How can I review a game like this? Can I write without confessing, endlessly confessing, an acknowledgement of the fundamental lack? A performance beyond the screen, a perforation between lives. I divulge to a blank ear; the inscrutability of the reception to the confessional performance destroys the art of speaking, annihilating the relationship I have to the audience I spill guts to. I exsanguinate myself in front of a crowd, and yet at the same time the crowd spills over and beyond themselves; a closeness only available via the anonymity. I love the sticker they send, the initials they sign off, the attempt to re-assure for the sake of reassurance. A beautiful moment, self-contained, the care for someone who cannot be realised, a love which precedes specificity.
The game upsets notions of amor-ity, an attempt to recenter agape, perhaps. Does it fail by the unacknowledged double-ness of all interaction, the razorblade that accompanies a revelation? Maybe. But it also attempts to illicit a compassion that is so often denied, something that would've failed in any larger project, in any less of a pinhole-d design.
Do I confess to someone? Or do I confess only to myself? Who else can love like a stranger?

goated game. soyjacked at the "line of flight" drop. you guys just don't fw adorno hard enough. crashed before i could see the end

seriously though, i do find myself kinda frustrated at concepts of post-irony/metamodernism/new sincerity or whatever. people are tired of "postmodernity" (something i have my own critiques of, even as i hate jameson for popularising the term but w/e) and feel we can simply move beyond, take a new step forwards, without really understanding what "postmodernism" tried to do; "postmodernism" becomes a mood, a vibe, an era, not anything actualised outside of a vague gesticulation. this game, however, is not a very good look at that. I just wish actually understanding foucault + derrida was required before you read fisher, because I think a look at the deployment of hyper-confessional and overwhelmingly sincere art of the 202X's would be interesting - something not really found here except as a handwave to thoughts and books picked up from crit theory 101.

Idealistic and a semi-transcendentalist piece. Disliked the messaging and weird ideological conception - obviously rife with anti-vanguardist policy, but the conclusion cuts off it's nose to spite the face; fundamentally it re-inscribes the passivity of revolutionary liberalism back onto what it itself acknowledges as a violent process. It feels as if it cannot reckon with tools necessitated in a struggle, and is therefore always in a process of deferring responsibility/violence (both in alterity and futurity, to the other, to the space beyond). Caught in this contradiction - at once acknowledging the revolutionary nature of struggle and denying the struggle of revolution - it becomes a self effacing process; a bloodless revolution, a tenth of capitalism already killed - by what? what wounds were necessitated by such a process? The text cannot interrogate it - mysticising it into an ordinariness of mythical nature, a messianism that has already happened and yet is still to come - by whom? why not you, the nukes at your fingertips? In a certain sense, then, it forgets what cannot be forgotten - that which must be forgot in order for anything novel - the violence of forgetting that must be expelled and held. The ordinary is valourised without ever being encountered, the process left open, undetermined (idealised) and therefore endlessly critical, without any idea of what itself can do.
sorry this is gibberish. i just didn't like this very much.
the art is cute tho ^x^