twin-stick shooter. If you enjoy games like Geometry Wars, Binding of Isaac, or Vampire Survivors, and you’re looking for something new, Crimsonland is a great title to check out (especially if you can pick it up on sale.)

Hordes of monsters fill the screen as the player character, whom I assume is some kind of space marine — let’s call him Dude Guy — attempts to survive the onslaught using whatever weapons, powerups, and bonuses RNGeezus spawns nearby. Dude Guy walks at a concerningly casual speed as they blast baddies with weapons like an assault rifle, a shotgun that fires ion rounds that bounce from enemy to enemy, a semi-automatic rocket launcher, or just a little ol’ blowtorch. As Dude Guy tries to survive, they level up and you get perks to help deal more damage or move faster than a brisk walk.

There are various survival modes to play, like one where Dude Guy must survive with only bomb pickups and no weapons, to compliment a standard survival mode that uses all the weapons and perks unlocked up to that point.

In order to unlock said weapons and perks, you’ll need to play through the game’s Quest mode, which tasks Dude Guy with blastin’ his way through 60 levels of aliens, zombies, big honkin’ spiders, and lizard people. Why are these creatures attacking? Why are they working together? You’ll have to finish the missions to — nah, just kidding. There’s no story here. That’s not why you, the developers, or Dude Guy showed up for this massacre. You’re all here, because one of this game’s weapons is a plasma shotgun and there’s a horde of laser(?) spitting spiders you need to introduce to it.

What I like about Crimsonland
• It’s good dumb fun. Controller in hands. No thoughts in head.
• When Dude Guy inevitably gets overrun by a bunch of demon-aliens or whatever, the overly prolonged death yell-groan is a Perfect 10 schlock scream. It could easily be something pulled out of a Troma Entertainment flick.
• Oh! I didn’t even mention the co-op mode. It’s a pretty fun thing to do with a friend while you’re shooting the shit (pun not intended), and just want something simple to play.

Why you might want to skip Crimsonland
• There’s a shit load of spiders on screen at one time in about a quarter of the Quest mode.
• There’s a spider enemy type that, when you kill it, it splits into two more spiders. And then, when you kill one of those spiders, it also splits into two more spiders. And it keeps happening. You think, “This has got to be the last time it happens,” but it isn’t. It happens at least two more times after that.