Arguably, the greatest horror works prefer to suggest rather than directly show. Little Nightmares can often be a mostly effective genre effort on the surface, for the way it suggests both creeping terrors and sly means of progression. Pianos dangle suspended by rope above miniature libraries; the sound of knives scraping against each other resounds from the kitchen a few rooms away; paltry childlike figures, similar to the protagonist, stand petrified within the sightline of an intimidating eye set in the wall of a prison.
These indications both instill an ambiguous dread within the miniscule player, as well as prime them to think quickly to outrun the danger. The game wastes no time with turorializing, prompting the inquisitive player to figure out the control scheme on their own, presenting an escalating array of maneuvers to enact through the early segment, simultaneously building atmosphere with macabre slow burn and preparing one's reflexes.
Quickly, however, the intrigue begins to lose steam. The immediate fail states often dissolve the tension during the game's most exciting moments, especially when the solutions to progress are sometimes a bit too unclear; and long loading times further plant a nail in the coffin. This points out a significant contradictory issue with most of these similarly cinematic, two-dimensional platformers starring children in oppressively bleak circumstances (post-Limbo sims, let's call them); an issue with a number of AAA prestige games, as well.
An attempt at offering both an accessible game and an experiential venture causes a swaying effect, not unlike the way in which the camera in Little Nightmares tilts back and forth like it were set aboard a massive ship at sea. Yes, the game creates a dreamscape out of dark shadows (and thus bright lights) and constant motion, not unlike a Lynch film, and preserves its location within the realm of the intangible.
But the traditional gameplay scenarios create a logic when there should be ceaseless surreality. The evocative monster designs and idiosyncratic spin on everyday settings sure look the part, but the menace is undermined by the rote gameplay scenarios, not strengthened. Perhaps worst of all, in its attempts at demonizing overconsumption, the creature designs inadvertently come off as fatphobic.
It's easy to fall for its occasional frightening tricks, like when long arms reach around corners like spider's legs at the player, or a chamber whelmed with shoes implies a long history of abuse. But most of the tension-building is centered around sneaking past unsuspecting mutant figures with little to no imagination in the actual doing (the kitchen sequence is a simple gauntlet based around avoiding eyesight; Ratatouille is more imaginatively intense).
Tarsier Studios' game looks the look but can't walk the walk -- save for a genuinely brilliant final act that subverts expectations with sparse, vacuous terror (the game is probably worth playing for this alone). In spite of its efforts, Little Nightmares just isn't nightmarish enough.
These indications both instill an ambiguous dread within the miniscule player, as well as prime them to think quickly to outrun the danger. The game wastes no time with turorializing, prompting the inquisitive player to figure out the control scheme on their own, presenting an escalating array of maneuvers to enact through the early segment, simultaneously building atmosphere with macabre slow burn and preparing one's reflexes.
Quickly, however, the intrigue begins to lose steam. The immediate fail states often dissolve the tension during the game's most exciting moments, especially when the solutions to progress are sometimes a bit too unclear; and long loading times further plant a nail in the coffin. This points out a significant contradictory issue with most of these similarly cinematic, two-dimensional platformers starring children in oppressively bleak circumstances (post-Limbo sims, let's call them); an issue with a number of AAA prestige games, as well.
An attempt at offering both an accessible game and an experiential venture causes a swaying effect, not unlike the way in which the camera in Little Nightmares tilts back and forth like it were set aboard a massive ship at sea. Yes, the game creates a dreamscape out of dark shadows (and thus bright lights) and constant motion, not unlike a Lynch film, and preserves its location within the realm of the intangible.
But the traditional gameplay scenarios create a logic when there should be ceaseless surreality. The evocative monster designs and idiosyncratic spin on everyday settings sure look the part, but the menace is undermined by the rote gameplay scenarios, not strengthened. Perhaps worst of all, in its attempts at demonizing overconsumption, the creature designs inadvertently come off as fatphobic.
It's easy to fall for its occasional frightening tricks, like when long arms reach around corners like spider's legs at the player, or a chamber whelmed with shoes implies a long history of abuse. But most of the tension-building is centered around sneaking past unsuspecting mutant figures with little to no imagination in the actual doing (the kitchen sequence is a simple gauntlet based around avoiding eyesight; Ratatouille is more imaginatively intense).
Tarsier Studios' game looks the look but can't walk the walk -- save for a genuinely brilliant final act that subverts expectations with sparse, vacuous terror (the game is probably worth playing for this alone). In spite of its efforts, Little Nightmares just isn't nightmarish enough.