Reviews by Mike Russo

The randomizer continues tracing its whimsical path through my to-play list, putting the two remaining Kenneth Pedersen games back to back. They make for quite a contrast, though, because while Museum Heist has some things in common with The Way Home – the ADRIFT format, terse but effective prose, bug-free implementation – this is no old-school treasure hunt; while you are an art thief looking to lift as much loot as possible from the eponymous institution, the game operates in the thoroughly modern optimization-game framework. Just as in Ryan Veeder’s Captain Verdeterre’s Plunder, which is largely credited with kicking off the sub-genre, you need to search a small map stuffed with riches, solving individual puzzles to obtain each, while using trial-and-error over repeated runs to figure out the metapuzzle of how to get the richest possible haul before time runs out.

The theming is obviously a great fit with the gameplay – the time before the police arrive provides an obvious ticking clock, it makes total sense that a museum would be stuffed with more art and antiquities than one thief could reasonably make off with, and that some would be easy to simply smash and grab while others would be protected with more robust security measures or present logistical challenges to obtain. And while this isn’t the kind of game where you can linger over descriptions, the various galleries and objets d’art are effectively chosen to communicate the idea that you’re grabbing exciting, valuable stuff (look, I’m going to like any game where I get to lift Etruscan artifacts and something made of porphyry).

The game’s relatively compact scope also makes it more approachable than a sprawling example of the subgenre like Sugarlawn. The greater part of the museum is just a three by three grid, and unlike the slowly-flooding ship of CVP, you just have to worry about one timer. You’re also only required to solve maybe two and a half puzzles in order to liberate individual artworks; one of these, which requires some lateral thinking on how to get a massive Rosetta-Stone style inscription, takes some enjoyable outside the box thinking.

The flip side of this, though, is that I quickly found myself grappling with the optimization puzzle rather than trying to figure out its component parts, and the metapuzzle here is largely focused on inventory juggling. If you had infinite carrying capacity, the 40 turns you’re given would provide a comfortable margin for hoovering up everything on offer; the issue is that you can only carry so many items in your hands before you start automatically dropping things. You do have a backpack – and a tube for carrying rolled-up paintings – which makes life easier, but the order things go in matters, with higher-up objects needing to come out to get to the stuff you first stored away, and there are a few puzzles that require swapping things into and out of your carryall.

In the abstract it’s a reasonable enough set of constraints to layer onto the more traditional optimization-game challenges, but I suspect like most people, I don’t really enjoy faffing about with carrying limits, so I found I didn’t have much appetite to really push for the high score, all the more so because I was a bit demoralized when I thought I’d found an optimal solution, only to discover waiting out the time limit rather than manually triggering your escape means you drop everything you’re carrying, so I’d actually need to eke out two more turns somewhere. For all that, Museum Heist is still a solid introduction to this fun, contemporary IF subgenre, providing a manageable sample of why it can be so enjoyable; beyond that, seeing it paired with a more throwback game definitely demonstrates the author’s versatility.

I didn’t find the context for The Way Home quite as dubious as that for Quest for the Serpent’s Eye, but I have to admit I also went into this one with my shoulders preemptively squared up: what we’ve got here is an ADRIFT adapting just the second half of a game the author had previously written for the C64. Perhaps I’m an inveterate stereotyper, but regardless I was expecting unwinnable states, low-context puzzles, minimal implementation, and objects requiring pixel-perfect searching to find.

There’s definitely some of that stuff here. The backstory is conveyed with minimal texture – you’re a Conan-style barbarian who’s just recovered a massive gemstone on behalf of some queen, for some reasons, that aren’t especially fleshed out. Leaving the forest where you found it, and facing the return trek across a trackless desert, you decide to stop off in a glacial valley to up your stocks of water (…can I venture a guess that the author isn’t a geologist?) And the first puzzle very much suffers from some fiddliness of implementation: you get captured by ice trolls in the prologue (I am not at all clear why they left me alive, but one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth I suppose) and need to do the classic cut-the-ropes-with-a-sharp-stone bit, but I found it very hard to tell whether the stone was too far away from me to get, or just hadn’t come up with the right phrasing, and even once I figured out the necessary intermediate step, there were still some misleading responses that delayed the solution yet further (Spoiler - click to show)(in particular, the game strongly prompts you to WEAR BLANKET, but if you try to THROW BLANKET AT STONE while you’re wearing it, you get an unhelpful generic error message, rather than being told that you need to manually remove it from your shoulders first).

Thankfully, things started to look up from there. The map of the valley is small and tersely-described, but it’s got an interesting mix of places to visit, and the subsequent puzzles are generally well-clued and offer some nice shortcuts – there’s one location that holds a bunch of different building materials, and I was a little worried about all the hoops I’d need to jump through to assemble the object I knew I needed, but fortunately MAKE worked a treat. There’s even a cool bit of global interactivity that winds up changing the descriptions and behavior of most of the map, which is implemented way more robustly than it needed to be since it only really impacts one puzzle. There is a slightly-unfair puzzle that forced me to restart – at one point you get an object that unlocks two new areas, and if you go first to the area that’s closest and which you have an in-game reason to be interested in, rather than going to the other side of the map to explore just for the sake of it, you’ll lock yourself into a dead-person-walking scenario – but this isn’t the kind of game where replays take very long once you know what you’re doing, and honestly I was expecting to hit something like that sooner.

And then after solving that area, you’re whisked away to a separate vignette in an entirely new area! This once again suffered from a lack of connective tissue – the problem you need to solve there does directly grow out of what you do in the first part, but it still feels like it comes out of nowhere. But this area has a lot of other characters, who have a reasonably broad set of conversation topics, and the puzzles shift from the predominantly medium-dry-goods affairs of the ice valley to ones having to do with helping, interrogating, investigating, or otherwise interacting with people, which I found more engaging. In fact I’d say I really enjoyed this second half; there’s still not much in the way of scenery or anything to do except solve the next puzzle in the chain, but the difficulty is pitched just right and it’s a perfectly serviceable bit of fantasy adventuring.

Sadly, the low-context thing returns in force: once you get to the end of the puzzle chain you’re basically handed an “I win” button to resolve the overall problem (Spoiler - click to show)(in the game’s defense, “here’s an apple, eat it and you’ll automatically beat the dragon” is not a plot twist I’ve seen before), and characteristically the game’s ending text is beyond anticlimactic, consisting of a single sentence saying you brought back the gem and the queen rewarded you. All of which is to say that The Way Home never transcends its origins, but it winds up a reasonably welcoming example of its form just the same.

Friends, I am acutely aware that I just wrote a 900 word review about a 500 word game (He Knows That You Know and Now There's No Stopping Him); with another Neo-Twiny Jam entry up next (and one that actually uses only half of the already-scant budget) I’ve got a chance to do better.

Collision is a practical joke of a game that proceeds largely in deadpan two-word couplets: you get a spray of three or four super-short phrases each “turn” (“stuck neck”, “roaring engine”, “no voice”), and an expanding number of similarly-terse choices to move things ahead (“look around”, “move hands”, “scream”). This hyper-compressed writing style obfuscates the setup slightly, but only slightly – even if you haven’t paid attention to the cover art, an early bit of narration’s declaration that you have “no pants” and “yellow and black dots on arms” mostly gives the game away.

So it’s clear something terrible is going to happen – though your choices allow you to waste time confirming the obvious – and it’s also clear that you’ll ultimately be powerless to avert it. The comedy of the game arises from the absurdity of making the effort nonetheless, and the bathos of panicking at the realization that there are others stuck in the same predicament as you. It’s a solid gag, and the blinking “failure” you see at the end of each run is a canny lure to get you to try again, at which point the futility of your efforts gets even funnier. Collision is nothing but a one-note gag – it won’t make you look at the world differently, or expand your understanding of what IF can accomplish – but it’s a gag that works, and one I haven’t seen before.

(Under 300 words, that’s gotta be a record for me!)

The randomizer must know that I’ve been saying nice things about it, because I just realized that it’s managed another cool trick: it put the three entries in Charm Cochran’s “RGB Trilogy” relatively close together in my to-play list, and in the proper order to boot! I contemplated waiting to review them all at once, since from context, they seem to be designed to be played that way – they were all entered together in the Neo-Twiny Jam (meaning they’re also short, given the 500 word limit for that event), and there are links to the other Acts within each game. But I ultimately decided it might be more interesting to review them piecemeal, to better track how the themes and structure emerge with each installment (so no, this has nothing to do with padding my review count on IFDB and for the sponsorships, perish the thought).

The last review will probably be a bit weightier than the first two, I suspect, since I’ll hold off on digging into what I think the trilogy is doing until I see everything it has to offer, but fortunately, even just in this first Act there’s a fair bit to talk about. From the color-coding of the game’s itch.io page, it’s clear that this is the “blue” entry, with later entries taking the “green” and “red” slots; further reinforcing the color motif, the dramatis personae page that opens the game identifies the two characters not by name, but by description – the game is constructed as a dialogue (which is an efficient way to use the scant words the jam rules allow) between “a rich and imposing, if ugly and impulsive, man” (whose words are all in blue) and “a quick-thinking and witty, if selfish and manipulative, woman” (whose words are all in green). The psychological priming here isn’t especially subtle, and the first line of the game proper – a stage direction noting that the blue man is “brandishing a bloody key” – pretty well confirms what story we’re in: this is Bluebeard, that most Freudian of folktales.

Except, well, that’s not exactly right. The language is off, for one thing: the game is written in a Shakespearean English that feels a bit archaic for a story that was famously collected by Perrault. This is a dangerous choice, since there’s a risk of ending up sounding like a bad 80s RPG, all thee-ing and thou-ing, but I found the style here worked – the grammar and syntax are credibly done, while the vocabulary is kept relatively modern for ease of reading. It winds up giving a hint of old-fashionedness without slowing down the dialogue too much.

That’s important because – understandably given the space constraints – the game is concerned just with the climax of the tale: blue has caught green (his wife) in the act of defying him, and bad news, the player is responsible for what green says as she attempts to escape punishment. The back and forth her is really punchy; each line of dialogue is fairly short, and the back-and-forth volley between the partners in this two-hander feels rapid, and intense, as a result. Your possible responses tend to include calling blue out for his crimes, pleading for forgiveness, and playing for time, but not in a mechanical way – sometimes you only have two options, and the confrontation does escalate fluidly, so I think it would be hard to stick to just one approach without intentionally disengaging from the story; I did find my approach varied satisfyingly in replays, but the game did a good job of shaping an arc from my choices regardless of what I did, sometimes starting out defiant and then growing chastened, other times desperate for mercy and then trying just to delay the inevitable once it became clear that wasn’t working.

There’s one other interesting aspect of the game’s storytelling that’s worth discussing under spoiler tags: (Spoiler - click to show)the main way the game departs from the story it’s riffing on is the ending – because blue does not kill green the way he’s killed all his previous wives, instead she ganks him with the dagger she’s had concealed behind her back this whole time. For all that the presence of the weapon is flagged from the very beginning, it’s still an effective twist, not least because the player’s given no direct hint that all of green’s conversational gambits are just setup for a stabbing. Indeed, one of the options you’re given late in the game is simply to “acquiesce” to your own imminent murder, but even that is a feint and leads to blue’s bloody end just the same. I really enjoyed this move; it’s an effective way of demonstrating exactly how manipulative green can be, and exploits the tensions within IF’s triangle of identities (player, narrator, protagonist) to good ends.

There’s more to say about the game, or at least more to speculate on – I’m curious what direction the Hamlet quote that closes things off is meant to be pointing to, and when we’ll be introduced to the “red” character who must surely come onstage at some point to complete the design. But I’ll hold all that in reserve until I get further into the trilogy; for now, I’ll just note that I’m wrapping up Act One very interested in seeing more.

The randomizer always enjoys its little jokes, its latest being to sequence a somber choice-based retelling of a Greek myth right after a parser romp riffing on one. For all that the games are quite different, the particular stories at issue aren’t too dissimilar: while Lysidice and the Minotaur centered on a young woman dedicated as a sacrifice to a monster, only to be rescued by a demigod, Andromeda Chained centers on the eponymous princess who’s dedicated as a sacrifice to a monster, only to be rescued by a demigod. Both even subvert the stories in analogous ways, with the former swapping the roles of monster and rescuer, whereas the latter makes the rescuer a dunderheaded representative of the patriarchy. They have their differences, though – Lysidice is a romp that ends on an optimistic note, whereas Andromeda Chained is a somber reflection on fate that may end differently in multiple replays, but never ends happily.

It’s also a focused game: it starts on the rocks by the sea where your father is about to chain you – for those unfamiliar with the backstory, your mother boasted of your beauty in a way that offended Poseidon, so he sent a sea monster to ravage your home and the Oracle has said that it’ll only go away if you’re offered up as a snack – and proceeds through a few beats of isolation and fear before Perseus shows up to destroy the serpent, and off-handedly mention that he’s decided to marry you once he completes the rescue. This is still plenty of time to engage with the situation, though, and the available choices do a good job of articulating various stances towards what’s happening without changing the fundamental direction of the myth, which would undermine the theme of inevitability that permeates the work. Here are the options you’re given after you’ve been chained, but before you have any hope of rescue:

"-Look for a means of escape.
-Await your fate.
-Wonder why you have to be naked.
-Think about how glad you are to be helping your kingdom.
-Think about your father."

This division – some options indicating resistance, others indicating acquiescence, and one emphasizing the more ridiculous or credulity-straining aspects of the myth – runs through most of the game’s choice points, and helps unify the emphasis on fate with the emphasis on patriarchy: after all, it’s a god whose curse has doomed you, your father who personally chains you up, and Perseus who decides that he can do whatever he wants with you since you would have died without him. As a result, your attitude towards inevitability maps to your attitude towards these domineering men.

The language throughout is effective; there’s a note of archness or wryness running through even the non-snarky options, and it’s couched in archaic-sounding syntax that doesn’t draw attention to itself. It doesn’t strike me as a distinctively Ancient Greek voice, but it’s solid enough for what it needs to do, and most of the key moments land, like this reflection on how blameworthy you find your father:

"Is your father a good king? Does he truly love you, to do something like this? These questions glide in and out of your mind like gulls on the water, but you’re not sure their answers are relevant. You decide that at the very least he is competent. After all, a single life for the safety of his entire kingdom? It makes a certain kind of sense, and you’re sure he did a lot of beard-stroking to figure that out himself. Yes, it’s your life, and no, you don’t particularly want to die. Still, it’s only a single life."

The only real criticism I’d levy at Andromeda Chained is that it never surprised me: from its framing, it looks like a feminist take on the Andromeda myth, and if you’re familiar with the rudiments of feminist deconstruction and the major beats of the legend, there’s a lot that you’ll see coming. Part of me wishes the game had leaned harder into idiosyncrasy in some way – by making the characters more naturalistic and less archetypal, say, or risking a stranger prose style, or confusing the themes a little so they feel less stark. But that’s just a judgment based on aesthetic preferences; making any of those changes would shift the flavor of the game without impacting its already-high quality, and there’s certainly always room for more engaging, clear-eyed pieces like this.

There are, I am sure, many IF reviewers who can cooly and dispassionately evaluate the merits of lighthearted parser romps set in Ancient Greece – but I, sadly, am not one of them. Lysidice and the Minotaur has a lot of points of difference from my first game (it’s riffing on the mythological rather than historical eras, for one thing, and it’s not written in a trying-too-hard Wodehouse-aping style), but still, this kind of thing is very much my jam – and actually, now that I think about it, my objectivity could probably be called into question for another reason, which is that I actually helped a tiny bit with this game because when a couple months ago Manon mentioned wanting to know what kinds of foods they ate in Ancient Greece, I passed along the food-y (and pottery-y – there are a lot of funny-sounding jugs) bits I’d written up as potential inspiration. All of which is to say that this is the kind of thing that I like, so it’s maybe not much surprise that I like it.

Still, I think there are defensible reasons for that! This Adventuron entry into the most recent Text Adventure Literacy Jam does a nice job running players through the basics of parser gameplay. There’s a maze (duh), albeit a rather simple one, but also a lot of object manipulation puzzles, a couple fetch-quests running between different characters, a riddle… The solid gameplay is paired with nice quality-of-life features, too; beyond the de rigueur tutorial, exits and usable objects are highlighted in each room’s header, and while the critical path to finish the game is easy enough to figure out, there are a number of satisfying optional puzzles that make the ending more satisfying and give more experienced players something to do.

The plot is similarly solid. You play as the eponymous maiden, who was brought to the Labyrinth as one of the Athenian sacrifices paid as tribute to Minos, but who’s befriended the minotaur who now serves as your protector. After the latest would-be hero grievously wounds your bovine pal, you decide it’s time for the two of you to bust out and make your own way in the world. It’s an appealing premise, and the puzzles do a good job of involving the minotaur so that it feels like he’s pulling his own weight, and the two of you are working together (you providing more of the brains, he more of the brawn, of course), which strengthens the central relationship of the game. I also enjoyed how deeply the game engaged with the myths; this is still a game aiming more for fun than verisimilitude, but it does draw in some more esoteric bits of the stories, and puts its own spin on traditional elements like the Daedalus/Icarus relationship. It’s well done, and I think would appeal even to players without a predisposition to this particular body of legends.

So the bones here are good ones, but unfortunately the flesh is not without its blemishes. The game doesn’t have quite as much polish as I generally like to see, and I think the standard for a game intended for IF newbies is generally set higher than that. While I didn’t run into any game-breaking bugs, there were definitely some instances of confusing behavior, like GIVE WAX TO MINOTAUR leading to me giving wax to Daedalus, and this disorienting output when I tried to TAKE SACK

"I don’t need to carry that old thing around.

"You can’t take it.

"You pick up the a sack of grains."

(I didn’t actually pick up the sack, at the end of all that).

The prose is also a little rough in patches, especially around more idiomatic English. Here’s a bit on your history with the minotaur, which includes a few of the relatively-common infelicities I noticed:

"The Minotaur would often come back from his strolls in the treacherous maze with drinks and food, usually in too large quantity. You never missed for a thing."

It’s nothing that sinks the game – actually the writing is breezy and engaging, for the most part – but again, for a game that’s intended to provide an on-ramp to people unfamiliar with IF, it’d be nice if things were a bit smoother.

As always, though, these are cavils. Lysidice and the Minotaur is a straightforward but effective introduction to traditional parser IF, with an appealing cast and good pacing (I haven’t mentioned that different sections of the maze are unlocked successively as you solve puzzles – it’s a good mechanic to keep the possibilities manageable, and ensure exploration is never overwhelming). It could use a little more time in the oven, but even in its current state, and even for experienced players or those who don’t find its premise immediately entertaining, it’s very much worth a play.

Codex Crusade has the kind of premise where if you explain it to someone else, they’d check the back of your skull to see if you’d suffered a head injury – and I mean that in the best possible way. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: you’re a library intern at the University of Turin (Georgia, not Italy), where the geographical confusion adverted to in that parenthetical has led to a collector of arcane lore to leave a treasure trove of books to your otherwise-agronomy-focused archive, which in turn prompts a mysterious woman to charge you with entering the stacks to find a mysterious tome that contains all other books within it, offering you access to all the world’s knowledge if you succeed, delivered in the shape of a cat that answers to “the Akashic record” (you can pet the cat) (okay, having typed all that out, after checking for head trauma they might also just ask if you’d been playing a bunch of Mage: the Ascension).

This off-kilter mix of scholarly references and giddy humor continues once you get through the intro and enter the game proper, which presents you with the first of what will presumably be many challenges in your quest (the game only offers this teaser, but says there’ll be sequels to come). Your task is to navigate through a sort of cross-dimensional cafeteria to reach an elevator to the deeper levels; standing in your way is the elevator security system, which requires a keycard to bypass, and the elevator security guard, who isn’t going to let you by even with said keycard (his first name is Jorge, and I’d eat my hat if his second name isn’t Luis). There isn’t a lot of incidental scenery to take in before puzzle-solving imperatives take over, but what’s there is is fun, like this dialogue from some pretentious scholars:

“Maybe if you read Heidegger, you’d understand why your pedestrian takes on morality aren’t useful!”

“Yikes! Have you considered that if your source is a Nazi, you’re on the wrong team?”

“Well, I think you’ve both missed a big point. Have either of you read House of Leaves…?”

And in trying to wake up a dozing diner, you can shake him and say “hey”, “wake up”, “fire!”, or “hey look there’s Pedro Pascal.” Sure, to a degree these are empty references, but a) they’re funny, and b) given the setting and premise, empty references seem entirely on point. It’s true that I did find the very end of this installment of the game teetered a bit too close to the edge of absurdity, but for the most part Codex Crusade walks a fine line between silliness and profundity.

The puzzles are also engagingly off-beat, though one ill-advised interface decision made the game’s central challenge much more frustrating than I think was intended. You see, through a set of circumstances that don’t fully make sense, you need to follow a half-completed recipe (that you find in the Canterbury Tales!) for posset, a medieval medicinal drink, using only the ingredients you can scrounge up from the criteria. That means raiding the drink area for a choice of two beverages, and the snack bar for a bit of food, which you can then combine as best you see fit. When mixing the beverages, the interface is a conventional choice-based one – you say you want to start preparing the drink, then a pop-up asks you which liquid you want to add first from a multiple-choice list, followed by another prompt that allows you to add a second. But then it prompts to ask you if you want to add a third ingredient, at which point you need to write something into a text bar (and then click the forward link, just hitting enter doesn’t work).

The recipe is especially cryptic, so I ran through a whole bunch of different choices for things I could put in, since the game doesn’t give any indication whether what you type in is being recognized. I tried putting in the seitan-jerky snack I’d picked up just for the heck of it, before shifting to cinnamon, ginger, and lemon, which are the most common additional ingredients in posset from the recipes I found online (there’s also a set of clues you can find by rifling through one of another student’s books, which point in the same direction). Finally after fifteen minutes I checked out the source code to discover what I was missing: turns out you’re just supposed to write in the name of the snack you want to try. I was intensely frustrated by this design choice, since it would have been far simpler and intuitive – not to mention in line with how the beverage-choosing interface works – to just select an inventory item from a list, rather than go with a free-input parser box. The particular solution also doesn’t make much sense on its own terms, either (Spoiler - click to show)(if the key additional ingredient is breadcrumbs, why should you put in oatmeal, rather than wheat-based seitan?)

Brute-forcing my way through this puzzle dimmed my excitement momentarily, and while I’m grousing a bit I’ll say that I thought the two “battles” that wrapped up this section of the story were a bit repetitive. But given the scale of the creativity on offer in Codex Crusade, I’d still gladly sign up to play the next instalment – it tickles a lot of my areas of especial interest, and when it’s on, it’s very on. Just no more parser interfaces where they’re not needed next time, please!

This game (no, I am not retyping the full title out again) is proof that there’s really nothing wrong with the hoariest old storytelling tropes. It trots out one of the oldest premises in parser IF – you wake up alone in a space station, with amnesia – adds the smallest imaginable twist – actually the station is underwater, not outer space – and brings it to life with tense, evocative writing. There are a couple of overly-obscure puzzles that I doubt I would have solved but for David Welbourn’s helpful walkthrough, but this remains a gripping bit of horror-tinged sci-fi.

I don’t want to say too much about the plot; while it hits pretty much all the story beats you’re expecting from the get-go, seeing them play out is a big part of the draw, and the revelations are well spaced out over the course of the game’s hourish running time, creating solid pacing (assuming you can get through the puzzles – we’ll come back to that). But suffice to say that it’s clear from the get-go that there’s something wrong with the facility, and wrong with you, too – for one thing, what’s a small child doing in such an isolated place? The intro does a very good job establishing the stakes and pointing towards where the narrative is headed:

“WE ARE APPROXIMATELY TWO KILOMETERS BELOW THE SURFACE. IF THAT DOOR OPENS—WHICH IS CURRENTLY PREVENTED BY OUR SECURITY FAILSAFES—MILLIONS OF TONS OF SEAWATER WOULD RUSH INTO THE FACILITY AND DESTROY EVERYTHING. YOU YOURSELF WOULD BE CRUSHED BY THE PRESSURE IN MOMENTS.

"You squint to compensate for the darkness and the headache returns. Instinctively, you run a hand over yourself to make sure that no pieces of glass remain on the overalls since the cocoon broke. You are clean."

The prose is a real highlight throughout; it’s typically sharp and declarative, but occasionally reaches for a striking image or presents a more confusing, impressionistic jumble when the protagonist gets knocked off-kilter. And there’s one development in the plot that yes, is telegraphed and a bit cliché, but still landed quite heavily on me (Spoiler - click to show)(the death of Nelly). If you’re looking for a boundary-pushing think-piece, well, that’s not what’s on offer here, but as a piece of genre writing it’s quite successful.

As a work of IF, though… well, this is the kind of piece where being able to wander around at your own pace and soak up the ambiance and environmental storytelling is a natural fit for the plot. And some of the puzzles work well to get you to engage with the setting and gate out the various bits of backstory you can piece together. But too many of them are firmly in read-the-author’s-mind territory. (Spoiler - click to show)I’m not sure how you’re supposed to intuit that the tin you find in the kitchen is poison, for example, much less what cooking cream is and that it’s explosive. And I still can’t at all picture what’s wrong with the dumbwaiter such that setting off an explosion in it sets everything to rights. The magnetic disc, meanwhile, at least feels like something you could solve via trail and error, but similarly feels more like an abstract video-game puzzle than anything organic to the environment. The good news is that most of these rough patches come in the middle of the game; the opening segment and the climax are relatively smooth sailing, so the clueing misfires don’t detract as much as they otherwise would.

All told the positive parts of the game are definitely enough to make this one I’d recommend; there’s something uniquely likeable about a familiar story that’s well-told, especially one that’s spooky and has a good eye for a compelling image. Playing it entirely straight, without hints or a walkthrough, is likely to be an exercise in frustration, though – there are no heroes in this story, so there’s no upside in gritting your teeth and trying to tough it out.

Porn is much like any other fantasy genre in that for it to work, you need to buy into some absurdity in the premise. Sure, in fantasy it’s stuff like trees that can come to life and people who can summon the mightiest powers of the elements exclusively going around in their PJs, while in porn it’s that five minutes of conversation is enough to get perfect strangers to get down to boning – to say nothing of the various physical implausibilities that come into play once said boning commences – but in either case it’s all about the willing suspension of disbelief. Despite making the attempt to engage with it in good faith, however, I have to admit that Hot Office struck me as completely ridiculous even by the fantastical standards of AIF.

Things start off reasonably grounded, I admit: you’re having a chat by text with your coworker Sophie, who’s on her way to the office. It’s all presented clearly enough, with a phone-mimicking interface offering you a choice of two or three terse replies to each message by which she narrates her commute in – it’s like Lifeline with boobs. The basic scenario is also a bit silly – the A/C is off in the building and everyone else is working from home, so with a bit of encouragement from you she wastes little time in stripping down to her underwear, and then beyond – but sticks to the standard tropes of the genre.

But there’s a bunch of stuff that’s decidedly not standard, or just plain odd. For example, each step of the striptease is illustrated with a picture, which is all well and good, except that these appear to have been slapped together in MS Paint – they might have passed for hot and steamy in 1991, but kind of a lot’s happened on this front since then. The conversation with Sophie is also increasingly bizarre the more you pay attention to it: she makes a note of saying that she’s wearing a winter coat as she comes into the office, but if it’s winter why is the office so hot in the absence of A/C? If she’s your coworker, why is she showing you around the place and pointing out the plant in the corner, as if you’ve never been there before? Why are we interrupting the clothes-removing process to snap a photo of Sophia’s office chair, which has a couple of discolored impressions from the weight of her sweaty butt – is that some kind of fetish? Speaking of fetishes, WHY DOESN’T SHE HAVE ANY EYES???

This was all quite confounding. Possibly as a result of being distracted pondering these imponderables, I can’t say I found Hot Office especially hot, but its very idiosyncrasies mean that I eventually began viewing it with some affection. Possibly I only feel this way because it cuts off just as Sophie really gets her kit off – it’s apparently a free excerpt from a longer, paid game, so makes sense to leave the punters wanting more – but there’s something guileless about the very specific sexual scenario being constructed. There’s of course more than a bit of male gaze creepiness in the premise, but even that is blunted by the fact that Sophie is so ridiculously eager to strip for you, to the extent that even if you try to chit-chat about the weather and stick to the most non-committal comments possible, she’ll still aggressively insist on peeling off her shirt and sending you a picture to prove it. My head-canon explains this and all the inconsistencies in what she says about the office by assuming that actually the two of you are a long-partnered-up couple trying some roleplaying to spice up your conjugal life – so go figure that she’s babbling and giddily enthusiastic. Viewed in this light, you might even say there’s something vaguely wholesome about Hot Office.

Of course I’m sure this interpretation is completely untenable if you actually play the full game, and as the encounter gets more explicit things would get unavoidably creepy. But hey, if porn requires buying into a fantasy, I can choose which impossible thing I’d prefer to believe in.

(I still don’t have a theory for the no-eyes thing, though. Seriously, is that a thing? Please nobody tell me).

Okay, yes, I’ll confess it, when I read the title I did a double take and my brain couldn’t help making a terrible joke: “you just slice them really thin and layer them, same as the eggplant.” I can’t have been the only one who thought that, right?

I am going to hell.

Despite the evidence of that first paragraph, I actually do like animals quite a lot (including cats!) and so the wholesome comedy on display here quickly put that awkwardness in the past. How to Make Eggplant Lasagna was an entry in the heretofore-unknown-to-me Recipe Jam, games entered into which were supposed to incorporate a complete, cookable recipe (my brain also can’t help wondering whether anyone submitted an entry with a literal recipe for jam: it’d be the Recipe Game Jam jam recipe game). The approach to the theme here is straightforward: you’re trying to cook the eponymous recipe, but you also have two cats who like to involve themselves in the process, and making lasagna is of course relatively time-consuming, with a bunch of different time-dependent steps where a distraction can make things go awry…

I am a sucker for the one-thing-going-wrong-after-another silliness of farce, and cooking provides a perfect framework for escalating accidents, mistakes, and bad judgment calls to threaten to bring everything crashing down into disaster, while having adorable and (mostly) innocent kitties be the vectors of destruction keeps things from getting ill-spirited. And the comedy here is very well done – a solid three quarters of my notes for this game just consist of pasted-in excerpts with me saying “lol” right after them. An example at random:

"Unfortunately it’s Boris. He’s the bigger (and dumber) of your two cats, but despite having the body of a black fuzzy cinder block he also has the soul of a small Victorian orphan."

Another:

"You scoop up Natasha and place her on the ground. She hops right back up on the stove. Having been left with no alternative, you grab your trusty squirt bottle and squirt her right in the face. She blinks at you indignantly and doesn’t move."

Structurally, you face a gauntlet of one dilemma after another: do you try to keep your workspace clear of cats, or leave them be so long as they’re far enough away that you can get your chopping done? When they start to tear things apart in the other room, do you pause your cooking or just let them cause damage until they get bored? There’s rarely a clear right answer, as the best-case scenario typically only allows you to keep chaos at bay for a few more minutes, but at a cost of losing some of the ingredients, or cutting short a key step in the cooking, or just tiring yourself out. I’m not actually sure what’s going on under the hood, here – there aren’t interface elements telling you how much time you have left to cook, or anything else to provide you with an objective view of how you’re doing. And when I replayed, it sometimes felt like slightly different challenges were being thrown at me even when I made similar choices leading up to them. I sometimes felt that there might be a degree of randomness determining which events happened, and sometimes that there were a few key statistics being tracked, but whether it’s one or the other, or both, I think this black-box approach was a good one: nothing kills farce deader than it feeling mechanical, so the obfuscation was worth it in my book (though I did notice one slight inconsistency: in my most successful playthrough, I was told I’d made a lasagna whose “cheese on top is beautifully crispy”, which sounds nice except the last decision I’d made before popping it in the oven was to cut my losses and not chase Natasha around in a futile attempt to get back the cheese package so I could sprinkle the final layer on top).

So yeah, if you like cooking, cats, or shenanigans, I think you’ll have fun with this one – it honestly made me glad I’m usually only cooking with a toddler these days, since at least he mostly understands English and only takes perverse delight in throwing everything everywhere like 15% of the time, meaning he compares favorably to a cat on both of those criteria. It’s funny, the cats are cut; heck, the recipe even sounds good, though I’m not fool enough to try anything this complex until my son’s much older.