Ico is the type of game I dread to play, critically acclaimed, landmark classic of the medium, influenced various games and designers I love. I dread playing those because of a fear I have, a fear that's come true : I don't like ICO, in fact, I think I might hate ICO. And now I will have to carry that like a millstone around my neck, "that asshole who doesn't like ICO". Its not even really that external disapproval I dread, its the very reputation that causes me to second guess my own sincerely held opinions. I thought I liked minimalism in game design, and cut-scene light storytelling and relationships explored through mechanics but I guess I don't. There's some kinda dissonance, cognitive or otherwise reading reviews by friends and writers I respect and wondering if there's something wrong with me or if I didnt get it or played it wrong or any other similar foolishness that gets bandied around in Internet discussions. "I wish we could have played the same game" I think, reading my mutuals' reviews of ICO. Not in a dismissive asshole way of accusing them of having a warped perception, but moreso in frustration that I didnt have the experience that has clearly touched them and countless others.

But enough feeling sorry for myself/being insecure, what is my problem with ICO exactly? I don't really know. Genuinely. I wasnt even planning on writing a review originally because all it would come down to as my original unfiltered reaction would be "Playing it made me miserable". Thankfully the upside of minimalism in game design is that its easier to identify which elements didnt work for me because there are few in the game. I think the people who got the most out of ICO developed some kind of emotional connection to Yorda, and thats one aspect which absolutely didn't work for me. As nakedly "gamey" and transparently artificial as Fallout New Vegas' NPCs (and Skyrim and F3 etc) locking the camera to have a dialogue tree, they read to me as infinitely more human than the more realistic Yorda; for a few reasons. Chief among them is that despite some hiccups and bugs the game is known for, you are not asked to manage them as a gameplay mechanic beyond your companions and well, my main interaction with Yorda was holding down R1 to repeatedly yell "ONG VA!" so she'd climb down the fucking ladder. She'd climb down, get halfway through and then decide this was a bad idea and ascend again.

ICO has been to me a game of all these little frustrations piling up. Due to the nature of the puzzles and platforming, failing them was aggravating and solving them first try was merely unremarkable. It makes me question again, what is the value of minimalism genuinely? There was a point at which I had to use a chain to jump across a gap and I couldnt quite make it, I thought "well, maybe theres a way to jump farther" and started pressing buttons randomly until the circle button achieved the result of letting me use momentum to swing accross. Now, if instead a non-diegetic diagram of the face buttons had shown up on the HUD instead what would have been lost? To me, very little. Sure, excessive direction can be annoying and take me out of the game, but pressing buttons randomly did the same, personally. Nor did "figuring it out for myself" feel particularly fulfilling. Thats again what I meant, victories are unremarkable and failures are frustrating. The same can be said for the combat which, honestly I liked at first. I liked how clumsy and childish the stick flailing fighting style was, but ultimately it involved hitting the enemies over and over and over and over again until they stopped spawning. Thankfully you can run away at times and rush to the exit to make the enemies blow up but the game's habit of spawning them when you're far from Yorda or maybe when she's on a different platform meant that I had to rely on her stupid pathfinding to quickly respond (which is just not going to happen, she needs like 3 business days to execute the same thing we've done 5k times already, I guess the language barrier applies to pattern recognition as well somehow) and when it inevitably failed I would have to jump down and mash square until they fucked off.

I can see the argument that this is meant to be disempowering somehow but I don't really buy it. Your strikes knock these fuckers down well enough, they just keep getting back up. Ico isnt strong, he shouldnt be able to smite these wizard of oz monkeys with a single swing, but then why can they do no damage to ICO and get knocked down flat with a couple swings? Either they are weak as hell but keep getting remotely CPRd by the antagonist or they're strong but have really poor balance. In the end, all I could really feel from ICO was being miserable. I finished the game in 5 hours but it felt twice that. All I can think of now is that Im glad its done and I can tick it off the bucket list. I am now dreading playing shadow of the colossus even harder, and I don't think I ever want to play The Last Guardian, it just looks like ICO but even more miserable. I'm sure I've outed myself as an uncultured swine who didnt get the genius of the experience and will lose all my followers but I'm too deflated to care. If there is one positive to this experience is that I kept procrastinating on finishing the game that I got back into reading. I read The Name of the Rose and Rumble Fish, pretty good reads. Im going to read Winesburg Ohio next I think.

A surreal feeling struck me in my first time restarting a run of Balatro immediately after ending another almost successful one. Suddenly, all of the twisted rules that gradually seeped into my playstyle and mind reverted to their original blank slate. I noticed my instinct to seek out diamonds and straights which my previous jokers favored in my winning run and subsequent leap into endless mode. When I recognized that my recently game-over'd ways were no longer especially effective, there was a realization of how this game had hypnotized me into a fool. I had only gotten just a taste of this game's addictive nature; I would continue to be made a fool time and time again for hours upon hours.

The gently swaying UI, the steady rhythm of the soundtrack, and the exponentially snappy turns all bolster Balatro's enchanting attitude. Even I, with the majority of my poker experience only being with Luigi, found myself entranced in this spin on a card game I only vaguely admire.

This game has boiled down the familiar roguelite to one of its simplest yet most effective spells yet. If this game has piqued your interest, beware the intoxication.

The birth of psychological horror in gaming.

If Resident Evil is an sci-fi action horror with zombies and monsters, then Silent Hill is an psychological horror arthouse drama with cults and demons. Another thing, this is in fact my favorite PS1 game.

The level design and music are the best of the series and the story is amazing aswell since it offers some great mysteries and the arguably most tragic character in gaming.

It's worth mentioning that this is also the scariest Silent Hill game and thus the scariest game ever made. It for sure has the scariest monsters in the franchise. The puzzles are also well thought out but not overly complicated. The boss fights are fine aswell. Better as in SH2 but not than SH3.

The characters are also alright with Alessa being the most interesting in it. There isn't much else to say other that it gets overshadowed way to much by it's successor.

10/10 nightmares become reality.

Check my review for the movie on Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/xgmanx/film/silent-hill/

Night in the Woods is a lot to unpack. The story of its creation, of the people who got together to develop it, is a fairly tragic line of inquiry nowadays; a story of passion for creation, sure, but also of abuse, and death, and sickness.

A direct result of the tragedy of its makers is that we will, more than likely, never get a game like it again - Revenant Hill having been cancelled due to Scott Benson's health issues. And while that's a shame, it also makes the fact Night in the Woods happened all the more special. I wish The Glory Society's members only the best.

This game speaks in an intensely true way to the struggles and the soul of the younger generations' early adulthood in this current-day world. In 2017 as beyond, when Weird Autumn Edition finally finished parts of the game that lay incomplete before, the game got at a potent anxiety and its core in my life.

Not only did Mae strongly mirror my struggles with mental health, she also reminded me of how hard I'd fought to fit into society, not succeeding; how, in that situation, some turn to befriend, uphold and be upheld by other outcasts, while others cling to family, and others again slip down a slippery slope and descend into an ideological muck. Seeing people as things; seeing people as shapes. It's a headspace Mae is saved from by her friends, and circumstance - as I was, when it almost happened.

I can't hide what I know is true: Night in the Woods, alongside my studies of history and 1900s European literature, made me an anti-capitalist, and antifascist. I wouldn't be who I am without it; I wouldn't make what I make without it. Its villains are a harrowing portrait of self-interested intentions burning squarely in a hell of their own paving; of the brainrot that is killing the United States and many other places.

It's not a perfect game in its pacing or some of its thematic glue, but ultimately, playing this is very worth it. It's a game that understands, gets it in a way very few other things have since.

A story like a thin, 15 hour-long rain puddle that, when stepped into, sucks you deep into a dark, flooded underground cave, submerged for 122 hours, re-emerging, itching to dive in again.

A story like Atlas, holding you up with the world, knees buckling.

A story like a family, found, picked together from lint and scrap and old furniture, a story of broken people feeling a little more whole with each other.

A story of many arms, holding pieces of a whole, each visibly broken.

A story as a book, as a game, as an exhibition, as a play, as a hotline, as a painful auction, as a phone call with a loved one about to pass on.

A story that respects and knows art, architecture, theatre, computers, games and this broken scrapyard of a world as deeply as it respects you.

My favourite story ever created.

---

10 years down the road, ten years after I gave the first act a preliminary playthrough, unsure if I'd like it due to its (then perceived) mixed Steam reviews - in 2023, I can't overstate the significance that Kentucky Route Zero has had in my life. When I begin to describe it with my voice, I get choked up- This story has, in near every facet, shaped the person I am; my aspirations, my goals, my loves, my dreams.

Part of me wants to say "I can't believe it's over now", but that's not true, nothing could be further from true than that. Kentucky Route Zero was a preamble to our current days; to the injustice of a global system built on the glowing bones of workers, soldiers, debtors, the other.

Kentucky Route Zero knows: We will be buried in time. All of this is vain. Businesses fail. Unpaid houses are abandoned. Jobs are left vacant by necessity or death. Monuments wash away in the cyclical tides of time.

People remember people, but that circle of support and awareness doesn't turn forever. Community is strong, mutual aid is strong, but it's all temporary. The systems, the money, the specific sense of gnawing on everything wins out against aspirations, goals, loves, dreams. This story needed no villain - a human price put on a quickening of entropy was villain enough; a price on food, on health, on community, on work, on addiction, on loneliness.

From within that anthropic erosion, Kentucky Route Zero asks us to hold onto each other, and pick up the ones that society has dropped. The world isn't evil; people aren't evil. The systems people build to elevate themselves over other people, themselves just as mortal, just as filled with blood and guts as them - those systems are an evil construct, and must be rejected, operated around, dismantled.

Kentucky Route Zero is a tragedy, but its catharsis isn't voiceless and meaningless; it's the strength needed to carry on and understand what to do.

Developing video games independently has been a hard road. Maybe someday, my landlord will change the locks.

Until then, with the voices of this story, I will sing.