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Oddly enough, for a game seemingly so centred around the end of the world, While We Wait Here's most striking detail is the distinct lack of the promised armageddon. There is no dramatic broadcast shattering the 'equilibrium of an ordinary working day', no threat of cataclysmic destruction 'looming over the characters', and not the slightest whiff of an opportunity to 'convince your customers to run for shelter'. Anyone hoping for a thought-provoking deconstruction of the human response to impending obliteration (and you'd certainly be forgiven for expecting as much) won't find such an experience here.

Yet, despite pitching a largely fabricated sequence of events, the store page isn't entirely smoke and mirrors. What you will find here is a collection of poignant and tragically human circumstances; short stories dealing in lines irreversibly crossed, precious things effortlessly ripped away, crossroads offering nought but paths laced with varying shades of misery—worlds, if you will, that'll never be as they once were. Worlds that, in one way or another, are ending.

Foremost among these terminal realities is Cliff and Nora's, a couple behind the counter of a classic American diner, one of whom you'll be spending the majority of your playthrough as based on a somewhat inconspicuous decision made early on, the other, curiously absent following the relatively brief introduction. Take 'curiously' with a grain of salt, however; foreshadowing is unbelievably prolific and even more heavy-handed throughout the two to three-hour runtime, to the extent I can't imagine anyone struggling to sleuth not just the twists, but practically all the circumstances surrounding them. With the help of some generally solid voice work, it's the drama that'll pull you in over any real sense of mystery, and while, through that, many of the emotional crescendos still resonate, there's a certain something lost in how played out they already feel by the time you get to see them for yourself.

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The two leads aside—there's no shortage of patrons itching to offload their various woes on the first person who'll listen, and, as they do, you'll briefly get to play their tale from their perspective. These little vignettes are rarely more than a few minutes long, and although that doesn't leave a great deal of room for subtlety, the more cut-and-dried approach makes for generally harder-hitting storytelling, some excellent pacing, and a nice break from the intricately woven subtext these kinds of narrative experiences tend to somewhat overload on. I'd hate to spoil any of the surprises here, but they each play a little differently, too, deftly pulling from a fairly large, fairly unexpected range of genres.


For the most part, you'll be busying yourself in the kitchen between conversation, serving up burgers, pancakes and assorted beverages to your eclectic clientele. It's genuinely delightful, not just in its mechanics, but in the atmosphere, too. The diner's no upscale establishment, and you get the sense the place quivers at the idea of a routine health inspection, but it is the kind you'd love to just spend time in. Warm and comforting. A homely haven full to bursting with character and history.

Preparing dishes and serving customers doesn't skimp on the charm, either. Granted, it's not all that involved—just about everything handles itself with a simple click of the mouse, and the zestiest recipe in your repertoire is a single slice of all-American processed cheese expertly laid upon an otherwise sad, toppingless burger—however, there's a satisfying tactility in each of the relatively lengthy animations, and in how the process doesn't skip steps; from washing up tableware to dropping money in the register, there's an awful lot more than just cooking immersing you in the moment.

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It does result in most orders taking a while to fulfil, though, often subjecting the diner to hefty stretches of dead, awkward silence, your patrons refusing to utter another word until customer C's got his milkshake in hand. It's dialogue that's all very much prompt-based, and it leads to a lot of the chatter feeling more than a little contrived; yet, within the hush is a chance to ruminate on what you've heard and what you've seen—the troubles of those around you and the weight of their hardship. It's not particularly elegant, but it is surprisingly profound, culminating in an experience that highlights not just the stories told, but the space between them, as well.


Despite appearances, this is not a game about the finality of an unstoppable apocalypse; it's a game about moving on—what it takes to forge a new world, and the consequences of standing still in one that's already dead and gone. It's not the most skilfully written narrative ever put to screen, but it is moving, beautifully paced, and one sure to leave more than a lasting impression. Underpinned by tactile and supremely meditative kitchen management, concerned more with gratifying simplicity than stressful efficiency, While We Wait Here is a title I can comfortably recommend.

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A key was provided to Summit by Bad Vices Games for this review.

In a static world caught in the clutches of the Canovaccio—a ceaseless play starring every living soul—you awaken as the Maskless One, the only being outside of the script, and the only one capable of destroying the enigmatic figures behind each twisted scene. An incredibly inviting and novel intro, no doubt; however, the main plot never really escapes it, so quickly revealing itself as fractionally more than 'go to the place; stab the thing' until you've gone to enough places and acquainted enough things with the business end of your stabby stick. Coupled with a collection of somewhat extraneous side quests playing out mostly in the lore compendium and often ending just as soon as they begin, Enotria's central narrative doesn't inspire a great deal of curiosity.

Yet, as is so often the case with soulslikes, what came before in Enotria's Italian-themed world is infinitely more alluring than what lies ahead. From a gorgeous Venetian city torn down by the very eldritch knowledge and insatiable avarice that raised it to a once grand coastal empire ravaged in the crossfire of feuding gods, each of the three major locations has a captivating story to tell, drip-fed paragraph by paragraph through scattered lore collectables everywhere you look. They're told non-linearly, too, but it's all very digestible; later logs in the timeline find context in the fractured, crumbling landscapes around you, leaving you not lost or confused but rather more deeply enticed by what on earth could have happened in the intermediary chapters.

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Unsurprisingly, between the staple light and heavy attacks, a dodge step and roll, and the classic Estus-style healing flask, most of the usual Souls suspects are front and centre in the Maskless One's combat capabilities; however, it's here Enotria also departs most from the standard formula. Those light and heavy attacks can be mixed and matched, resulting in a much-needed and relatively wide range of combos for the otherwise limited weapon pool; that dodge is little more than a repositioning tool, left by the wayside almost entirely in favour of a responsive, stance-breaking parry; and complementing all that out are the Mask Lines, a huge selection of chunky, encounter-defining active spells and abilities with often lengthy cooldowns proportionate to their power.

As far as soulslike movesets go, the impact, fluidity, and overall satisfaction of this one leaves very little to complain about; your opposition, unfortunately, isn't so lucky. Generally, the bigger an enemy is, the more bizarre they are to fight: boss battles, in particular, are so frequently memorable not for their spectacle or narrative significance, but rather their janky animations awkwardly snapping from one goofy attack to the next, limited movesets often playing those same actions over and over, and delayed strikes held so long you may as well reply to a few emails while you wait.

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These encounters are still largely a good time, superbly scored and, despite some fairly questionable balancing on both ends of the spectrum, won't leave you thinking anything much worse than 'that was a bit of a missed opportunity'; yet, they are missed opportunities, and Enotria's various build systems leave a similar impression. Masks are supposedly the centrepiece of any given setup, allowing the *checks notes* Maskless One(?) to indefinitely don the visage of select fallen foes; however, they don't grant power comparable to the complete change in physical appearance they provide, but rather effects more in line with your typical soulslike ring. We're talking '+10% this', 'slightly more resistance to that'—boons that could well be completely bugged and I'd genuinely have no idea.

Whether it's the substantial skill tree inexplicably allowing only six of its perks to be wielded at a time or the irritating stat requirements for literally everything, there's plenty more dubious design in Enotria's build systems, and I could honestly be here all day; yet, I think nothing encapsulates it all quite like the finer details of your Mask Lines: their charging speeds are written in Italian terms typically used to denote tempo in classical music, and while that's all very thematically appropriate, there's no in-game guide for what these words mean. It's easy enough to infer where something like presto fits, but allegro, on the other hand, directly translates to cheerful, requiring further Google searches to find out it indicates a high BPM but not as fast as presto and oh my god why am I on a Wikipedia page for musical notation to figure out how to play a video game properly?

There's rarely anything inherently wrong with any of Enotria's build systems—bash your head against them long enough and they'll eventually start making sense—however, between hordes of proper nouns, rushed, overly complicated tutorials you'll only ever see once, and the general prioritisation of style over accessibility, fashioning a decent, cohesive build is a tremendous uphill battle. Coupled with relatively low difficulty across the board, there's ultimately very little incentive to take a setup any further than the first few things that catch your eye, and although a nice big bonk stick and a handful of fancy Mask Lines just about satisfied my monkey brain over the fifteen to twenty-hour runtime, new game plus isn't exactly calling my name.


On paper, Enotria's world is something of a mixed bag. It's considerably more linear than your typical soulslike, enemy variety is on the slimmer side, and it's broadly held together by somewhat abrupt 'press X to travel' prompts; however, it's a more streamlined experience done well, fully leveraging the satisfying ease of generally simple, mentally mappable level design though not sacrificing any of the sense of discovery so critical to the genre. There's still a generous helping of secret side routes and hidden rewards, but they're never particularly winding or far off the beaten path, and that mental bandwidth otherwise desperately keeping track of where you have and haven't been is, instead, completely free to soak up the stellar art direction and the excellent stories nestled within.

Beyond that, each area feels complete: take a certain side passage in an early-game town and you'll quickly find yourself traversing the rooftops, and that coastal empire from before takes you everywhere from its shores to every inch of the city above. There's an efficiency and consideration of the space, too, not just in the looping paths and classic doors that 'can't be opened from this side', but atop the tallest towers so proudly flaunting the trials and tribulations of the last few hours, and, above all, in the sense of place, history, and purpose behind each destination along the way; you won't find any random poison swamps for the sake of having a soulslike poison swamp, and the world is all the better for it.

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Enotria: The Last Song is scrappy, it's certainly not your new favourite soulslike, and never have I ever seen a game of this size so brazenly post an 'improvements roadmap' full of QA and QOL features that should never have missed the launch window. However, its innovations are as novel as they need to be, it doesn't royally screw anything up, and, in a genre renowned for its ridiculous, almost comical range of quality, sometimes just good is good enough.

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For the last couple of weeks, I've been brushing up on my Journey to the West knowledge, not least because of its obvious surge in relevance, but also its status as one of the most influential written works of all time, its presence inescapable across a whole host of modern media. From its episodic, monster-of-the-week structure to the rambunctious and hilariously overpowered Sun Wukong, it might as well be the original shonen anime and, the more I read, the more impossible its massive reach becomes to ignore.

Game Science's take on the classic novel is not the typical homage or adaptation, but rather something of a follow-up, opening with the Monkey King, wholly disinterested in the Buddhahood awarded to him at the end of the titular journey, clashing in the clouds with the forces of Heaven, themselves quite unable to trust the innocence in the chronically mischievous Wukong's return to a simple, earthly life. Overwhelmed and stricken down, you pick up some five hundred years later as the Destined One, an auspicious monkey tasked with retrieving the scattered relics of the defeated Great Sage, their unification capable of returning him once more to the land of the living.

It's something of a retelling, too, with each of the six largely stand-alone chapters transporting the Destined One to destinations from the original journey, complete with their assorted villains and supporting casts. It's an approach those intimately familiar with the source material will no doubt appreciate; however, it's a narrative heavily reliant on pre-existing knowledge of those destinations, villains and supporting casts and, in tandem with a frustrating aversion to almost all forms of exposition, subtle or otherwise, I seriously struggle to see those new to Chinese myth following anything but the broadest strokes.

Myself included, to an extent (the version of the book I'm familiar with isn't a complete translation), yet the less I understood, the more I realised how little it ultimately mattered. Each chapter concludes with an unbelievably gorgeous and expertly scored five or so-minute animation rendered in an entirely different style and format than the last, and while I won't hesitate to admit a fair amount of the little details and references soared cleanly over my head, the passion, care and unwavering reverence for the source material is utterly unmistakeable. Coupled with meticulous, striking enemy design and truly breathtaking scenery, there's a profound artistry in every corner of Black Myth's composition, so much more than just a plot to get wrapped up in, and any concerns of missing context quickly fall by the wayside.

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These days, it's hard to find a single third-person action game that doesn't in some way fall victim to the soulslike allegations, and Black Myth is no exception, the bulk of critics veritably frothing at the mouth at the slightest possibility something might be treading even a fraction of Miyazaki's illustrious path. However, with a stark emphasis on combo building, active abilities and a gargantuan skill tree, the Destined One's moveset strikes me as much more Nioh (another soulslike, I know, despite its combat being anything but) than anything else, with much of the feel of modern God of War and all the style of character action.

It's a lot more empowering than the typical Souls model, too: among the smattering of spells you'll eventually get your monkey paws on, one of the early ones is functionally little more than a simple evade and counter, but the dramatic swoosh of the initial dodge, the blinding speed of the re-engage, and the punchy slow-mo of the following punish result in a move far more thrilling than any basic description might suggest. The rest of the kit is similarly flamboyant; you're generally stuck with just the Monkey King's classic staff throughout, but you've got a few different stances switching up its heavy attack, each making full and bombastic use of the weapon's iconic shape-shifting capabilities.

Alongside an almost gratuitously twirly light attack combo culminating in a powerful overhead slam, rounding out the Destined One's combat prowess are the yaoguai transfigurations: one an equipable spirit allowing you to take the form of a fallen foe just long enough to bust out their signature move, the other a considerably more rare, complete transformation, equipped with a full moveset, a separate health bar, and lasting a fair bit longer than the spiritual counterpart.

All told, you're left with a fast, meaty, and strategic combat model defined by a vast arsenal of abilities, all capable of turning the tide of battle in an instant and tested in a tremendous variety of boss encounters. While a few too many of these epic clashes have a bad habit of prioritising spectacle over clarity, these battles are otherwise brilliantly designed, creatively rich, and the centrepiece of the Black Myth experience, an almost always entirely unique encounter around every corner.

Of course, with combat this tight and inherently well-designed, the cracks are increasingly more obvious; in this case, unfortunately, a myriad of technical shortcomings. Between strikes not tracking properly, bosses launching entire combos in entirely the wrong direction, the camera completely losing its mind, bizarre hitboxes, and a whole smorgasbord of other smaller issues, It's tough to recall a single major fight that wasn't at least slightly soured by one of my big attacks randomly whiffing at a crucial moment or a spell failing to work as intended, yet still going on a lengthy cooldown regardless.

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There's no immunity to dubious design, either, particularly progression-side: most of the skill tree is superb, offering just about every improvement you could ever want for every aspect of the Destined One's moveset; however, you'll also find the bulk of your base stat increases taking all the same space, and the ensuing tug of war is a real early-game pain, your limited skill points forced not into what you want more, but rather what you can live without. Armour sets are equally questionable, boasting incredibly specific, build-defining set bonuses, but no way to upgrade and bring them with you until at least halfway through the game for no good reason.

It's a similar story with exploration: between the visual splendour, the open, sweeping level design, and all the secrets and hidden nooks, it leaves quite the first impression, but the longer you spend in these spaces, the trickier it becomes to overlook their weaknesses, crude invisible walls everywhere you look, even more completely harmless yet agonisingly spongy enemies, all underpinned by a bizarre, stifling lack of a map. The main draw is ultimately the generally excellent range of optional side content—tonnes of extra bosses, little quests unlocking a new vendor or spell, and an utterly spellbinding secret ending, to name a few. They're sometimes a little too cryptic for their own good, but they're all very worth your time; each chapter has one chunkier side quest culminating in a whole additional sub-area and often a Vessel, an equipable active item primarily designed to counter the same chapter's final boss in immensely satisfying fashion.


While I'm certainly painting a somewhat less euphoric picture than many of the other writings in this here review section, Black Myth Wukong's electrifying combat, its larger-than-life boss encounters, and the unbridled passion from the team behind it make for a title I strongly recommend.

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The climbing genre is one dominated by struggle: the pressure as you fling yourself from one hold to another, the pervasive call of the ever-expanding abyss below, the flash of dread as a hand slips and the following frustration as the safety line snaps taut (provided, of course, you've been offered the grace of one in the first place). If it's not the physical stress of playing, then it's a narrative-driven battle of the mind; the mountain itself almost always some form of indomitable psychological proxy.

Valley Peaks, on the other hand, blissfully unbothered, is far too busy blasting anthropomorphic frogs at mach something with literal packed explosives to concern itself with precedent, flippers landing with a satisfying yet altogether harmless thud should the launch miss its mark. It's a climbing experience fancifully favouring time-warping wristwatches and jetpacks over the traditional ropes, crampons and chalk, gleefully substituting ledges, crimps, and slopers for minecarts zipping all along the cliff face and alternating 'traffic light' holds only grabbable when lit up in green, all the while keen to sweep most conventional physics neatly under the rug.

It's a wonderfully casual and lighthearted approach, so much so that you'd be forgiven for presuming that the valley's mounts aren't so much climbs as they are a colourful collection of vertical walking sims. However, while liberal use of your assorted mountaineering gadgets is more than capable of utterly dismantling and trivialising most summits, those who'd rather go it solo are in for a sizable selection of brief but genuinely formidable ascents, defined by consistently considered, varied, and distinct routing.

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Climbing is undoubtedly the centrepiece of developer Tub Club's debut title, though it's far from all you'll spend your time doing. Fittingly, the Valley floor is just as vital as the tallest Peaks, home to a jam-packed miniature open world loaded with quick quests, amusing minigames, and just about every kind of collectable you could possibly think of.

Whether it be the speed-climbing wall with all of about fifteen holds or the various lost items and odd jobs usually resolving themselves barely a hundred paces from where they began, there's really nothing here that'll take anyone longer than a minute to do, but neither are they activities you'd want to spend any longer doing. It's a carnival of low-stakes and fleeting pleasures, whisking you from one delightful little distraction to the next, and the perfect place to cool off between the valley's toughest climbs.

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Your purpose in the valley is somewhat less whimsical but no less compelling: you're here on business, tasked with establishing a radio network atop each of Valley Peaks' eleven mountains for the supposed benefit of the populace below—a job taken not only for a brief respite from city life, but also a chance to follow in the footsteps of your long-missing father, scouring for answers as you finish the mission he began years prior. Of course, its delivery is far less gritty than I'm perhaps making it out to be; however, from the collectable polaroids gradually and non-linearly piecing together both his past and the suspicious corporate moves surrounding his disappearance to the whispers of his legacy among those who knew of him, this underlying mystery is ubiquitous in the valley and honestly far more engrossing than it has any right to be.


It's the little things that define Valley Peaks: the catchy, upbeat soundtrack filling every moment, the silly humour in every interaction, the little mountainside plateaus catching many of the more vicious falls—heck, even the way you can quickly tidy people's laundry for a tiny reward just works in a way that can't be entirely expressed with words. Valley Peaks is a vibe, a wholly cohesive and brilliantly executed vision, and a title I can recommend without a second thought.

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A key was provided to Summit by Those Awesome Guys for this review.

You play as Yi, a former member of the enigmatic Solarian Council of Ten Sols. Mysteriously left for dead at the hand of another Sol, Yi is awoken 500 years later, set on a path of vengeance against those who've wronged him.

A vague introduction, an even more vague revenge plot, and unfortunately, a mystery that isn't really presented as one: the history of Yi and his people, the circumstances that drive him, and the nature of the world around you are so unknown and equally compelling as you begin to explore the derelict halls of New Kunlun; however, all this couldn't be more familiar for Yi and most everyone he interacts with, resulting in a narrative that feels almost like a sequel to something that doesn't exist. Characters are constantly spewing out all manner of unfamiliar names and terminology without a whiff of introduction, blurting out seemingly huge revelations in casual conversation, and ultimately leaving me feeling as though I'm the only one woefully out of the loop. All I could do was slowly try to piece together the relevance of everything from technology to whole eras of history based largely on assumption; only in the finale did everything begin to haphazardly come together, and even then, it was mostly off the back of an awkward and somewhat tactless lore dump found in those final hours.

New Kunlun is evidently a considered, intricate world brimming with purpose and lore, it's thematically engrossing—the sci-fi, industrial environments blending seamlessly with the traditional eastern motifs—and it's filled with engaging and relatively complex personalities complimenting and clashing with that of Yi's; however, for how much of a focus narrative is in the overall package, and coupled with generally stiff, often long-winded and overly technical dialogue, the delivery and execution of this world and its stories leaves more than a little to be desired.


Thankfully, the same couldn't be any less true for Nine Sols' extraordinary combat. The Sekiro comparison is apt: outside of his standard three-hit combo and nifty dodge offering a good amount of temporary invulnerability, Yi's combat prowess centres primarily around his parry and subsequent Qi Blast—a riposte built not around the typical stamina or posture systems, with punishes presented on a silver platter and playing out largely on its own following a few precise deflections, but rather dependant on an opening you find yourself, providing massive damage after attaching and holding a talisman for a moment until it detonates, all while your foe is free to respond and interrupt you as they please.

It's a far more engaging, refreshing and challenging approach to this style of combat that really feels like a proper back-and-forth. It's all very approachable, too, sporting highly telegraphed and easy-to-read attacks, generous parry windows, and even an imperfect parry that has Yi suffer only 'internal' damage, a sort of grey health lost after taking the full force of another attack, or recovered by subsequent perfect parries alongside potentially other sources with the right build.

On that note, Nine Sols ports over Hollow Knight's classic charm system essentially verbatim, with which you can slot Jades, offering all sorts of passive benefits into a limited number of slots, with more powerful ones generally taking up more space. Honestly, the options aren't all that inspiring, usually providing benefits too minor to really notice, and it's a similar story with the skill tree, tending to offer 'more charges of this' and 'more damage on that' over something a little more exciting and bespoke. Nevertheless, I'd say it's generally for the better, as in the context of a combat model that so dutifully spotlights the fundamentals, these additions give just enough room to make a build and playstyle that feels your own, yet they're not so outlandish that they overshadow that core of battle.

And the parry really is the core of battle, not some tacked-on gimmick the likes of which you see in so many similar titles. It's so abundantly clear that the parry came first, followed by everything else, and you can see that intent most noticeably in the enemy design: there's admittedly not a whole lot of variety, and they don't come equipped with many moves either; however, coupled with some intelligent distribution, there's a beauty in that repetition. The constant exposure to the judiciously slim roster gives ample opportunity to fully dissect the attack patterns and parry windows of each adversary, and the subsequent sense of rhythm, flow, and mastery that comes as you cleave through New Kunlun emboldened by that knowledge and experience is unmistakable.

It's just really smart and satisfying game design, and no better is it demonstrated in the utterly brilliant boss battles. Whether it's testing your proficiency with a recent Metroidvania-style unlock or showcasing an entirely different and completely fresh style of encounter, each major story boss is wholly unique, creatively rich and executed flawlessly. Their difficulty feels perfectly calibrated, too, each sequentially upping the ante and culminating in a final boss so demanding, yet so spellbinding, that it genuinely stands out as one of the single finest boss encounters I have ever played. It's pure poetry in motion and a battle so exceptional in every facet of its design that even had the rest of the game been a complete disaster, I'd still likely be recommending it overall.


Exploration and level design largely keep up the quality: each area is stunning and visually distinct, their layouts are equally varied and broad, offering a great deal of verticality and hidden nooks, and what you find in those secret side paths is almost always worth the trouble, from significant boosts to Yi's combat capabilities to various giftable artefacts, fleshing out some of the relationships between him and his allies. It's not perfect: almost every location is pervaded with some form of bothersome gimmick, from finicky moving platforms covered in hazards to enemies that can't be killed to connecting, warping passages that fail to make any logical sense, and, although they're mostly manageable, they don't add much, if anything, ultimately somewhat souring the otherwise stellar exploration.

Nonetheless, Yi is a pleasure to control, his developing moveset containing many of the usual Metroidvania suspects, and chaining together his various acrobatics is a wonderfully responsive, punchy and smooth experience. There are a good few dedicated platforming sequences leveraging each new unlock, too, and although they're not the most rousing ones out there (save one superb mid-game gauntlet), they're still an excellent change of pace and make moving from A to B that little bit more lively.


Despite stumbling slightly in its exploration and a little more so in its narrative, Nine Sols' electrifying combat model is hands down one of the best the Metroidvania genre has to offer, and it truly defines the overall package. It's the kind that invites you not to think but to surrender to your instincts; each parry and riposte flow effortlessly from the fingers, and the feeling as you flawlessly pressure bigger and badder bosses is utterly magnetic. From its gorgeous hand-drawn backdrops and animations to its elaborate and diverse level and world design, Nine Sols is a clear labour of love, an instant classic, and a title I strongly recommend.

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At first glance, I think it’s easy to see Cryptmaster as a sort of hodgepodge of confused, incoherent ideas and gameplay systems unceremoniously smashed together: dungeon crawling full of riddles? Semi-turn-based typing bouts? Bardic rap battles? It all sounds like the kind of nonsense that loses sight of its identity almost instantly. But not so in Cryptmaster: underpinning every aspect of this experience, tying together all this absurdity, is the oh-so-simple ability to type and say what you want, when you want.

Suddenly, anything and everything is an inspired, varied and delightful word game, suddenly, there’s a cohesion in the chaos, and suddenly, coupled with fantastic writing and voice work that deftly matches the silliness of every twist and turn, the unpredictability is instead just utterly and wildly entertaining every single step of the way.


Many hundreds of years ago, four intrepid heroes gave their lives ending a calamitous threat to the continued existence of man. Now, an infamous necromancer known only as the Cryptmaster, emboldened by the growing power of his mystical soulstone, reanimates these once great men and women, for who better to escort his incorporeal presence upwards to the unsuspecting realm of 'delicious life'?

Honestly, that's about all the plot you'll ever get, even as the adventure comes to a close. There’s a smattering of lore and other backstory here and there, but Cryptmaster's overall narrative structure is much more akin to a selection of short stories, usually involving some eccentric, often whimsical request in exchange for further passage to the surface. Your first stop, for instance, sees you courting a giant frog king after discovering your ticket topside entertains nothing less than royalty; it's all rather light-hearted and silly.

However, it's leveraged exceptionally, and I couldn't imagine a more appropriate method of storytelling; in lieu of involved character arcs and dramatic plot twists (save a couple), there's a veritable revolving door of some of the most overwhelmingly charming, brilliantly written, and exceptionally voiced characters in genuinely all of the medium. Everything from the casting to the performances to the vocabulary used all fit each face flawlessly, and although some see barely a few minutes of screen time, the impressions they leave far outlast them, resulting in a wonderfully memorable, diverse, and altogether mesmerising cast created and cycled with astounding efficiency.

There's plenty hiding under the surface, too. At any time, whether in conversation or just wandering around the striking, dilapidated lower floors of the city, you're able to type in and say any one word at a time and, surprisingly frequently, you'll not only receive a response, but one specifically suited to the phrase inputted. The script is ridiculously adaptive and accommodating, equipped for all manner of player antics: you might well expect some form of acknowledgement after proudly proclaiming some expletive and, yes, the Cryptmaster will emerge facetiously appalled by your vulgarity, but type in something obscure like the name of a dance and he'll tell you he 'doesn't take requests', type the name of a bird and he'll inquire about your interest in ornithology, type what feels like almost anything else and he'll more than likely have multiple, bespoke responses for each subject.

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Granted, Cryptmaster isn't the latest iteration of ChatGPT, and there'll still be a fair few instances in which a particularly creative retort goes over a character's head; however, this isn't a game that only understands yes or no, nor is it one that nonchalantly fills out words for you regardless of the keys pressed, and I can't even begin to overstate how that contributes to the feeling of player agency, that what I choose to type matters, and how much more alive the world and characters ultimately feel as a result.


Simple conversation is just the tip of the wordplay iceberg in the crypts and beyond; from crafting to combat to player progression, every aspect of the experience has a unique and similarly excellent word game governing it. The most common of which, you'll find offered by talkative skulls and inside curious chests lining the walls of your journey—either a classic riddle, needing no introduction, or this sort of 'guess the object' style game in which the Cryptmaster takes a peek at an object, gives you five questions of your choice (look, use, smell, etc) before finally offering a single chance to name whatever it is he's describing. These are generally very well put together, with a superb range of styles and approaches; it was not at all uncommon for me to figure one out long before the question had finished being posed, just to turn a corner and find another that had me stumped for the better part of fifteen minutes.

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The reward for solving one of these puzzles is the answer itself, the individual letters of the solution drifting to the bottom of the screen, filling in blank spaces just above the portraits of the four heroes, almost Wordle-esque. Upon acquiring enough letters to complete a full word, or skilfully guessing it prematurely, the respective hero will receive a memory, small written snippets and insights into their past lives or, better yet, a new skill to be used in combat, both of the same name as the word that unlocked them. The overall catalogue is gargantuan and even more varied, with far more in total than you’d ever manage to unlock organically, even over the course of the fifteen or so-hour playthrough.

Unfortunately, it’s a range that doesn’t see a whole lot of practical use in combat. The idea of battle is great: frantically typing out the names of your newly acquired skills whittles down enemy health, heals the party, or activates one of all manner of other effects, and various craftable consumables can see occasional use as you wait for cooldowns to refresh. However, vanquishing foes generally lacks challenge, lacks any need for strategy, lacks any real consequence for failure, and coupled with how overwhelming the ever-expanding grimoire of spells and skills for each hero can be, it's a little too easy to slip into autopilot, falling back on the same tried and true combos of words to dispatch most opponents. Although some adversaries come equipped with shields blocking the use of a handful of specific letters, and others can grow stronger upon a certain trigger letter typed, both reasonably encouraging one to delve a little deeper into the party's bag of tricks, enemies provide only a single letter towards skills and memories on defeat, and in tandem with how easy it is to simply slip past most encounters undetected, I often found myself doing just that.


Yet, combat is just a single, largely insignificant stumble in a pantheon of otherwise truly superb word games and puzzles. Cryptmaster’s bold creative vision is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced, one I won’t soon forget, and one I can confidently and strongly recommend.

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Another Crab's Treasure is that perfect seven out of ten experience; it's tough to find anything more than minor grievances, yet you'd be equally hard-pressed to find anything extraordinary worthy of rapturous acclaim. Combat is fast, fun and flashy but underpinned by a noticeable lack of enemy variety, systems that awkwardly overlap and supersede one another, and a catalogue of bosses that, once you've seen one, you've somewhat seen them all. The narrative is brilliantly satirical and similarly charming, with a surprisingly dark and mature but equally excellent final act; however, a world that doesn't take itself all that seriously engenders a similarly apathetic response, and the seascapes' general lack of immersion doesn't entirely gel with the story-sparse, exploration-heavy nature of the soulslike subgenre.

Everything works to varying efficacy throughout Kril's ten to fifteen-hour journey; yet, there's almost always a little something missing, a little something off, or a little something that doesn't quite fit, and those little somethings culminate in a cracking soulslike, no doubt, but one unlikely to end up as an essential pillar of the genre.


You play as Kril, a sheltered hermit crab forced into a grand treasure hunt following the sudden seizure of his beloved shell as part of a vicious tax scheme. A simpler story setup there never was and, likewise, Kril's tale takes a little while to really get going: much of the first half is filled with little more than isolated, satirical jabs at seemingly everything developer Aggro Crab can get away with, from the more overt pollution of the sea floor to capitalism to just about anything else even slightly relevant. Although the messaging can unsurprisingly be a little heavy-handed (you can't take a screenshot anywhere on the seabed without it including some piece of trash in the background somewhere), it's witty, well-written, and, more than anything, sure to put a smile on your face, even if there's not a whole lot of weight to it.

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The story really comes into its own during the pivot to a darker, more character-centric narrative in the final third. Kril's life had always been empty, lounging aimlessly in his tide pool and, for better or worse, he's thrust into a sardonically cruel world determined to rip out the glint in his eye and callously discard it into the abyss. Watching him grapple with this surge of new emotion, betrayal, and the altogether crippling realisation that the entire ocean and most everything in it is just unfathomably and laughably awful in every conceivable metric is unexpectedly sincere and handled with a good amount of care, yet still carrying forward the comedic undertones with a fair amount of tact.


Kril's moveset, naturally, possesses many of the standard soulslike trappings: smooth yet methodical light attacks, charged heavy attacks suited to punishing openings, a dodge roll offering a moment of invulnerability—it's all there and all very robust; responsive with a satisfying heft. Kril's capabilities are further rounded out by a superbly succinct skill tree loaded with game changers, from more staple offerings like the parry or the classic plunge attack to more bespoke skills such as one particularly inspired ability allowing you to skewer discarded trash onto the end of Kril's trusty fork, warping it from a nimble slashing weapon into a chunky, heavy-hitting hammer.

That discarded trash has another, more primary use: being the newly homeless hermit crab that he is, Kril, in dire need of protection, utilises the bottle caps, shot glasses and all manner of other appropriate junk as a temporary shell to keep himself safe from harm. These shells are both your armour and shield, partially protecting Kril from damage when simply worn and mitigating it entirely when hidden inside, at the cost of a hit to the shell's durability. Shattering after just a few solid blows, they don't last long, but through the potent Shell Spells tied to each one, offering a whole host of both passive and active effects, you've more than enough reason to experiment with the staggering range of options scattered all across the sea floor.

That is, until Kril begins learning his first few adaptations, powerful offensive abilities gleaned from select boss encounters. Not only are they generally more reliable, further upgradable, and ultimately just objectively better than any of the Shell Spells, but they also draw from the same resource bar; before I knew it, using a spell over an adaptation felt like shooting myself in the foot, relegating one of the most variable systems to something I almost never had a reason to use.

It's not the only case of awkwardly overlapping systems, either: Stowaways, slottable, passive boons of varying strength, offer a great deal of build variety, customisation, and bonus stats; however, alongside a suite of collectables out in the world, the sheer number of stats they provide culminate in the traditional soulslike levelling system, offering the same benefits on a far smaller scale, becoming so redundant and inconsequential, I simply stopped bothering with it. Furthermore, the resource I stopped using for that levelling doubles as currency, freely allowing me to empty every shop in a matter of hours before becoming almost entirely worthless for the rest of the playthrough.

Finally, boss fights have an unfortunate tendency to feel more than a little samey: they always employ some form of broad, sweeping attack, some variant of an overhead, shell-piercing slam, and an unblockable grab attack you'll have already seen with similar timings and approaches. None of these encounters are unpleasant by any means, but besides a couple of standouts, each new fight really doesn't feel all that mechanically different from the last, with their generally fantastic visual presentation serving as the only distinguishing feature. It's a disappointingly similar story for the regular enemies littering the environments: no matter which crab-based opponent is squaring off against me, I'd almost always dispatch each one in an identical manner, resulting in an otherwise satisfying combat model that, despite the huge range of shells and other build options, gets old considerably faster than I would have hoped.


Level design is excellent, showcasing not only more linear locations more traditional to the genre, full of secret side paths brimming with meaningful rewards, but also a fair few open, expansive seabeds focusing primarily on well-executed curiosity-driven exploration and organic encounters. That said, however, the general tongue-in-cheek tone of Kril's journey and the ocean at large didn't cultivate much of an interest in my surroundings. The devil's really in the details with this kind of methodical, attentive exploration and gameplay, and when those intricacies are so often played off for a laugh, no matter how good that laugh is, it doesn't make for a world that particularly pulls me in. As the story picks up, so do these issues lessen; however, coupled with the overall lack of enemy variety, I'd spend a little too much of my time simply going through the motions.

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For all its flaws, Aggro Crab's second title has fantastic bones, a vision unlike any of its contemporaries, and whether you're after a more story-focused soulslike, one on the easier side with lower stakes and a suite of accessibility options, or just looking to dip your toes into the genre for the first time, you could do a lot worse than Another Crab's Treasure.

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To be completely honest, I already knew I was going to at least like Krimson—the Next Fest demo back in June last year was like a jolt of electricity cutting through my post-Celeste blues going on some three and a half years at that point—but what I didn't know was how utterly infatuated I would become with literally every facet of its design: how impressed and engaged I would be by its meticulous level layouts, how captivated and engrossed I would be by its overpowering, psychedelic visuals, and how absolutely blown away I would be by its unbelievably killer, industry-defining original soundtrack. The overall experience is on the leaner side, with no story, collectables, or any inherent replayability to speak of, and thus not quite as well-rounded as other genre-standouts; however, Krimson's breakneck pace, clear disdain of repetition, and dogged dedication to purging any and all fluff results in one of the most cohesive, focused and creatively dense precision platformers of all time, the likes of which I doubt will be seen again for a very long time.


From a visceral, mangled hellscape of flesh and bone to a gritty, industrial backdrop, the walls lined with cold metal and writhing machinery, the distinct visual styles of Krimson's four circles of Hell are not just immediately striking and compelling; they're also a perfectly tuned barrage of the senses. The glitchy, CRT-esque filters, the copious bloom, and the sickeningly vivid colour pallets are undoubtedly loud; however, it's palatably so, wielding just enough stimulation to demand your undivided attention, yet not so deafening that you'll be left with nothing but a splitting headache after a few minutes, a fate that befalls many similar styles.

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Though, for how powerful and arresting Krimson's visual motifs are, they don't hold a candle to how unfathomably hard the soundtrack goes at literally all times. There's genuinely not a single miss in the score, and it spans a fantastic range, too, each style appropriate for the circle in which it plays: the kaleidoscopic, hallucinogenic Psychotic Circle's soundscape is engulfed with disorienting, frantic dubstep, while a thumping base, blaring sirens, and shrill, metallic melodies haunt that mechanical setting of the Metal Circle.

The genius of the soundtrack, however, lies in its constant evolution and adaptation in accordance to the level design, escalating the composition in tandem with the increasing complexity: most tracks open comparatively muted and restrained, mirroring the introductory nature of the gameplay, before both suddenly and vigorously intensify as once static spikes and sawblades begin to violently rip back and forth to the beat, as though the very threats themselves are serenading the struggle.


The platforming itself is equally stellar, largely owing to how inherently simple it is: you're a fleshy blob capable of little more than directional movement and a basic double jump without even a whiff of a dash, a slide, or any other convoluted movement tech or inputs; a similarly quiet wall jump is about as zesty as you'll ever get. However, as is often the case with thoughtful, well-implemented simplicity, what little there is is a joy to control, superbly smooth and responsive, and, most importantly, incredibly consistent; your movement options are not your enemy, and rarely something you'll find yourself blaming even hundreds of deaths in.

And make no mistake—you will rack up hundreds of deaths: Krimson is a brutally difficult game, sporting a steep curve and very little room for error; yet, it's remarkable how limited my frustration was despite how frequently I would fail. The store page doesn't lie, blink and you're ready to go again after each missed jump, and checkpoints are literally everywhere; however, that design philosophy never feels like any concession of challenge: a string of tricky jumps is no less satisfying to overcome and certainly no less demanding just because an untimely demise doesn't unceremoniously boot you back to the beginning of a level.

Krimson really doesn't want to keep you bogged down anywhere for too long, and for excellent reason, too. The four circles of Hell are split into three distinct 'rings' that, in turn, house half a dozen or so individual levels. Each ring and its levels tend to introduce and showcase a unique gameplay mechanic, often highly relevant and thematically appropriate to the circle in which it's found, from replacing most surfaces with conveyor belts to having gravity flip with each tap of the jump button. Reminiscent of your movement capabilities, these additions are fairly simple yet explored extremely thoroughly; those belts will quickly begin switching direction to the music, and those gravity changes won't take long before they graduate from just vertical fluctuations to horizontal, as well.

The kicker is that these additions are almost entirely localised within the rings they're introduced in and subsequently cycled at a blistering cadence; I'd frequently be so impressed by a brilliant application of one of the mechanics just for it to disappear in the next breath and never be used again. It's an approach that can certainly feel like a little bit of a missed opportunity at times; however, it keeps the platforming immensely fresh and is a testament to just how loaded the Hells are with fantastic ideas, really putting the relatively short three to four-hour runtime into perspective.

Finally, after conquering most of a ring, you'll often find a boss lying in wait, ready to spring some of the most glorious, truly breathtaking audiovisual spectacles I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Some take the form of frenetic bullet hell dodge-em-ups and dramatic chase sequences, while others are more traditional, intense boss battles, your blob firing off dazzling lasers in time to the beat. No matter the style, these encounters are Krimson at its very best: the boss designs are inspired, the soundtrack is firing on all cylinders, and the overwhelming intensity is at an all-time high.


Krimson is the kind of technical, mechanical, and sensory masterwork that completely transcends its genre, entirely apathetic to whether you're a diehard fan of precision platformers or just someone with the most fleeting of interests; it's the kind of genius that genuinely everyone could appreciate, an experience that simply must be seen to be believed, and a title that I couldn't recommend more if I tried.

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You play as the Driver, a silent, faceless courier unfortunate enough to find themself sucked beyond the imposing walls of the Olympic Exclusion Zone, an abandoned and secretive research site sealed off from the world, ravaged by rampant experimentation, and infested with the supernatural, anomalous entities left in their wake. Emerging moments before a wave of instability—calamitous storms perpetually obliterating and reconstructing any land they touch—you'll find a rickety station wagon to be your only comfort; a faithful travelling companion and shield against the horrors of the Zone, yes, but also a Remnant, inexplicable objects that bind to an individual, gradually cultivating a twisted, inescapable fixation in the victim's mind. Your sudden presence does not go unnoticed: scientists shackled by the Zone, incapable of leaving it behind, crackle through your radio, guiding you towards a deserted garage serving as both a sheltered pocket of stability and a base of operations. From there, you'll explore your new surroundings, gather what you need to survive, push ever deeper and pray that somewhere along the way, you'll find a release from the Remnant and, with it, your freedom.

In all honesty, the Driver's arrival and the following events are Pacific Drive at its least interesting. More than anything else, the main narrative feels like a well-timed catalyst designed to ease out the secrets of the Zone, particularly those harboured by the voices on the other end of the radio. The main trio are all brilliantly written, their striking and exaggerated personalities immediately taking hold, and although their somewhat stereotypical eccentricities can, at times, be a little grating as they bicker over their plans for the Driver, the writers at Ironwood Studios know exactly when to pull each quirk back, offering, in tandem with some superb voice work, gut-wrenching, deeply human character moments that coalesce into a poignant tale of loss, sacrifice, obsession, and learning what it takes to move on.

I can't say I'm a fan of its delivery, unfortunately. Hard-to-follow, jargon-filled conversations habitually cut in when I was least ready for them, and a fair few of the emotional crescendos were largely lost on me due to some sudden predicament taking precedence in the moment. The myriad log entries for all things scannable in the Zone suffer a similar fate: they're sharply written and tend to be worth reading, often providing precious insight into the sinister, shrouded history of the Driver's alien prison; however, browsing the logbook won't pause the action, and, coupled with the entries' propensity for wordiness, I could rarely spare the time to read them out in the Zone, and they'd frequently have slipped my mind upon my return to safety.

Nonetheless, worldbuilding remains a highlight, not least in the case of the anomalies, the otherworldly, often dangerous beings haunting the Zone alongside you. From giant whirling saw blades patrolling the landscape to glowing blue strips fiddling with the gravity of all they touch, each anomaly is exceptionally creative, imbued with an alluring air of mystery, and figuring out exactly what effect they'll have on you and your vehicle is such a thrilling and enticing endeavour. Apprehensive experimentation with each new sighting will almost certainly blow up in your face in one way or another; yet, for all that the Zone inevitably takes, it can give back when you least expect, and testing the waters, all the same, is a real joy.


Regrettably, the story and worldbuilding of the Zone come second to having to actually explore and engage with it, with the time spent servicing the car between runs serving as the first taste of the creeping monotony. For a good few hours, I relished every second in the garage; replacing panels, patching up cracks and leaks, refuelling the engine, and slathering the poor station wagon with all manner of hideous decals and gaudy spray paints was initially a wonderfully hands-on and tactile experience. However, your hundredth dollop of repair putty just doesn't have nearly the same appeal as the first one, and the ridiculously exhaustive pre-flight checklist far too quickly becomes just that: exhausting. The mandatory maintenance never evolves, takes an ungodly amount of time, and ends up so utterly soul-destroying just a dozen or so runs in I ironically began to resent and neglect the very thing my character was supposedly falling into a maniacal obsession over, willfully cutting as many corners as I could find.

The tedium doesn't even end there. As you chart further into the Zone, each new location demands you drive this awkward daisy chain of previously explored, adjacent areas to reach them, with a trip to the furthest boundaries looking at four or five separate, reasonably large regions before you even arrive at your original reason for setting out. Sure, car controls are great, and the roads are remarkably immersive and atmospheric; however, this sheer amount of mindless driving is little more than a laborious, pointless waste of time. You're ultimately just bunnyhopping between isolated levels separated by loading screens, any sense of scale or distance be damned; of course, technical limitations exist, but if the bulk of the route is lost in the fades to black, why bother forcing these lengthy and arduous road trips at all?

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Your final destination rarely feels worth the colossal effort, either, owing to one of the most uninspiring loot systems I've ever dealt with. When not somewhere at the behest of one of your allies, you'll find yourself mostly in the pursuit of resources, be it for improvements to the car or simply to keep it functioning on the road. Yet, although the deeper parts of the Zone house the scarcer loot necessary for the sturdiest doors and fastest engines, those recipes will still require just as much, if not more, of the scrap metal, plastic and rubber you'll find in bins or discarded backpacks literally everywhere; it's all ultimately of equal value, and subsequently, nothing feels like it has any. Coupled with how excruciatingly long it takes to get anywhere, what should be exciting and engaging looting rapidly warps into senseless busywork, aimlessly and incessantly hoarding anything not nailed down out of fear of forgetting or imminently needing something I won't be able to just pop out and grab.

Yet, even with compelling loot, it wouldn't change how utterly meaningless the upgrades you'll put those resources towards are; genuinely, you could handily beat the entire game just maintaining the veritable heap of garbage you start with. Nonetheless, you'll still want a flashy new set of tyres and a frame that won't fall apart after thirty seconds, even if only to stave off boredom; however, these aren't upgrades that make you feel better or stronger more so than they just make you suck less, and I can't even begin to stress how important that distinction is when it comes to how disappointing these improvements ultimately feel.

At long last, upon gathering as much as you can or completing the mind-numbingly dreary, glorified fetch quests that constitute the main story objectives, you'll trigger an extraction point before finally making a mad dash to safety as the instability closes in. These final moments of a run are exhilarating, and anomalies spice things up where they can; however, this persistent and relatively unchanging gameplay loop dries up incredibly fast. It's arduous, dull, and, no matter how engaging the world or characters may be, culminates in an overall experience I struggle to recommend.

Summit Reviews.

Although its difficulty systems and build variety leave a little to be desired, Balatro's instant accessibility, satisfying strategy, and thrilling balance of risk and reward make for an instant deckbuilding classic.


A typical run goes as follows: after selecting one of 15 starter decks, usually comprised of the standard 52 playing cards and a powerful, unique modifier, you'll take on your first poker blind, 'combat' rounds demanding an ever-increasing quantity of chips for your seat at the table and your run's livelihood. Naturally, you'll earn those chips by formulating straights, flushes or any other traditional hands with the eight cards dealt at the start of each round and refreshed after each play; a paltry high-card will score a handful of chips, but drill a royal flush out of nowhere and you'll be rolling in them.

You've got several hands to tackle each blind with alongside a few handy discard-and-redraws, giving back both some control as well as facilitating the brilliant and constant gamble underpinning every hand; find yourself with three kings, and you can either hedge your bets, sending what you have for fewer chips and keeping your options open or go for broke, committing your discards in the hope you'll finish that lucrative four of a kind, potentially clearing the blind in a single shot and earning some extra cash for your trouble.

Cash you can spend in the ever-cycling shops between blinds on an array of beneficial items; assorted booster packs increase the value of a specific hand, add new cards to the deck, or improve the ones you already have with all sorts of positive modifiers. After stocking up on what you need and overcoming the boss appearing every three blinds (complete with any one of a variety of vicious debuffs), you'll 'up the ante', raising the demands of subsequent blinds. Gamble up to and conquer the boss blind of ante 8 to achieve a well-earned victory before carrying on into a sudden death-style endless mode if you so choose.


Assemble hands, satisfy the blinds, purchase what you need to keep doing so; as simple as poker itself, really, but don't mistake that low buy-in for an absence of depth: your funds will provide interest should you hold off on spending for a few rounds, and although you'll lose access to a potentially impactful shop and any money you could have earned from the encounter, any non-boss blind can be skipped for a hefty reward. Every decision carries some amount of risk, yet not always a reward of equal measure, and it's up to you to spot the difference, capitalising on the smallest edges, the slimmest margins and honing your judgement with each inevitable defeat. It's easy to get caught up in the immediate ease of access, but an hour will turn into six in the blink of an eye, and you'll suddenly find yourself knee-deep in a deceptively broad and mostly satisfying difficulty curve that always seems to have another ace up its sleeve.

However, Balatro is so much more than just helplessly trying to make the best of a bad situation, and with the perfect combination of joker cards, you can stack the deck ridiculously in your favour. Whether it be through simple flat chip increases and additive multipliers, multipliers that multiply your multipliers, and economic benefits that ultimately facilitate buying even more multipliers, blowing the relatively lacklustre base rewards of most played hands into the stratosphere is their speciality, and you'll quickly find they're your most important purchases to look out for in the shop.

You've only got five slots for these guys by default, though, and that's where most of the strategy behind your build lies: many jokers interact and synergise with each other for ludicrously potent outcomes; however, you're severely limited in how many you can wield at once, and, between what you have and what you can buy, figuring out what's most beneficial for the next few blinds is all too often a tricky practicality argument with no clear solution. Yet, although you're largely at the mercy of whatever the shop decides to offer you, learning what works best together as you tag in and out progressively more optimal jokers for your strongest hands is a deeply rewarding and exciting process as your build slowly comes together.

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One joker, for example, turns every scoring face card gold, an enhanced type of card that grants some money if it's still in your hand at the end of a blind; another intensifies that effect by forcing every card to be considered a face. Finally, throw in the Vampire, a joker that gains a stacking multiplier per enhanced card played at the cost of removing the enhancement, and you've got one of the most hilariously overpowered trios you can find, stacking your multiplier with literally every card played. However, these strategies come with their own set of risks, too: only one of that trio is actually empowering your hands, and if you're struggling to find that all-important Vampire, you're stuck with two economic jokers doing little more than making the upcoming blinds that much more difficult. Alternatively, if you happen to sell those two and swap them out for a safer setup a few shops before you hit Vampire—well, that's just heartbreaking.


I called the difficulty curve satisfying earlier, and although it is for a good while, the peak of the curve is frankly an RNG-riddled nightmare. With every winning run, the successful deck will unlock a bigger and badder optional 'Stake': a stacking difficulty modifier up to a maximum of 8 (think Slay the Spire's Ascension system), yet, although you can reasonably expect a certain degree of unsalvagably bad luck from anything that invokes poker of all things, these higher difficulties scale up ludicrously fast, demand watertight builds you'll rarely hit and kill even the strongest of runs with a single bad draw, damaging the experience's overall longevity for those craving a little more challenge after learning the basics.

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There's a lack of mid-run adaptation, too, particularly in the hands you can realistically play around: not only do you have to invest in improving the base rewards of any given hand, you also have to tailor a deck around it; if you think you can reliably hit a four of a kind with a standard 52-card deck, you've got another thing coming. The result is the need to almost always skew your build around flushes, pairs, and the few other easy-to-land hands in the early game and spend the rest of the run taking upgrades and jokers that suit those hands; by the time you're able to modify your deck enough to start drawing full houses regularly, either the run's almost over or your other hands are so upgraded that it's not worth pivoting at all. Furthermore, this limits your choice of jokers, as many only trigger when you play a specific card or hand.

I wouldn't mind so much if I had more agency going into each run, but what you build around isn't really for you to decide: you have to play what you're given, and if you're looking for any semblance of consistent success, nine times out of ten you'll be playing solely around the lower scoring but more reliable lower half of the list of hands, even more so on the higher difficulties.

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So my recommendation is definitely a little more reserved for those looking for their next Slay the Spire to dump thousands of hours into; however, for the rest of us, Balatro is an unbelievably polished, addictive and satisfying roguelike deckbuilder I can't recommend enough, standing tall even among its nigh-insurmountable and esteemed contemporaries.