Dragon’s Dogma is one of my favorite games of all time and sits squarely in my top five RPGs. There’s truly nothing like its Japanese take on Western, Tolkien-inspired dark fantasy, with Devil May Cry-influenced action combat, vocations that dramatically change how you play, a pawn system that grants an additional layer of control over your party alongside a diegetic online component that makes perfecting your pawn and watching it aid other players deeply gratifying, the genuine danger of night, emergent moments like grabbing onto flying enemies, physics-driven chaos, grand battles against staggering colossi that evoke both Shadow of the Colossus and Monster Hunter at once, and the lovable jank tying it all together to make the world feel so real, loose, and alive.

That’s why the common complaint that Dragon’s Dogma 2 was more of the same never really mattered to me. The decade-plus gap between the two games ensured that nothing else had come along to scratch the itch that Dragon’s Dogma, and the confluence of its many idiosyncrasies, could.

Many things in Dragon’s Dogma 2 are actually better than its predecessor. It leans further into the original’s emergent systems, harnessing modern processing power to allow for more physics and interactions. The vocations are more fleshed out and distinct, with a compelling cross-class skill focus that lets you min-max to your heart’s content. The world is grander in scale, with more verticality, interconnected dungeons and branching paths that make exploration immensely rewarding.

However, it had one crucial flaw. The game was far easier and considerably less friction-laden than the original (though our review says differently). Enemies weren’t balanced around how powerful the new vocations could become (an issue that also plagues modern Monster Hunter games), and the player had many more resources at their disposal to stave off failure.

The first game was full of moments like being caught out at night without healing items and with dwindling health reserves, or running out of lantern oil with only faint natural light, the occasional roadside lantern, and the glowing eyes of menacing enemies to guide you back to safety. Venturing out of the city often felt like a genuine trek because I had to plan carefully for each quest or goal. If I didn’t bring enough supplies or had the wrong party composition, the game would punish me for it. That tension remained a constant part of the gameplay loop until the late game, when you became all but unstoppable.

This was something sorely missing from Dragon’s Dogma 2, despite it being an otherwise excellent, if iterative, sequel.

Thankfully, after 60 hours clearing nearly everything it has to offer, I can tell you that Dragon’s Dogma 2: Dark Arisen makes many changes to address this common criticism of the base game while also taking the best aspects of the formula and pushing them to their apex.

The DLC is immediately accessible from Vernworth by speaking with Captain Brant at night, granting you quick passage to the snowy new region of Norgan, a hostile land with little civilization beyond bands of barbarians called the Beorcan, formidable new roaming enemies and regional variants of existing ones, and a minuscule village of about ten people that serves as the player’s forward operating base for their northern expedition. I recommend starting NG+, by the way, especially if you’re in the Unmoored World, as the DLC is inaccessible in that world state.

I was around level 75 when starting the DLC. While I had been able to steamroll enemies in the base game, including the Unmoored World prior to starting NG+, I immediately felt less powerful upon entering the region. The jump in challenge was tangible yet manageable, never overwhelming or achieved by making enemies overly spongy. Beyond that, the region introduces brand-new enemies like Lesser Demons and Blackdogs, while Snowfoots, a regional variant of the base game’s Ogres, come with reworked movesets that make them far more aggressive and threatening.

The new Lost Rites dungeons, of which there are 12 (nine in the base world and three in the Unmoored World), offer stiffer opposition. Still, they were a highlight for me. While the first few ease the player in and are brief, with a boss encounter at the end, they steadily escalate and begin adding prerequisites, like requiring the player to bring only their main pawn and no hired pawns, needing to be essentially naked with no curatives or consumables to hit a light weight threshold, or needing to be a certain vocation, each offering a unique approach to crafting bespoke dungeon experiences. They’re also thoughtfully constructed around these gimmicks. For example, the dungeon with the weight requirement supplied plenty of curatives and potions to directly counter many of its encounters. A dungeon that barred any vocation capable of using fire or poison had blob enemies that were nigh indestructible unless you found and hurled poison barrels at them. Beyond adding layers of challenge, they push the player in unexpected gameplay directions, and I relished every bit of it.

The visuals remain as striking as ever. The Dark Arisen DLC delivers breathtaking landscapes and vistas filled with craggy outcroppings, snow-caked peaks, and patches of lush, green grass fighting against the north’s bite, and it even manages to squeeze in a poison area. Snow drifts around the player while combat offers a visual feast of dazzling effects that give abilities tangible heft without looking like particle slop. There were times I was taken aback by the beauty of the world around me, and times I had to stop mid-combat to take a screenshot because the scene was simply too stunning not to preserve.

What’s even better is that the launch version’s unacceptable performance appears to be completely fixed with Dark Arisen. Not only does the game look gorgeous, showcasing the RE Engine at its absolute best, but it runs like a dream. I was getting around 180 FPS, even in Vernworth, at max settings with DLSS in Quality mode, on a 5070 Ti and a 9700X, with no stutters or frame drops. It was a completely smooth experience.

The narrative isn’t really Dark Arisen‘s strong suit, nor was it at launch, but the presentation remains first-rate and helps elevate a very basic story about finding a way to defeat an undying Dragon and prevent a calamity in which it consumes the world. There are a few twists that keep it fresh and interesting in a way the original campaign never managed, but it’s still probably the weakest element of the package. I didn’t find myself attached to any characters, but the cinematography and presentation gave the story enough teeth to be serviceable and lend context to my journey through Norgan.

Playing Dragon’s Dogma 2: Dark Arisen is an unbridled joy. I didn’t stray from Magick Archer for most of my playthrough, only switching when a Lost Rite dungeon required it, but the added abilities are largely superb and flesh out the combat with even more player expression. Abilities like Shadefetter Bolt let me slow enemies and exert greater control over the battlefield, Fortifying Arrow let me heal and perform long-range revives, and enhancements to abilities (granted through gear) like Sagittate Avalanche (an upgrade to Sagittate Downpour that adds extra arrow bursts) let me genuinely embody the role of field general to my pawns, offering support, crowd control, and devastating damage.

It seems that every preexisting ability has some form of enhancement accessible through weapon traits. On top of that, a recent update (I’m not sure when) adds two additional ability slots, expanding your arsenal even further. There are also unique Obelisks that unlock latent ability upgrades, permanent stat boosts, and the option to weight loot drops toward your vocation.

These additions mesh remarkably well with the new enemies, including their design and density, and strike a judicious middle ground that reintroduces friction the vanilla release lacked without tipping into punishing excess. I believe most players will find the standard difficulty well-judged in Dark Arisen. The hard mode is also well calibrated for challenge seekers, forcing me to actually use my curatives, prepare more thoroughly for my outings, and maximize the synergy between my vocation and my party. I died a few times on normal difficulty (which never happened during my first trek through Vermund, save for when I leaped from too great a height and splattered like a cicada on a windshield), and plenty of times on hard mode. I enjoyed both options nearly equally, but found myself sticking with the new hard mode.

The quest design is similarly deft. It gives the player enough information and resources to keep things from becoming overly obtuse or necessitating a guide, but it never fully shows its hand. The Sphinx and her riddles make another appearance and offer a nice slice of organic puzzle-solving woven into quest progression, requiring you to figure out where to find three items.

Norgan’s layout is a triumph, and I found myself veering off from quest progress entirely simply because I stumbled across a tunnel that led into a labyrinthine excursion, one that branched off in so many directions that I could end up on either side of Norgan. Where the original Dark Arisen sent you spiraling down through Bitterblack Isle toward a finite bottom where your final challenge awaits you, this Dark Arisen pushes outward, sprawling across a vast frontier while hiding layer upon layer of secrets beneath its frozen surface. Exploration is one of the most important elements in RPGs for me, and Dragon’s Dogma 2: Dark Arisen is so well crafted that wandering around and soaking in the world’s ambiance felt as enjoyable as diving into its frenetic combat encounters.

One thing I’m conflicted on is the new loot system, which forgoes bespoke drops in favor of randomized gear that needs to be appraised, something akin to a typical ARPG dungeon crawler like Diablo. Each weapon or piece of armor comes in a different tier and carries randomized benefits, such as dealing more damage at higher HP, dealing more damage against specific enemy types, and the aforementioned enhanced weapon abilities. On one hand, I do miss earning a unique piece of gear as my reward for felling a fearsome foe or opening a chest tucked away down a hidden path within a dungeon, but on the other, this keeps the loot consistently gratifying, as you receive incremental upgrades as opposed to protracted ones. Moreover, the Lost Rites dungeons do offer that bespoke loot, and I carried a chest piece and cape with me through most of my playthrough because they outclassed the lower- and mid- tier gear.

My playthrough often reminded me of what first captivated me about Dragon’s Dogma. Capcom doubled down on what made it great while fixing many of the issues from the sequel’s original release. But what vaults this into rarefied air for me is the lead-up to the finale and the dangerously addictive post-game.

I can’t spoil it, but know that some of the later bosses, and especially the true final boss, deliver an intense amount of spectacle with jaw-dropping production values that keep you in control of everything that’s happening. I’m talking on the scale of what people want to convince you Final Fantasy XVI has, except you actually get to play the game without control constantly being wrested from you.

Dark Arisen‘s endgame offers an engrossing loop that grants access to the highest tier of loot and seems infinitely replayable. It’s so good that, as I type this, I’m fiending to dive right back in at the expense of other hotly anticipated games on my plate, like Control Resonant and Ace Combat 8.

If you loved Dragon’s Dogma but found the sequel to be a lesser, albeit still good, simulacrum of the original, or felt it was too samey, you’ll probably love, or at least find a lot to like in, the DLC’s improvements. If you already adored Dragon’s Dogma 2 as it was, you need to stop whatever you’re doing right now and spin this shit, because it’s gonna be the hottest thing smoking for you.

I’ve been very cynical of Capcom as of late, and I didn’t think an expansion for Dragon’s Dogma 2 would even exist in the wake of Itsuno leaving the company (potentially due to the rumor of resources being shifted away from Dragon’s Dogma 2 toward Monster Hunter Wilds, a speculated reason for some of the base game’s shortcomings). Nor did I think this DLC would be able to ameliorate my qualms with the game or even prove particularly worthwhile in the aftermath, but Capcom has thoroughly shut me the hell up and created the Dragon’s Dogma 2 that should have been.

I can safely say that this is the definitive Dragon’s Dogma sequel, and it stands as a masterpiece of RPG design. Like every Arisen, Dragon’s Dogma 2 was strong enough to survive without its heart. With Dark Arisen, it is finally whole.

The Culdcept series is experiencing a bit of a renaissance these days. Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of reviewing the most recent mainline entry in the card game/board game RPG hybrid franchise, Culdcept Begins, and found it a great entry point with a compelling mix of card-based strategy and Monopoly-style board game randomness. However, for us veteran Culdcept fans, one piece has always been missing from this niche franchise’s lineage: the first title never made it to the West. Thankfully, publisher City Connection has seen fit to rectify this longstanding injustice with Culdcept The First, an emulated repackaging of the 1997 SEGA Saturn original complete with quality-of-life features and a professional English localization. Some may find the original Culdcept a relic best left forgotten due to its slow pace and relative simplicity compared to later entries in the franchise. However, those who appreciate quirky late ’90s RPGs, or longtime fans of Culdcept’s unique genre blend, will be pleased to find a beautiful antique finally unearthed after two decades and ready to be savored.

Culdcept The First begins with a text crawl across static, low-res backgrounds, recounting the genesis of the world of Bablashca and the origins of the Culd cards, a gift granted to humanity by the Goddess Culdra. Only those known as Cepters can wield these powerful cards, and the dark god Baltias threatens to rise again to challenge Culdra’s power and threaten the land. It is up to the player, one such Cepter, to travel across the land, face off against various Cepters, and gain strength to eventually take on Baltias. It’s a simple narrative, and one that provides little context or motivation beyond what is strictly necessary. In fact, this beginning lore dump is most of the story a player will experience until the end of the game. I was unsurprised to find that the original title had such limited narrative ambitions (something that later entries like Culdcept Saga and Culdcept Revolt rectify), but there really isn’t much here beyond a bit of lore establishing the world and why people fight these magic card battles in arenas that resemble Monopoly boards.

Thankfully, the game more than makes up for this lack of overarching narrative with a strong personality that comes across in both the writing and the aesthetics. Culdcept The First utilizes a mix of 2D battlefields, charmingly animated sprites for monsters and Cepters, and a pinch of animated 3D polygons for spell effects and battle scenes. Equip a sword to your monster, and a low-poly 3D blade will appear during battle and cut through the opposing card. Cast a spell to even the odds, and a 3D model of a set of scales will shine above the battlefield to weigh each Cepter’s weight in gold and cast judgment accordingly. Culdcept The First‘s sparing use of 3D animated visuals, contrasted with well-animated sprite work and low-res yet evocative backgrounds & card art, establishes a visual identity that is quintessentially SEGA Saturn.

Although the storyline itself is barebones, Culdcept The First is chock full of dialogue between Cepters during the matches. Each location on the overworld map contains a different arena and a different Cepter opponent. These Cepters are the real stars of the show, and where the high-quality localization truly shines. The first (initially) imposing villain, Dragon Eye Zeneth, talks like an anime villain until you easily defeat him and he runs off with his tail between his legs, showing up a few story beats later to crash your battle in an attempt to redeem his reputation. There’s the little boy Sebastian with a cute, cuddly companion on his shoulder named Poco Poco. The unassuming creature turns out to be a dastardly demon manipulating the poor boy into doing his evil bidding! Ape man Kou-Tetsu hangs out in the misty mountains, full of bravado until you give him a card-based beatdown and he admits your superiority. The exiled king Weyden rules the desert wastes with an iron fist…or at least he would, if he could get those damn wooden stockades off his wrists first. This colorful cast of opponents fills the void left by the bare-bones story, and the mid-match banter had me chuckling and rolling my eyes in equal measure at their weird & wacky personalities.

It’s a good thing fighting these goofy opponents never gets old, because Culdcept The First’s progression structure is as archaic as you’d expect of an experimental RPG from 1997. More recent Culdcept titles feature a card shop between matches where you can spend money earned from completed matches to purchase random card packs. These packs quickly fill out a stock of cards to deckbuild with and experiment with strategies. Culdcept The First lacks such a feature, meaning you can only acquire new cards sparingly at the conclusion of a match. To get enough powerful cards to succeed in later matches against more powerful Cepters, you will need to repeat the same battles on the same arenas over and over again.

As the earliest title in the franchise, the level of strategic complexity possible with various card combinations is at its most basic in Culdcept The First. If I had to draw a comparison, it’s like the difference between the early days of the Yu-Gi-Oh! TCG (much slower-paced and focused on tribute summons) and modern Yu-Gi-Oh! (blazingly fast-paced with special summons to the point people joke about the game playing like solitaire). There is still plenty of room for strategy and rudimentary deck building, but the strategic potential for the decks you can build is much more limited and straightforward than what is possible in Culdcept Revolt or Culdcept Begins. The end result is that the board game elements (rolling dice, landing on tiles) are more impactful in each match. In Culdcept Begins, I would enter each match with the same core strategy I built my deck around, then adapt it to fit my opponent and the board at hand. In Culdcept The First, the board and opponent determine your strategy entirely, and the deck builds you bring into the match have limited potential to affect the outcome if you get an unlucky set of rolls. As such, this first entry feels the most like a board game and the least like a TCG of all the games in the series, relying more on luck than strategy or skill.

Although Culdcept The First could take an experienced player a dozen hours to complete (double that if you’re new to the series), there’s only about five to six hours of original content here. The core gameplay loop of making your way along the board, claiming property with monster cards, and stymying your opponents while you try to avoid their lands is as fun and addictive as ever, yet the repetition begins to wear as you fight the same battles over and over to get stronger. This is also the slowest Culdcept title, with no speed-up function included in the handful of quality-of-life features added. Though this release does allow you to view player hands at all times and increase the number of cards you receive at the end of a match to cut down on the grind, but it’s not quite far enough to make Culdcept The First approachable for players without significant patience. My love for the series kept me going even when the game grew monotonous at times, but I fear most players won’t be willing to repeat so much content just to get to the end.

The aforementioned quality-of-life improvements certainly make Culdcept The First more approachable, and the inclusion of quick save and quick load both in and out of matches is a necessity, especially given how long these matches can last. There are a few issues with the port, though, at least on PC. The game bizarrely opens in an initial window, then when you hit start on the title screen, that window closes and a new one opens when the game actually starts. A few times, this second window simply wouldn’t launch, and other times it would launch, and I’d get into the game, only for it to freeze and crash later. I’m not sure if this is a consequence of City Connection attempting to secure the ISO to prevent players from simply extracting and running it in their own emulator, but it’s odd and a little annoying nonetheless. Furthermore, Culdcept The First requires a controller and won’t let you use a mouse and keyboard, which is a bit disappointing. I’d imagine these issues won’t matter on console releases, but they don’t make the best first impression here.

Ultimately, I enjoyed Culdcept The First more as a historical document than I did as a gameplay experience. Experiencing the first iteration of series concepts, card designs, and arena layouts was a joy, as were the charming late ’90s visuals and the excellent soundtrack by Yuzo Koshiro. As a longtime fan of Culdcept games, seeing how much of the formula was established in this first game is fascinating, especially considering how novel the concept must have been back then. I’m so glad that City Connection brought this series back and finally localized this first entry for Western audiences, something I never dreamed would happen outside of fan-led efforts. However, the core gameplay loop is undeniably rough. It leaves a lot to be desired compared to more recent entries, especially given its limited feature set (Culdcept The First lacks multiplayer of any kind). I could only recommend this one to series superfans like myself, or retro game enthusiasts who love experimental RPGs or the SEGA Saturn. For everyone else, Culdcept Begins offers a much more approachable, polished package.

Creating a captivating, family-friendly adventure title that appeals to everyone is no easy feat. On its surface, one need only take out the swears, create some light-hearted quests and dialogue, and keep the visuals bright and cartoony. That’s all well and good, but can these adventures maintain an adult’s attention? That’s the secret to TOEM’s success, and TOEM 2 seeks to capitalize on that very same formula.

Once more, our hero must embark on a journey to a far-off town to witness the TOEM. Cheeky references to this nebulous magical phenomenon litter here and there throughout the adventure, but the real meat of TOEM 2 is helping people at each town after getting off the bus. Why not just take several buses to the ultimate destination in one go? Because good will is the currency in this world. I guess.

Collect enough stamps and our hero can get back on the bus. Each location offers a series of subtly titled quests to accomplish, but most players will be able to just wander around and help people without relying on the journal. In addition to the quests, players can find a key landmark to photograph, fill up a codex with photos of critters, and simply enjoy wandering around these delightful mini-worlds.

Each location is comprised of segregated squares of varying elevation, width, and length. Click the arrow at the edge and move on to the next section. A handy minimap at the top-right assists with navigation, making exploration a snap. Most sections have a character or two to talk to, a house or cave to enter, and a whole lotta charming scenery to take in and enjoy. Sometimes a square doesn’t have a whole lot going on, but I also enjoyed these breezy asides as they contributed to the atmosphere of chill, low-stress adventuring.

And that’s what TOEM 2 excels at the most. While checking off boxes on the list is gratifying in itself, so many games already offer that. What games like TOEM 2 don’t always accomplish is the easy-going, whimsical adventuring. We’ve experienced this in games like A Short Hike, but TOEM and TOEM 2 seem to do this the best. Substantive at about five hours yet simultaneously light-hearted, TOEM 2 never feels like it hits the gas, and that’s exactly what you want from a game like this.

In truth, the relaxing atmosphere is a brilliant combination of airy, simple music; gorgeous, unique visuals; and NPCs who are charming in that the sky seems to be falling over a skinned knee or a lost key. These simple tasks are clearly no cause for concern to us, but helping the panicked denizen makes us feel like true heroes. As if small acts of kindness can really make a difference. Maybe that’s the lesson here.

As impressive as the chill vibes are, though, I have to be honest about some shortcomings. More-of-the-same isn’t all bad when a sequel follows a strong predecessor, but that can only carry a game for so long. I went into TOEM 2 saying, “If this is just TOEM all over again, I’ll be happy.” And I am happy, but could I be—happier? Undoubtedly, TOEM 2 is a facelift in the visuals department—and some new mechanics show up to offer some simple puzzling—but this just feels like TOEM all over again. That’s good, but it’s not great.

Most quests involve fetching items, engaging in some easy platforming, and photographing some noteworthy macguffins. On rare occasions, the game will throw a quirky curveball, like hopping into a dream, but even a relatively sizable quest like this is a matter of fetching a photograph of something. The point isn’t the challenge, but the relaxing atmosphere of it all; after a while, though, even the visuals lose their luster in the face of yet-another-fetch-quest. That’s why I found TOEM 2 better to play in small bites, with my seven-year-old daughter alongside me.

From a child’s perspective, TOEM 2 hits all the right notes. My daughter couldn’t get enough of the wacky characters, cute creatures, and low-stress questing. She had quite a bit of difficulty with the platforming and some of the puzzles, but that didn’t deter her. We enjoyed the story together, and she was always asking for another session of TOEM 2.

If you’re seeking a reliable, breezy adventure behind a shutter, look no further than TOEM 2. Despite its simple execution and overused quest design, TOEM 2’s visuals and crazy characters make for a joyful romp. I hope Something We Made, the developers, continue to work on this series, but I hope they take it in a bold direction—not in the Dragon Quest XII sense, but maybe with a significant change in game design.

In my youth, I adored Myst and its sequel Riven. However, Riven pushed my then-aging PC to its processing limits. So when Myst III: Exile launched in 2001, I was forced to skip it. Cut to 25 years later — after thoroughly enjoying the recent Riven remake, I decided it was time to step forward with the series. It was finally time for me to learn what happened to Atrus and Catherine after the events of Riven.

Pragmatic Prologue

Myst and Riven told their stories through a unique blend of journals, environmental clues, and live action FMV cutscenes. This trend continues in Exile, with far more FMV than I had anticipated.

When last we left off, player-character “The Stranger” rescued Atrus and Catherine from the crumbling remains of the age of Riven. After some time, The Stranger reunites with Atrus and Catherine in the idyllic age of Tomahna. This realm serves as the site of our prologue (and epilogue). Here, we learn that Atrus has been crafting a new age for the surviving people of D’ni, called Releeshahn. Just before he can finish his work, however, surprise! An entirely new character pops out of the ether, nabs the Releeshahn book, sets Atrus’ home on fire, and hops through an entirely different linking book.

Atrus recognizes the man, Saavedro, and insists the Stranger be the one to chase him down in Atrus’ place. So you hop into this linking book and start the game properly in the age of J’nanin. We’re now in a mad dash to chase down Saavedro, get the book back, and hopefully nobody dies in the process!

Through a mix of journal entries and FMV footage of Saavedro talking *at* the player (no dialogue options here, folks!), a few revelations occur in the next hour of gameplay: J’nanin and its linked ages were training grounds Atrus built for his sons (Sirrus and Achenar, from the first Myst) to learn about creating and maintaining these realms; Saavedro hails from a now-ruined age called Narayan, which was presumably destroyed by the aforementioned psychotic duo while Atrus was presumably busying himself with other things; Saavedro has reset and rewritten some of the key puzzles and rules of these training ages in some sick game to toy with Atrus’ mind before finally confronting (killing?) him; Saavedro never gets a good enough look at the Stranger during the entire early game to realize it’s not Atrus who followed him.

My immediate takeaway? I feel horrible for Saavedro. Even if it’s his sons who committed the crime, Atrus has a lot to answer for. Writing whole civilizations into existence willy-nilly and then leaving them not only to their own fates, but potentially to the whims of your sons, basically puts you into Greek pantheon territory. Within the span of two hours, all of my feelings about Atrus changed.

Even so, I want to get the Releeshahn book back, and maybe help Saavedro find peace? And I absolutely want to confront Atrus. So, I continue forward.

Exploring, Expanding

Players may remember that, with a few brief exceptions, Riven took place in its self-contained Age, but across five separate islands with linked puzzles. This was a significant departure from the original Myst, wherein the age of Myst itself had linking books to four Ages for puzzle-solving and exploration galore before reaching endgame. In Myst III: Exile, we return to the formula of the first game. After solving some cool puzzles, as well as a trio of exceptionally annoying puzzles involving sliding marbles and camera focus shenanigans, I was able to gain access to the three training-ground ages linked to J’nanin.

While you can visit these three in any order, I first visited Voltaic, a beautifully crafted world dedicated to industry and technology that harnessed various forms of energy. Here I started to appreciate one of the key evolutionary points in the Myst series: six degrees of freedom. Clicking from one spot to another, yes, you are standing still in one place. But the image in front of the player is not one pre-rendered flat image. Instead, it’s a pre-rendered wraparound in every possible direction. I first noticed this in J’nanin, but in Voltaic I realized how much of a game-changer this was. Visually, it was phenomenal. I was taking in every cleft in the rocks, every nook in the carved stonework, the shift from sky to sea. I can’t help but think about what a great achievement this was for 2001 — it also explains why my dated PC couldn’t handle this game!

With this impressive addition comes a bit of navigation confusion. In Myst and Riven, changes in the cursor let the player know if clicking in certain spots might cause them to turn left, turn right, turn 180 degrees, look up, look down, or continue forward. Now the rule is simply ‘continue in the direction you’re currently facing’ with the pointed-finger cursor. This cursor only changes for zoom-in and zoom-out functions, or the grippy-hand cursor shows up to indicate opportunities to grab an object or interact with a switch or lever.

These navigational challenges didn’t bother me much throughout Voltaic. And when I reached the end of this age’s puzzle sequence, revealing a special symbol (conveniently drawn by the player and tucked away into the inventory), I felt like I had achieved something special with just the right amount of difficulty. No walkthroughs required. Voltaic, I give you a chef’s kiss of approval and gratitude.

Next, I stumbled into Amateria: an age dedicated to physics, elemental energy, and co-opting Asian architecture. During my time in Amateria, I had the following insights: the environmental storytelling in Exile is really strong; these puzzles can be incredibly challenging, but they are fair; despite compression artifacts, the lengthy cutscene at the end of Amateria might be the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen in any graphic adventure. This was a great experience.

All good things come to an end, though. For me, that end was Edanna, a nature-based age wherein the Stranger basically explores a giant tree. Though beautiful, I found some of the puzzles to be inscrutable. Even after reviewing all the journals and the object lessons provided in J’nanin, there were times where the solution to a puzzle involved interactions with creatures in ways you couldn’t predict. Perhaps the most frustrating were the light mirror puzzles utilizing a set of flowers. I came up with a logical alternate solution to it, but the game refused to acknowledge it as valid. Beyond the mirror orchids, I was even more perplexed by the giant spore-filled blue flower bulb. This area also made 6DoF exploration incredibly difficult. I would’ve given anything to have the Myst and Riven cursor hints for valid pathing, or the freedom to walk seamlessly as in RealMyst or the recent Riven remake. This intermediate step worked elsewhere, but it was a personal hell in what should have been an Eden.

Focused Frequencies

Before heading into Exile‘s endgame scenario, I’d like to reflect on Exile‘s sound design.

As with many modern games, three aspects of the sound design are worth considering: music, sound effects, and voice acting. Starting with the voice acting: Saavedro has the majority of the lines in this game, and his delivery is excellent. His outfit and his weird hammer freak me out, but his face and voice are unforgettable. In fact, some of you out there might recognize Saavedro’s actor, Brad Dourif. He had a long acting history prior to Exile, including a key role in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and the voice of Chucky in the Child’s Play series. Immediately after Exile, he played the villainous Gríma Wormtongue in The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Dourif’s skill as a seasoned actor puts him head and shoulders over our would-be hero Atrus, played by Myst co-creator Rand Miller.

Speaking of the Miller brothers, Rand’s brother Robyn took a step back from the music composition role in Exile, handing the reins over to then-newcomer Jack Wall (who would go on to work on future Myst titles, as well as the Mass Effect series and some other major projects. While there is a big part of me that misses the minimalist, ambient style of Robyn Miller’s music in Myst and Riven, there’s no doubt in my mind that the more melodic- and motif-focused work from Jack Wall fits the more active design and approach to developer Presto Studios’ vision for the graphic adventure. As an aside, I think Wall’s soundtrack to Myst III: Exile serves as a superior standalone listening experience to Robyn Miller’s work, unless you’re seeking that kick of nostalgia for the games themselves.

Sound effects are a significant aspect throughout the Myst series. Not only do they indicate the shifting and sliding of doors, walls, switches, levers and more, sometimes the sounds produced need to be memorized by the player as part of a larger puzzle. Anyone who played Riven remembers, likely with some disdain, the insanity of the animal-symbol puzzle to access the Moiety Age. Fortunately, the sound-based puzzles in Exile aren’t half as complex, and the sounds come through crystal clear and with decent repetition in all the places where it matters. Ambient noises throughout each age are also fitting without becoming overbearing.

Exasperating Epilogue(s)

After retracing the steps Atrus designed for his own sons, now used as a darker “teaching tool” by Saavedro, the Stranger finally gains access to the ruined age of Narayan. Yes, Saavedro’s home world, where he claims Sirrus and Achenar killed everyone (save for him) and left only a tiny floating island amidst an expanse of waste, is the place for the final standoff.

What happens here? First, the Stranger solves a very difficult puzzle. Conceptually, most players will quickly figure out what’s going on. Sadly, the input mechanism requires precision, and some drawings don’t perfectly fit the overlapping-circle structure of D’ni writings. Personally, I had to rely on walkthroughs to fix tiny errors of my own (much like the marble puzzles earlier on).

All puzzles solved, and the Stranger sees a clear path to a happy ending; not just for Atrus and Catherine, but for Saavedro too! One problem: Saavedro doesn’t trust you for a moment, and he gives you plenty of reason not to trust him. The *true* final puzzle involves finding a way to get the Releeshahn book back into your own hands. Saavedro sees a way forward and proposes it to you. He tells you to stay back and use some levers that allow him to take a gondola farther out into Narayan, and in turn, he’ll give you the book.

…except, no. If you do the sane and decent thing, he hops on the gondola and takes the book with him. You’re left to return to Tomahna without the one thing Atrus needed, everyone is sad, roll credits on a bad ending.

Through a series of trial-and-error saves and loads that you, the player, are left to conclude that Saavedro is too far gone to be reasoned with. This is a limitation of the game’s system, in my opinion. Atrus is, at the very least, indirectly responsible for Saavedro’s condition. But because the Stranger is a silent protagonist, players are left to stand there dumbfounded with no dialogue options, when a simple exchange of words could have served as a legitimate path to peace and harmony.

Instead, the game forces the player, as the Stranger, to *further torture* Saavedro’s mind to get the true ending. You still help him get to Narayan, yes. But first you have to play a sick game of chicken by shutting down power to the devices deactivating the bubbles around the floating island. Saavedro screams in despair, stuck behind a barred gate and with no access to the world outside. Recognizing you have the power, he gives over his one piece of leverage: the Releeshahn book. At this point, the player can open the gondola’s path for Saavedro before you return to Tomahna and get the true ending.

(There are additional options here for less-than-ideal endings. One of them is fully psychopathic and I’m not going to talk about it.)

This is where I just become livid. The only way to get the best ending is to deal massive psychic damage to the only ‘sympathetic’ villain in the Myst series so far. I get that the final puzzle here serves as something akin to a police-and-prisoner river-crossing problem. But it’s a terrible idea. It really makes me sick that I have to hurt Saavedro to help him.

Furthermore, the game simply ends with the Stranger returning the book and Atrus then rambling during the epilogue about how he can now help the people of D’ni. But by now, I really stopped caring about all that. All I want to know is if Narayan is actually okay, if Saavedro gets his own happy ending. Sadly, the game’s ending(s) offer no answers in this regard. None.

Simple Summary

Wildly problematic ending sequence aside, I came away from Myst III: Exile feeling a great sense of accomplishment for all the puzzle-solving I had done, and with due appreciation for all of the artists and designers who put this beautiful game together. With only a handful of exceptions, the puzzle-solving aspects were just the right amount of challenge. And I really can’t get enough of Brad Dourif as Saavedro.

Myst III: Exile was definitely good enough for me to decide I want to continue with the series, as I am hoping to play Myst IV: Revelation next! We’ll see if Sirrus and Achenar can be redeemed after all the damage they’ve done.

This is not a review I want to write.

It’s not because I’m opposed to writing a negative review. No, it’s something much more selfish: I want developers to keep adapting mobile and free-to-play titles to full-blown releases. I can’t stand playing games on my phone, and gacha mechanics are probably dangerous for me. Octopath Traveler 0 proved it could be done well, and the upcoming Final Fantasy Resonance seems similar. And I still sit over here, hoping against hope that NieR Re[in]carnation will get some similar love.

If it does, I hope it gets better treatment than Another Eden Begins, a game that might have been better served staying in its free-to-play format.

To be clear, I’ve never played the original Another Eden, so I can’t say what has been adapted or changed with certainty, but what exists in this version almost universally doesn’t work.

That’s maybe most surprising with the story, penned by Masato Kato of Chrono and Xenogears fame. Not everything he’s written totally works for me, but if nothing else, it had ambition, something to say. That couldn’t be further from the truth with Another Eden Begins. I bet this premise sounds familiar: Aldo and his sister Fienne are found in the woods as children. Many years later, the Beast King attacks their village and kidnaps Fienne. Of course, Aldo goes after her, but on the way he’s pulled into another time. Of course, Aldo must get back to his own time and rescue his sister!

The story never goes anywhere interesting beyond that, at least in this version, which only adapts the opening arc (or first 25 chapters) of the original. You’ve seen all the plot beats, maybe in Chrono Trigger, maybe in another RPG. And I can live with that, but it’s disappointing coming from Kato. Maybe even worse is the way the story is told. The game is split into chapters, and I assume those chapters were meted out slowly in the original. Here, you get them all at once, and almost every chapter, especially in the late game, feels like it shifts gears dramatically, ignoring the stakes of the previous one in favor of something different, almost like the characters forgot about what just happened. It’s weird, disorienting, and takes any wind the narrative might have out of its sails.

Compounding that is how the game dumps characters and side quests on you. You have roughly 20 characters to choose from, and you only grab about five or six as part of the main story. The rest you need to recruit via side quests. Each character has five separate quests associated with them after you recruit them. I don’t want to do the math, but if you’re going to fully recruit every character and see their arc through, you’re looking at over 100 quests in a game that I cleared in fewer than 25 hours.

I assume this is an effort to adapt gacha pulls from the original, but the translation doesn’t work. It quickly becomes overwhelming, and worse still, the side quests are excessively long and boring, positively filled to the brim with tropes and the bland writing that populates the rest of the game, and only further kill the momentum of the paint-by-numbers story, especially when it seems like a dozen more open up after every plot beat in the late game. Unfortunately, the quests are important because they unlock special accessories for characters and, eventually, their ultimate weapon, so you probably want to do them, at least for your main party.

Maybe the worst part of Another Eden Begins’ side quests is that they take you back through the same areas over and over again without ever introducing new locations. I think I ran through the marsh at least ten times, and I didn’t even come close to completing every side quest. And they weren’t fun to navigate the first time, either. Each town and dungeon is a series of narrow, connected paths. Every once in a great while there might be a puzzle, but otherwise, there’s no variety. This is particularly damning in a game that loves backtracking so much and wears its built-for-mobile, ugly and distracting visuals on its sleeve. 

Those narrow paths make the enemies that you find on the field pretty hard to avoid, too, which is unfortunate because combat is also disappointing. On its face, it shouldn’t be. Sure, what we have is a fairly simple turn-based system, with your standard buffs and debuffs. But there’s a ridiculous amount of flexibility and customization built into these systems. Each character has two unique skill trees, and you get points to move through them as you level up. In combat, you can chain together additional attacks if you meet certain requirements, like hitting weaknesses, getting crits, etc. You can also set up three additional parties when you have enough characters, and they get a temporary buff when you switch them in. 

Lining up your party for ultimate synergy seems like it should be a fun challenge, especially with so many characters and ways to build them at your disposal. The problem is, you absolutely don’t need to do that.  For 99% of the game’s run time, I had absolutely no trouble obliterating every enemy with my one critical-hit-focused party. It only adds to the monotony present in the rest of the game, and is truly disappointing when there is a lot of depth that Another Eden Begins could plumb here. 

The monotony even extends to the one thing I genuinely like about Another Eden Begins: the music. The opening theme, composed by the legendary Yasunori Mitsuda, is rousing, and the rest of the tracks are strong. But eventually you start hearing the same tracks far too many times, and the lustre wears off. It’s pretty frustrating because there are a whopping seven volumes of tracks to pick from. It seems they didn’t want to dip into anything after the opening arc that we get in this release, to its detriment.

I think that’s the ultimate problem: this title doesn’t feel like a complete product. It feels like the developers didn’t want to let go of enough of the gacha release’s DNA to let it stand on its own. The weird plot structure makes the story feel disjointed and low stakes. The side quests are doled out at an absurd rate. The combat, while good on paper, feels like it’s built for a different set of challenges. Add to this that everything takes so long to get going, and Another Eden Begins feels like an overstuffed, poorly paced, and unbalanced intro to a much larger, more carefully calibrated game. The added voice acting is so wooden that it does nothing to move the needle, either.

So, you know what, maybe I’m not so upset about writing this review. I don’t know if bringing more of the gacha game’s story, rebalancing battles, or streamlining sidequests would fix all of Another Eden Begins‘ problems, but surely the team could’ve done more. As much as I want to play more games originally developed as free-to-play, I don’t want it like this.

The immersive sim is in a renaissance if you know where to look. Even if major studios have neglected the genre, Deus Ex and its peers have inspired ambitious passion projects. One such project is Parkside: Decayed Soul Manipulation. 

Just from a glance, Parkside’s tone and atmosphere are unmistakable. The proximate crude realism of Cruelty Squad combined with the resurgence of low-poly tastes finds a loving home. It is like Deus Ex purposefully de-made, and the shabby feel of this techno hell is in direct conversation with the more imposing, competent depictions of our coming dystopia that floated around decades before. 

The lore of Parkside is not what I would call subtle. One idea of late capitalism—one of its logical endpoints as the contradictions tighten around its neck—is that the marching orders for consumption begin to boil down into shouted slogans, desperate advertisements in an endless race to the bottom. In Parkside, it is manifest across physical public space instead of in an algorithm. “DO NOT ORGANIZE.” “I LOVE TAKEOUT FOOD.” “OUR HAND FEEDS YOU.” The game revels in taking the blunt message of the powers-that-be in game and shifting that force back onto it, aikido style. 

Parkside, like many passion projects, sometimes embraces its inspirations a little too closely. Chinese takeout items are everywhere on the map because the fusion of Asian-Western cultures was a big cyberpunk marker in the 1980s-90s, when Japan’s rise was novel. It is no longer novel. The Japanese mafia, too, has almost mystical properties in the game’s deep lore. It is the rare time when I am taken out of the world.

Luckily, that world is largely well realized. The urban areas feel cramped, with lots of moving elements (trains, flying vehicles, drones, cars, etc.) that make it feel alive. You can take any car lying around for a spin. The density of the police surveillance state on top of this activity is palpable. There are plenty of uniformed men patrolling, drones in the air, military vehicles parked to cut off chokepoints, and even an ominous paramilitary gunship that looms above at random intervals in the game’s early cityscapes. 

My favorite mission in the game, however, is in the godforsaken outskirts of the game’s key city. It has no central objective marker. What follows is more like something from STALKER or Fallout: a tense shoot-on-sight prowl through desolate countryside, wasted buildings, and crumbling structures. Parkside delivers impressive variety in its 12-hour runtime.

There are many ways to upgrade your cyberbody vessel POLYPHEMUS. The main abilities are impactful and have sub-abilities to emphasize your investment. I was focused on traversal and subterfuge but never touched a hacking node, and only later realized how effective turrets could be. Even with this slapdash strategy, I had plenty of points to invest. Not enough to get every single node, but pretty much all the ones I was interested in, plus a few I needed in clutch situations. 

A later mission centered around an ominous cathedral provided perhaps the most difficult combat challenge and a good example of squeezing all I could from my abilities. There were no save spots that I could find, so health had to be managed tactically, with working knowledge of every pickup on the map necessary to survive. There were plenty of normal “human” style enemies but also these bullet sponge careening monstrosities, aptly called “abominations.” I experimented with extra armor, telekinesis, turrets, and upgraded camouflage until I hit upon the right combo.

To clamber up one of the mission’s walls means avoiding damage, or POLYPHEMUS’ limbs are likely to be crippled and their jumping stunted. It is a strange possible softlock that the game’s systems create. In a similar vein, any kind of combat can make friendly/enemy flags very inconsistent. I had to restart twice in one mission before the game would let me talk to the correct NPC after completing their objective because they had been toggled hostile in the course of doing their quest. 

Parkside is fairly lenient on successful stealth, and thorough exploration rewards you with more ways to route around enemies. It is easy to reposition and wait out timers. The National Archives mission is one of the highlights, with enemies questioning your credentials while you skulk around trying to disable their security systems. Learn to love the vent and always seek the high ground.

As of this review, the most popular thread on the Steam forums for Parkside (by a country mile) is titled “yea, put in a save system.” The debate over saving speaks to an identity crisis. This is a game harkening back to the crunchy RPG elements of Deus Ex, but having to redo 30 minutes of immersive sim gameplay is nobody’s idea of fun. To justify this decision, Parkside needs the chops to match Cruelty Squad’s expressive movement and mission format. In that game, the lack of traditional in-mission saving is much more explicable. 

Parkside is not shy of its own ambitions, and one thing I learned early on after some time-consuming failures was to take a Hitman-style approach to the game’s missions. It was the second mission where I almost contemplated dropping the game or lowering the difficulty, after failing a finicky combat section of a main quest after completing a time-consuming side quest several times. Instead, I decided to barrel through.

I had to alter my mindset and give the benefit of the doubt to the developer’s vision. I started using my first foray into a new level as an opportunity to scout important people, places, and things before finally tightening my approach in subsequent attempts. Missions often start you off in a small or crowded space, like an alley, guiding your eyes to climbable areas and letting you ease into the larger playspace of the mission. I took to searching for the bird’s-eye view of these mission areas and let the dopamine for experimentation and exploration wash over me. In this way, Parkside is a bizarre fusion of RPG and action-stealth mission structure that I have rarely seen. 

For a bizarre game, it has a suitably offbeat setup. The Illuminated Brethren of Conclave Automata have placed your hapless body at their mercy. You conduct missions as their cyborg puppet. Their illuminati paraphernalia clues you in that they are conspiracy-addled megalomaniacs, a stand-in for the confusion of a modern age, where unwrapping the layers of control can drive people insane. The Brethren are a cabal who work in shadows and manipulate world events to the pleasing of themselves and, surely, their masters. At the center of the Brethren’s hodgepodge belief system is the desire for conspiracy: illuminati, freemasonry, the secret society of the ruling class.

Our kidnappers go on about “the true valuable commodities” and other post-modern truisms to deflect from very crude and violent actions. The player receives some space to define a character in opposition, support, or neutrality to these statements. Ultimately, the Brethren are just not sympathetic except to a sociopath or someone checking off achievements. They are diabolical upfront, murderous in the middle, and only too late try to explicitly to sway you to their side with anything but brute force. For much of the game, you have the equivalent of a loaded gun at your head as you do their bidding. 

The other faction is a bit milquetoast in the face of such overweening evil. Going back to my favorite mission, it paints a painful picture of what the world became. Environmental crisis compounded economic crisis. Cities become the last gasp of the body’s organs before its diseased blood and skin taint it.

When we finally come face to face with the Rebels, they remind us that the Brethren are the greatest terrorist organization in history. It reasonably sets up that anything done to thwart such an organization is justified. Your answers in response to this line of thinking seem limp, and attacking them just feels like an exercise in evil murderhobo roleplaying. But their response feels even more limp. We will resist, and in resisting, restore the world to normalcy. The normalcy that led to the dystopia everyone is now mired in. The Rebels become an obvious stand-in for a Good Ending more than a stand-in for a point of view.

Detached from the Brethren-Rebel duality is the internal struggle of man and machine. Hallucinations, ghosts in your shell, come to your dreams and waking nightmares. These hallucinations mostly serve to tell you how to achieve the best possible ending for your character (if maybe not the world). Truth to yourself is paramount. It is an interesting choice, but I can not imagine anyone’s soul being at peace as part of the Brethren.

Parkside’s plot, beneath the anger seeping through the aesthetic, is lacking bite. The need for important choices feels added as credentials for calling itself an RPG and is superfluous to what the game actually wants to say.

Parkside has moments of unsuspecting raw beauty that caught me off guard. Deep in the interior of one mission, there is a room with little relevance to the objective. In it resides an unevenly shaped conference table with awkward sofa chairs. Sloganeering posters and flags are placed haphazardly. There are ample windows to see…the dull inside of an underground facility. It says more that it is meant to be a lived-in space, not abandoned like all the carefully crafted environmental storytelling of modern Fallout’s ruin-obsessed theme parks of apocalypse. Parkside’s world feels tired, cheap, and flimsy, crafted by a creator with unbound intensity. 

This intensity gives us a full-fledged immersive sim experience that stands proudly among its influences.

Gather your mercenaries, manage their loadout, and watch your group finances: Veterum follows as much in the wake of fantasy mercenary company RPGs as many others, including its own direct precursor. On leaving early access, the unit trait and movement-based strategy systems and a varied world of random events and scenarios do much to keep the mission afloat, even if the core narrative and visual design (as well as a few control foibles) make truly inhabiting the world difficult. Veterum pays well and pays on time, but it’s not a best-in-class employer.

Crasleen Games’ Veterum drops players into a dark fantasy realm teetering on the brink of apocalypse, where ancient wild forces have reawakened and dark cults run rampant. As a commander of the Order of the Gatekeepers—the world’s last line of defense against encroaching chaos—you are charged with venturing across a non-linear open map to rally fragile alliances between distrustful factions like Humans, Dwarves, Elves, and orc-like Turans. Rather than relying on a strictly scripted narrative, the game weaves its story dynamically through procedural world events, weaving in emergent faction tensions and internal mercenary friction as Edward (the commander) scrambles to gather helpful artifacts and halt the end of days. There’s a lot of text to get through to understand Veterum’s world lore, but with no other artwork or visual design elements to sell it, the walls of text struggle to land the core story or side vignettes well, and the small, tight font doesn’t help matters.

Edward leads his company around a static world map, visiting city or location nodes and selecting the missions that appear or events that trigger. These are somewhat randomised for every playthrough, and there is extra dynamism in how settlements can become ravaged by enemy actions or their relationship drops with you to such a point Edward is denied entry or access to services.

From an art design perspective, Veterum is all about the tactical map battles. The overland map is basic and perfunctory. City tokens and terrain indicators are simple and rooted in pastoral fantasy: there are no Volcano Ruins or Floating Tundra caverns to see here. Tactical maps fare better, with terrain elements, such as impassable terrain, fire, or water, visible and detailed enough to plan around. Character tokens do suffer from generic design, and what’s worse, they can’t be customised in any way, nor are enemy tokens varied.

They’re quite small, given the size of the armies, and even the nicer designs (such as the undead forces and the dwarves) don’t have the chance to ping off the map. Similarly, animations, like damage and spell effects, are low-key. The odd explosion and a few floating status effect markers are the stock and trade. In fairness, the whole setup is comparable to other mercenary RPG games. Still, it feels like a little more pizazz would benefit these elements, especially because tactical maps are the majority of the game. Battle Brothers is a good example: not particularly complex art design or effects, but a very definite sense of character and pawn design. I worry Veterum appears (and is) too generic for some folk who value visuals just as much as tactics. Music and sound effects are similar: the score feels bland, and the simple sound effects for abilities and damage are very old-school.

Once you visit multiple settlements and build sufficient standing, you gain access to an impressive roster of mercenaries, spanning from necromancers and mounted knights to orc-like berserkers. Units come with the standard array of attributes and individual stat affinities, but their true distinctiveness lies in their traits. These traits influence many factors—like salary demands or company morale on the road—ensuring no two hires feel identical. I found that balancing these quirks became a compelling puzzle: a morose, hard-hitting warrior who sours the group’s mood might ultimately prove less desirable than a happy-go-lucky recruit who takes longer to train. When deployed onto hex-based battlefields, your warband must contend with terrain, weather, and morale effects while spending Action Points to move, attack, and execute abilities. The turn structure feels refreshingly intuitive, allowing you to take all your moves at once and freely interleave unit activations to pull off satisfying positional strategies.

Layering unique unit traits and positioning them across the hex map becomes your primary focus. For example, warriors gain defense by standing shoulder-to-shoulder, while mounted knights can trample adjacent foes at the end of their turn. Mission variety spans raids, boss rushes, and frustrating escort quests, but settlement sieges steal the show. Besieging the AI triggers some of the game’s brutal highlights: it aggressively targets your vulnerable mages, adapts to your frontline pushes, and unloads catapult fire with precision. Factor in unit facing and weather effects on Accuracy, and it’s evident Veterum plays far more like a wargame than a traditional strategy RPG.

Enjoyment of the combat hinges on how much you relish working the strategic synergies—pooling unit traits, controlling bottlenecks, and managing unit positions and direction. Veterum brutally punishes sloppy play: squishy wizards melt instantly under pressure, and archers become useless in rainy fog. Because defeated units face a high chance of permanent death, you must find joy in the tactical grit of battle rather than the emotional journey of your warband. By the time I reached the campaign’s end, I struggled to remember a single mercenary besides Edward—I burned through too many along the way.

Post-combat experience progression relies strictly on active participation—only units that score kills or provide direct support earn a share. To grow your warband efficiently, you must adopt key tactical habits: feeding low-health enemies to greener recruits and constantly rotating frontline veterans with fresh blood. Earned experience then directly funds improved attributes and specialized combat skills.

Interestingly, a unit’s nominal “level” simply reflects total experience invested rather than providing an automatic stat boost, though it immediately drives up a unit’s salary demands. While I found this a bit unintuitive at first, it heightens the financial tension of managing high-value veterans, making the threat of losing an expensive, heavily-funded warrior feel all the more devastating to your purse.

There’s plenty to do in Veterum; the procedural generation aspect of the scenarios, and the wide range of unit types and open rules for their deployment mean you truly can invoke your ‘army of wizards’ fantasies, presuming you have the coin. The many traits and stat growth permutations multiply this variety tenfold: my own wizard squad were as Peevish as hell, constantly lowering my army’s mood, but they were powerful and blessed with Mana, so I put it with a rogue squad of sorts for many of my battles. On normal, and as intended, it’s a challenging game where every unit hire and combat decision must be considered. It earns its place with the demand and crustiness of its forebears.

Outside of combat, Veterum is bare-bones. Settlements offer brief lore snippets alongside hubs for recruiting mercenaries. Units can remain at a tavern to earn passive experience or grow attitudes, and there are merchants from which to purchase gear. Equipment actively modifies tactical rules—such as burning arrows that allow archers to build bonfires and gain damage bonuses when firing next to them—rather than always boosting raw numbers.

Despite the simple robustness of the systems, the UI doesn’t always provide a smooth experience. Abilities or actions can be difficult to trigger because they don’t provide enough information for how they react on the map. I found examples like the Knight’s Charge, or even picking up and moving siege ladders, to be a headache of wasted action points and lost units or battles. And for such an important tactic, unit facing is fiddly and expensive to get wrong through wasted action points. Again.

Veterum is a battle-hardened, tactically astute member of the mercenary RPG pantheon, but one not attempting to flatter to deceive, or really care much about the scars or wounds they display. It’s all a bit rough and ready, but the underlying thoughts are as sharp as they come. If graphics, sounds, or narrative aren’t your core driving force for guiding a group of fantasy mercs through various tactical scenarios, there is a lot to love here. Otherwise, you might find a different game is more to your sensibilities. For my part, I’ve got a new idea for an Archer Army…

I hope we never justify a “Life & Suffering-like” sub-genre of adventure games. Enough with the “likes” already. I kid, but I say this because The Life & Suffering of Prince Jerian (LSPJ) is the second game in the series that takes place in the awful, brutal Empire first introduced in The Life & Suffering of Sir Brante, and there’s really quite nothing like these two games. Peak intelligent writing that attempts to dig deep into the nuance of classism, religion, and complex societies under totalitarian rule, LSPJ demands a lot of the player emotionally and strategically, but do the sliding scales enhance the narrative or get in the way for the sake of gamification?

No matter what your feelings are about LSPJ, the quality of the writing is indisputable. Tight yet sufficiently detailed, the sophisticated vocabulary eloquently describes both intimately personal encounters and Empire-altering dilemmas with refined beauty. Initially, the descriptions and introduction to Prince Jerian’s life are easily digestible, but by the third chapter, the several scenarios and robust descriptions are intoxicating. For a game completely text-driven in shades of sepia, I hadn’t encountered an addictive quality like this since Sir Brante’s debut or Roadwarden. Of course, those less inclined toward dry, text-heavy adventures need not apply, but screenshots alone should send that message.

But what are we doing here, anyway? We play as Prince Jerian from age four to his eventual demise, whenever the game decides that happens. The game announces Prince Jerian’s aging almost every year of his life, and the presented snippets match the age and psychology of the young prince appropriately. Filled with wonder and confusion, he takes the world in and must make weighty decisions about listening to adults or sating his curiosity. What appears mundane to adults is significantly profound to a child, and the writers get that. By the mid-game, in which I’m arguing bureaucracy and laws with family and councilors running the country, I sometimes wished for those simple days.

Every chapter introduces new mechanics, which adds to the complexity. Initially, we have simple events to potentially achieve depending on how we behave, and then we can alter the social standing of commoners and the elite, old and new faith, and the general feeling of justice within society. Even later, we can determine the veritable bill of rights for the Empire.

LSPJ communicates outstanding wisdom about how societal change affects all players. Do not expect the game to preach about a one-sided ideology and guide players in that direction. Rushing toward absolute equality is a surefire way to alienate a powerful demographic and end your life in rebellion. Slow and steady change will keep the good prince off the gallows. Or maybe you want to enjoy the privilege of your birthing as an Arknian has offered you and crush the peasantry beneath your heel? That’s an option, too, and the developers competently write from this perspective as well.

Without going into exhaustive detail, the general landscape within LSPJ is one in which the Arknians—blue people who have kept humans within the yoke for over a millennium—are starting to lose influence as society and technology change. They and the Old Faith desperately and angrily resist this change, oftentimes enjoying brutality as the means of damming the river. Humans, who occasionally earn their way into the nobility, remain slaves to their oppressors, and sometimes seem okay with that. That’s just the way things have always been, and that is the will of The Twins (LSPJ’s two gods). Prince Jerian’s family leans progressive and seeks a utopia in which all people are equal, but you can imagine how that goes over with the elite.

The devil’s in the details. Little magical and supernatural touches add spice to an otherwise slow, dry narrative, though I use the word “dry” affectionately. If that’s your thing. Expect serious discussions about laws, etiquette, and the appreciation for the unbearable weight of power. On the other hand, Prince Jerian must maintain relations with his family, choose a potential bride, and maintain his own sanity.

Aside from enjoying choice-making from a narrative perspective, LSPJ uses several point-based systems and sliders to determine binary qualities. Will you lean logical or passionate? Adhere to traditional Arknian values or forge your own path? Maintain law, or show mercy and compassion? The society at large hosts a similar sliding scale, with the progressive among us thirsting to max out the Equality slider, but LSPJ makes an excellent case for why absolute equality might not work out. Ideas that may be abstractly appealing may not work in practice, and while benefits may result from this, there will also be costs. Sacrifice, timing, and even compromising your own values are a large part of what this game is about.

If relationships with key people or inner qualities aren’t quite where they need to be to unlock a decision, LSPJ has a Sanity and family point system in which you can cheat and pretend you have those qualities. Sanity is a finite, limited resource that never replenishes. Use up all five Sanity, and you break down. The family points, on the other hand, come and go, though they are hard to earn. Sometimes decisions grant or revoke points, and these points help win over people that Prince Jerian may not be close enough with in conversations.

From a gameplay perspective, the deliciously torturous decisions are what make LSPJ such a satisfying experience. From a player perspective, I know where I want the game to end up, but it’s not that simple—and it shouldn’t be. So, I have three decisions, and one is absolutely awful and not what I would ever pick. Another is ideal, and the other I would be fine with. Seems simple, right? Well, LSPJ displays all of the numerical wins and losses for each decision. Turns out my ideal choice from a narrative perspective is going to absolutely wreck my relationship with a group of people and barely help my relationship with the desired group of people. The lukewarm decision doesn’t help me where I need it to, but maybe I shouldn’t neglect that skill area too much, as I may need it later. Incidentally, the awful decision has the least blowback and gives me a huge amount of those family points I referenced earlier, of which I currently have none. I loudly exhale and lean back in my chair, considering my options. Do I min-max and forego what I’m trying to accomplish? What are the realistic ramifications in the long run? Lose the battle, win the war, etc. And on and on like this. For over twenty hours. During most presented scenarios in the game. Praise the Twins, I love how difficult this is.

Visually, I have incredibly mixed feelings about LSPJ. While the stills and small animations are stylistically reminiscent of the dark, brooding atmosphere of The Life & Suffering of Sir Brante, LSPJ has an incredibly limited set of illustrations. After a few hours, I got to the point where I was essentially ignoring the right side of the book, as the images sometimes didn’t even accurately represent the text and felt like an afterthought. Musically, LSPJ has fantastic tunes that complement the writing and in no way distract; though, because of how incredible the storytelling is, I didn’t focus on it too much unless I sat back and took it in.

The Life & Suffering of Prince Jerian is a sorrowful tale about managing a society and the surprisingly awful burden being a leader can be. I guess no one wins in the Empire, and that’s how I like my stories. Compared to its predecessor, LSPJ feels weightier and grander simply by virtue of the character you’re playing, but the game feels beefier, as well. Still, this title isn’t for everyone, as the commitment that could lead to a less-than-fortuitous end may frustrate those who disagree with the design choices, but I think these endings teach us something about forcing our will and neglecting the totality of people in society. Creating a harmonious society clearly isn’t as simple as one might expect. Fortunately, we can always reload chapters and fiddle with our decisions until we get the outcome we want.

Full disclosure: I am a casual Star Wars fan. I like the original trilogy, not a huge fan of the Clone Wars saga, and episodes VII, VIII, and IX are—fine. As such, several of the references and nods probably went completely over my head in Star Wars Zero Company, but I have enough background to enjoy and appreciate this side story in the Star Wars universe. Also, I really, really like this style of strategy RPG, so that helped.

Star Wars Zero Company takes place somewhere in Episode Three during the Clone Wars whilst the Jedi and Republic fight the Separatists. Our protagonist, Hawks, is a former Republic captain who failed a significant mission, getting his comrades killed in action. Or so the story goes. He now leads a ragtag team of mercenaries trying to make ends meet, or at least pay off a debt to a Hutt.

As fortune would have it, a Republic intelligence officer and an ore baroness have decided to take a chance on Hawks and his crew because of his unique background in order to strike at a cult called the Coil. A windfall for Zero Company, Hawks finds himself taking contract after contract with the Republic because the pay is just that good, touchy history be damned. Fortunately, his crew is just as hungry for cash, so they don’t mind cozying up with the Republic for the time being. Kind of.

While the plot is enjoyable, yet predictable, enough, the camaraderie amongst the team members is what makes Star Wars Zero Company shine from a story perspective. Boasting about thirty-to-forty hours’ worth of gameplay, Zero Company involves a cycle of: mission, talk to the crew and buff the team, mission, talk to the crew, etc. This is a formula we’ve seen in other strategy RPGs in a similar vein, like the newer Shadowrun and XCOM games.

Similar to those games, Zero Company’s combat involves positioning units across a map with various cover, shooting enemies with a percent chance of missing, and using the occasional grenade or special power to topple foes. Each character has three action points, so use them well or enjoy getting surrounded and pelted by enemy bullets. Although the combat is nothing new, the balance and customization make Star Wars Zero Company a joy to engage with from start to finish.

Talking to the crew—at least initially—is an absolute pleasure, but deciding how best to optimize the team also amplifies the experience. Team members bond as they interact, giving an option to improve damage or other stats incrementally. A black market allows players to outfit the team with unique weapon mods and utility items, and they can use their hard-earned credits to enhance the ship, crew, and weapons.

Economy’s a big deal in any game, and most modern games throw seemingly limitless cash at the player, making purchases a trivial affair. Star Wars Zero Company has the opposite problem. If I chose to upgrade my ship consistently, I would have no way to make purchases at the black market, and vice versa. I enjoyed the idea that hard decisions have to be made, but I felt pinched to the point where I couldn’t benefit from either system adequately. In this sense, the customization aspect of Zero Company feels half-baked and linear.

Fortunately, the combat matters far more than the customization, which mostly allowed my team to keep pace with increasingly challenging enemies. The developers expertly balanced gameplay from beginning to end, though the enemies and combat objectives begin to feel samey after about fifteen hours. The Coil enemies are infected with a plague, which gives them special powers as Zero Company blasts them, and players have the option to choose which benefit to inhibit over the course of the game; in truth, the decisions don’t feel momentous, and gameplay after the fact is not meaningfully impacted.

Those familiar with efficiency and exploitation will enjoy breaking Star Wars Zero Company in a way they see fit, whether that’s bunging enemies, abusing area-of-effect items and abilities, or however else players want to cheese foes. In this way, Zero Company can make players feel smart, but falling into a habit over time is all too tempting because the game does little to counter these tactics. Despite these minor quibbles, the tight tactical gameplay remained addictive—although decreasingly so—up until the end of the game.

Back to the crew, this remains the heart of Star Wars Zero Company. For the first ten or so hours, the dialogue, charisma, and unique interactions kept me chuckling and eager to find everyone scattered across the ship after a mission. Unfortunately, the clever writing and unique dialogue slow to a crawl, becoming less frequent as the game goes on. This is a common criticism I find myself making of AAA titles, as the need to push the game out stymies developer creativity and a quality product that remains uniform throughout.

The controls are adequate, but get in the way at times. I never found myself quick saving to save scum, but instead to load in case of a misclick as the camera slowly (or quickly) panned while I was clicking on a place to stand, forcing my character into a disadvantageous position. I also encountered enemies falling through floors or clipping walls on rare occasions, though this never impacted my time with the game. Musically, Zero Company is distinctly Star Wars with the dramatic horns and strings we’ve all grown accustomed to in John Williams’ music, adding to the identity and charm. Graphically, Star Wars Zero Company looks fine, especially for a strategy RPG of this caliber, but nothing wow’d me. If anything, I’d take issue with the lack of optimization, as the slowdown and freezing throughout the entire game added dozens of minutes to my game time and didn’t feel justified given the graphical quality.

Star Wars Zero Company is an enjoyable, almost cookie-cutter strategy RPG. It takes few risks, but what’s here is competent and worth playing, especially for Star Wars fans. I wish what initially impressed me narratively and in terms of gameplay remained fresh throughout, but this is why I appreciate indies so much. If Star Wars isn’t your thing or you’re not that into strategy RPGs like this, then your mileage may certainly vary, but I am glad I got to know Hawks and his crew.