Ratings and Reviews by Mike Russo

This is unavoidably going to sound like damning with faint praise, but Unseelie is really good for an untested parser game made in a week. Like, there is a reason this is not how anyone writes parser games these days, outside of speed IF and other such contexts where having even a minimally-playable game at the end counts as an achievement – beyond the fact that it’s unfinished, with a plot that ends just when things are starting to get interesting and a solid quarter of game’s puzzle paraphernalia going unused, there are bumps in the road a-plenty, from underclueing to a frustratingly-invisible disambiguation issue that almost prevented me from getting through the final set of challenges. But! While presenting a reasonably old-school puzzle-dungeon, the design is generally welcoming and engaging, with fairly robust implementation, a couple of distinctive setting elements living up proceedings, and unpretentious, confident prose that knows how to lift up an evocative detail. Even if it’s hard to exactly recommend in its current state, Unseelie can already be a lot of fun if you go into it with the proper mindset, and if it’s ever finished, it could well be something great.

As mentioned, this is a slightly old-fashioned kind of game where you wander around an underground world featuring magic – largely mushrooms with various unearthly powers, plus I suppose the woman whose portal-spell transports you into the aforementioned catacombs to begin with, though that’s more of a plot device than an element in the game as such – and anachronistic technology (plumbing, key cards, pressure plates). You’re not given much direction beyond a general desire to explore and hopefully escape back to your own reality, but there are enough obvious barriers and things to poke at that I found myself getting into the swing of things soon enough.

The writing definitely helps. It focuses attention on gameplay-relevant elements while not neglecting to set the mood, like this location description:

"The corridor ends here to the west in a metal gate beyond which you can see the outdoors—though a part of the outdoors apparently teeming with giant mushrooms and wickedly thorned plants. The sky outside is an odd shade of lavender that skies should definitely not be. A single thorny bramble extends through the gate into the corridor, winding along the stone floor."

It hits a deceptively hard-to-nail sweet spot, I think – these kinds of games work best when they don’t feel like bare mechanical challenges, but also can get frustrating if overly-elaborate language obfuscates the interactive bits you use to solve the puzzles.

Speaking of, the puzzle structure is rewarding, with new areas opening up as you explore and overcome obstacles, and a couple of moments when previously confusing or useless things come into focus, most notably when you reach the sole real NPC, who’s implemented fairly deeply and can tell you what all the fungi you’ve been finding can do. There’s also a fairly broad variety of things to do for what’s a relatively small game, from straightforward fetch quests and use-x-on-y puzzles to some that involve slightly more complex object manipulation and others that focus on the aforementioned NPC (a prisoner who promises to help you if you free him) or shifting the behavior of an animalistic native of this strange place. There’s nothing that made me slap my head in novelty and surprise, but equally, none felt illogical or like busywork, albeit there were a few where the clueing was noticeably thin – just the sort of thing that testing is good at smoothing out.

And yes, now that we’re talking of testing we have to come to the critiques, few of which I suspect will come as a surprise to the author given the caveats in the ABOUT text. While the implementation here is fairly robust, in terms of attention to detail, there are also a good number of rough patches – I’ll go into detail on the bug I mentioned above, since while it comes late in the game, spoiling the puzzle solution it pertains to will be a positive good to most players. See, at one point the complex quest chain to free the prisoner requires you to get a hypodermic needle that he’s got in the cell with him, due to some Geneva-Convention-violating stuff his captors got up to. But every attempt I made to take the needle or get him to hand it over ended in failure, with him annoying declaring that the needle couldn’t possibly be useful when I had a very clear understanding of what I needed it for. Turns out, I was on the right track, but the game was confused because there was also a needle-like thorn in the room, and the parser was automatically assuming I meant the latter rather than the former – referring to the HYPODERMIC rather than the NEEDLE cleared things up right away. Again, it’s a small quality of life fix that testing would immediately reveal the need for – but the lack of it wasted half an hour and burned quite a bit of goodwill.

(Oh, while I’m dispensing spoilers, I might as well mention that from glancing at some other reviews at transcripts, many players seem to be missing that (Spoiler - click to show)you need to examine the gap in the control room).

What’s here isn’t at all unplayable, let me be clear, but it’s also clear what we’ve got is a really fun Zork-like reduced to only moderate fun-ness and lacking half or so of the plot by the vagaries of its creation. Given all that, Unseelie’s entry into the Back Garden rather than the main festival makes sense – and if that decision was the author’s desire to test the waters before committing to doing the work to finish the game, hopefully this review counts as clear evidence of the need for, and upside of, that work.

As is now Spring Thing tradition, Senica Thing has contributed an anthology of IF by students (and a few friends), this time all written in Twine and riffing on the eponymous theme. Those three words set up an impressively broad range of experiences, so I’ll write capsule reviews of each in turn:

A Swarm of Spiders, by DiBa

The opening game in my Senica Thing playthrough jumps admirably into the action: you’re awakened in the middle of the night by a strange skittering, and find yourself compelled to investigate. Structurally, it’s a sequence of binary continue the story/back out yes-or-no questions, which I often find a bit underwhelming – why are you asking me if I want to leave the ride early when I’ve already paid for my ticket? But in this case I think it works really well, as it helps align the player’s behavior with the protagonist’s: obviously the counsel of reason would be to just go back to bed and ignore the spiders, but there’s something irrationally pushing you to go outside and follow them… The writing also includes some nicely creepy details, while playing up the combination of fascination and repulsion that gives the story its energy:

"You are pretty scared, but even more curious. You slowly walk up to the window and see plenty of spiders crawling out. They are all moving in one direction, leading to a tree."

It all leads up to a fun twist that nicely illustrates the theme, making A Swarm of Spiders a perfect introduction to the anthology.

Dystopia, by Creator

This time out the theme is take in a more metaphorical direction: the swarm isn’t literal hive-minded insects, but money-chasing video game developers who’ve given up their artistic ambitions to follow the crowd. You play a young indie dev who’s tempted to join a big studio despite some understandable misgivings, and as it turns out there’s more going on than just overly-mercenary suits trying to monetize the latest trends.

While other games in the anthology play up the ambivalent nature of swarm living, Dystopia interprets the premise as straightforward horror. Unsettling text effects, eye-straining color choices, and menacing prose underscore the soul-threatening power that you’re up against:

“You have our gratitude for applying, we shall see you tomorrow at the following address: ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ st. Nr ▊▊▊▊▊▊. Sleep tight our little gem.”

Compared to the strong use of aesthetics, the interactive elements feel a bit underdeveloped – there’s almost always one right answer and one wrong one, and if you pick the latter you get automatically put back on track after reading about the bad end. And since the video game company is portrayed as unremittingly malicious, I sometimes had a hard time justifying why I was sticking my head in the lion’s mouth. But the game opens up as it reaches its action-filled climax, and doesn’t just rely on style, adding some philosophical notes to the ending: “WHAT, YOU THINK IDEAS SPREAD BECAUSE THEY’RE GOOD? NO ,THEY SPREAD BECAUSE PEOPLE LIKE THEM”, the prime evil says, and in this our current dystopia, it’s hard to say he’s wrong.

It’s Here, by Chaos

I feel like one of the principles of good writing that I lean on a lot in my reviews is that specificity trumps generality – a well-chosen, evocative detail can make even the most familiar story come alive, while plodding prose can suck the energy out of every novelty. It’s Here tests the limits of that commonplace, though, because while its language is entirely abstract throughout – so abstract that I think different readers could come away with very different interpretations of what, exactly, has occurred – I nonetheless found it compelling. The action, much as it is for the rest of the games in the anthology, turns on whether to meld oneself into a larger collective, and if so, on what terms. But rather than fleshing it out with the typical accoutrements of narrative (protagonists, antagonists, themes), the game focuses on the dynamics of that action, dramatizing motion and play over substance.

"Instead of chaos, there is a flow of deliberate patterns, folding and unfolding like a single, capable organism that he can breathe. There is no roar or violent rush of wings, only a muted tremor in the air, a living current that bends the light and draws every eye upward. As you watch, a subtle rhythm begins to echo behind your thoughts, steady, layered, impossibly complex, yet harmonious."

In keeping with this ultra-refined approach, the simple choices combine in complex interactions; while most of the early choices reflect the familiar join/withdraw dichotomy we’ve seen in other entries in Join the Swarm, this is more of a dance or an exploration than a final commitment, as you can move in or out as the spirit moves you, and eventually the choices turn not on whether you’ll merge with the collective, but whether you feel ambivalent about your decision, and how to respond to unexpected disturbances.

I’m not sure this approach would work in a longer piece – the human mind, or at least mine, will eventually crave some more human-apprehensible elements in its stories. But it very much worked for me in It’s Here – this is an engaging, self-assured piece.

John the Swan, by Vitalii Blinov

There are a few examples of IF in poetic form, and I’m always impressed when authors make the attempt given that it requires imposing two entirely separate sets of constraints on how you use language: the responsiveness and nonlinearity of IF, and the precision and control of poetry. John the Swan is a good illustration of both the challenges and the opportunities of this kind of thing, I think – the author cannily keeps things short so that the poetry doesn’t drag (there are two choices with two options each), and there are additional text effects further livening up the presentation. And the text employs joking half-rhymes to good effect, undermining the player’s expectations:

Was he a swan?

Was he the John?

Memories gone.

He stays alone.

As that except indicates, the substance of the game is whimsical and doesn’t overly explain itself. While poetry doesn’t of course need to be narrative to be effective, I found myself wanting at least some greater sense of progression, some clearer indication of what conflict the choices were resolving. While the game gestures at some consistent themes – identity, threat – I had often had a hard time decoding the intended impact, or relating this piece to the Join the Swarm theme. Still, it’s a worthy experiment, with some engagingly ambiguous endings.

Jouin Le Swarm, by Neural

This game combines elements of others we’ve seen in the anthology, with an ambiguously-portrayed hive-mind, a variety of endings that feel responsive to your choices, and even an opening that’s eerily reminiscent of that of Swarm of Spiders; there, you were wakened by the swarm’s activity at 2:16 am, whereas here you’re roused by the swarm’s activity at 2:17 am.

While the focus is on how you respond to the part-enticing, part-threatening invitation you receive from the swarm, I appreciated that there were several paths to get to the different endings – in particular, you can choose to bring a friend along with you as you investigate, which can set up a solid late-game twist, though that choice doesn’t actually change the endings.

I also liked the spare way the game communicates the appeal of subsuming your individuality into the swarm, which doesn’t resort to force to bring you along; while I think it’s clear in presenting the paths where you retain your independence as positive ones, it includes some discordant notes that indicate that there’s no way to encounter such a profoundly different way of existence and remain unchanged:

"After a few days, it disappears completely.

"You remain alone.

"But sometimes, in the silence, you almost miss it."

Join the Swarm, by SAT

This most generically-titled entry in the anthology cleverly inverts the theme – and brings in a hoary yet unexpected set of tropes – in a way that I genuinely didn’t see coming (and won’t spoil, given how short it is). It also boasts an impressively open structure in its short runtime: as you’re thrown into a dangerous situation and have to choose how to respond, you navigate challenges both external and internal, with some of your choices looping back around to prior events and others opening up a whole new perspective on how exactly the swarm functions here. While I think all roads lead to the same endgame, you can have substantially different experiences – and substantially different information – as you make the critical decisions.

I’ll repeat that the twist in question is a relatively tropey one, and not an unproblematic trope at that, but I don’t think Join the Swarm is presenting itself as an especially grounded depiction of reality; it certainly counts as a novel way of executing on the theme, and the thriller-style writing keeps things moving towards that revelatory climax.

Swarm of Thieves, by SKIT

“I know writers who use subtext, and they’re all cowards,” goes the meme, and Swarm of Thieves got the message. This is a Robin Hood allegory where the thief is named TRUTH and the kingdom is called KLEPTOCRACY; any relation to persons living or dead sure seems more than coincidental when reading speeches like this:

"TRUTH replies: 'You must give us the right to decent work for decent pay. Together we can create a more equal society. In KLEPTOCRACY’s budget, prison spending is double that of education and healthcare. You must give us hope of escaping our poverty!'"

The plot is thin but exciting – the king’s guards are close to catching TRUTH, and you get to decide whether they succeed, and if so how the subsequent confrontation goes. Everything’s quite Manichean, which is forgivable for an allegory, but I felt that there was a mismatch between the narrative stakes and the gameplay ones – a notorious thief being nabbed and facing the justice of a corrupt king is a nail-biting situation, but the player’s ability to dictate outcomes via high-level narrative-guiding choices sucks away some of the drama. Heck, even if you pick the option that tells the king to condemn TRUTH, the subjects launch a revolution due to his crimes and usher in a happy ending. It’s a comforting resolution, but one risks turning the game into mere escapism.

The Underground Dungeon, by A.S.M.

One of the highlights of previous Senica Thing entries was coming across stories, usually by young authors, that delighted in messing with player expectations, introducing out-of-nowhere plot shifts that keep things fresh and display a wild imagination. It’s absolutely a technique that works best in short doses, but when it works it’s a lot of fun, and I confess I was a bit disappointed that the previous anthology entries were generally more focused, not to say staid, affairs.

So I was very ready for The Underground Dungeon, a madcap romp of bad behavior through a fantasy kingdom. The first line is “far away from your home is a castle,” which made me think we were maybe going on a quest to rescue the king from the eponymous oubliette, but no, actually the king is our boss, we’re the chef, we just have an absurdly long commute. Before work one day you discover a locked door to the undercroft, and since you don’t have the keys, you come up with a couple of plans and are presented with these two choices:

-Steal the keys

-Poison the king

What?! Why would we poison the king?! Well as it turns out he’s not very nice – depending on how exactly you choose to poison him, he might fall into a frenzy, leading to this vignette:

"The maid enters the room. The king bites her, but she doesn’t find it weird since the king throws a lot of tantrums."

I don’t want to spoil any more of the game, but suffice to say there’s a lot of this sort of thing, and it always made me smile. Navigating to the best ending isn’t too hard, but there’s just as much fun to be had exploring the various dead ends and blind alleys the authors have cooked up. I’m not sure what any of this has to do with joining a swarm, or what the cook thinks they’re going to find down in the dungeon, but when I’m having such a good time, it’s hard to care about any of those details.

WHAT A MESS, by T.H.K.

WHAT A MESS takes a similar approach to Underground Dungeon, which as I’ve just said, really works for me – this is a story that zigs and zags, though with more of a time cave structure that allows for significantly different plots to play out depending on your seemingly-innocuous choices. Here there are two protagonists, the plucky duo of James and Emma, though depending on your choices they might not both make it to the end. Many of their adventures also involve a kingdom of alternately threatening and welcoming bunny rabbits, which, yeah, that seems about right for bunnies, they’re cute but there’s certainly something untrustworthy about them.

The game’s jokes largely rely on misdirection, and I thought they generally landed:

"When they got up, there was a rainbow cake with a unicorn on the top. Emma and James were surprised. They cut the cake into many pieces and each of them ate one piece of the cake and then they died."

Though seemingly-ominous choices sometimes lead to better outcomes:

"The bats were flying arund them for a long time. At first they were scared, but then they figured out that it was actually very romantic. James and Emma fell in love and got married."

(I love that it’s unclear whether the “they” who were scared and then felt romantic are James and Emma, or actually the bats).

Too much of this sort of thing can of course wear one out, but WHAT A MESS isn’t something to take too seriously; it’s short and light-hearted, and perfectly enjoyable on those terms.

The Yellow Swarm, by HOT

I’ve gotten used to Senica Thing games being way more about content than styling – sure, Swarm of Thieves had a background image and Dystopia a couple of illustrations and text effects, but for the most part they stick to basic Twine aesthetics, which is fine in my book. Still, I gotta admit that the slick visuals of Yellow Swarm made for an arresting, and very pleasant, surprise. There are bright yellow/orange colors making a bold contrast with the black background, scan-lines and terminal fonts that recall Aliens, and an intense, military sci-fi vibe that demands attention.

Fortunately, this isn’t at all a case of style over substance. The prose is dead on, alternating between po-faced special-ops speak:

"The facility went dark six days ago. Meridian Biotech, sublevel research station, built into a hillside in rural Romania. Forty-two personnel. They were developing something called Apis-7: a neural synchronization compound derived from insect pheromone chains."

…and effectively creepy body-horror when you get into the facility and see what’s become of the people:

"It used to be a person. It walks in a straight line toward the far wall, stops, turns, walks back. Three more behind it do the same. Their skin has gone yellow-grey and the surface of it shifts slightly, like something pressing from inside. Their eyes are white, opaque."

The story is straight-ahead, but it’s well-paced and hits all the beats it aims for. The choices similarly avoid over-complication – your mission is clear, so you’re typically just offered binary options about how best to infiltrate and destroy the incipient hive. It’s more of a roller-coaster ride than a tactical challenge, with the player needing to really try to get a suboptimal ending, but it’s hard to complain when the ride is this thrilling and good-looking.

I’ve made some significant choices in my IF career: doomed planets and saved them, redeemed villains and romanced companions, started wars, delved into forbidden knowledge, risked everything to save just one innocent. And yet little did I know, upon starting Exchange, that opting for “Vrnnt” over “Tink” would be so weighty!

See, this short excerpt from an in-progress sci-fi game – this is the first act of an eventual three, per the blurb – places you in the shoes of one Aloysious Menfer (I love that name), a business magnate who’s on the verge of two life-changing events at once. Though the game plays coy with the details, the first is that he’s apparently taken some step in his professional life that will galvanize his former colleagues against him once it comes out, while the second is that he’s about to have a medical procedure done that will apparently swap his body for one that’s slightly more immortal. The excerpt on offer is mostly devoted to nicely-allusive worldbuilding while developing anticipation: you sit in the doctor’s waiting room, answering the secretary’s questions and watching TV news as both revelations grow closer and closer.

The prose is solid and proceedings are well paced, with the choices not providing much branching but offering an opportunity to dig into the protagonist’s past and behavior as his nerves are drawn tighter and tighter – with the final reveal, that his enemies may have bribed the doctor just before he’s about to head in for the procedure, providing a nicely dramatic teaser for the remainder of the game (although I found it kind of amusing that even after this bombshell, I couldn’t find an option to prevent Menfer from going through with things, apparently based solely on the fact that it would be socially awkward to duck out after the practice’s secretary has called his name. Like, my guy, you are potentially going under the knife of a paid assassin here, just say you gotta pee again and run).

Except! That’s just what happens if you go for the onomatopoeia that sounds sorta like a cell phone on vibrate – if, instead, you opt for the one that sounds sorta like a fluorescent light flickering on, the protagonist isn’t the client but the doctor! This branch runs through a similar slice of time, as you get reflect on your family and career travails before getting a mysterious call from someone who wants to give you some money if an unfortunate accident just happens to befall your next patient…

Admittedly, the game’s blurb does encourage playing more than once, but still, if the intended experience is to go through both halves of the story, I think a bit more – or really any – signposting would be helpful, all the more so because the two protagonists seem drawn from two different styles of story. The doctor feels like an everywoman about to be swept up into a thriller, while the businessman feels like a spy-novel protagonist playing out a grand design and keeping one step ahead of his foes. Giving the player an opportunity to knowingly opt into one or the other of those narratives might be a nice upgrade for the final version. I also think the doctor’s branch could use a bit of punching up, as it felt comparatively less dramatic. Partially this is because I played it second and knew where the plot beats were headed, I think, but also, the stakes for her felt lower – she doesn’t seem to have urgent money troubles and her family drama is ho-hum rather than anything that would motivate a drastic break from her routine, so I had a hard time believing that she’d respond at all positively to the invitation to murder.

But regardless, what’s here of Exchange does pique my interest in the remainder, even if it mostly goes on as it’s begun – Philip K Dick-style confused-identity sci-fi is always a good time, and the game seems well set up to deliver it, with, I’m sure, even more dramatic choices to come.

Three games into the Social Democracy franchise, I think we’re now past the point where reviews need to assess the quality of the latest installment – unsurprisingly, it really really is, if you like strategy, history, or things that are good, you should play it – and into the realm where it’s most interesting to talk about how it differs from the others, and what that winds up saying about the particular era it focuses on, and our own.

But first a paragraph of throat-clearing, for those who somehow have managed to miss what’s probably the biggest thing to come out of IF in at least the last half-decade: the Social Democracy games are storylet-based simulations of interwar European politics, where you play not a nation but a particular left-of-center party as you attempt to deliver economic growth and freedom by any means necessary. What distinguishes the games from the traditional Grand Strategy approach is the focus on party politics: you’re almost always attempting to manage a coalition, keeping fractious interest groups on-side and doing just enough to pander to public prejudice to eke out enough power to implement the reforms that will, hopefully, create lasting material change. Gameplay-wise, the storylets are delivered via cards – you can draw from different decks representing internal party affairs, or, if you’re in the government, the particular ministries you control, with each card representing an opportunity to shift policy, or an event or dilemma to which you must react. Since you can typically only have a hand of three cards at a time, this winds up being an elegant system to manage the games’ staggering-when-you-thing-about-it complexity, and put you more in the shoes of a contemporaneous leader, subject to the whims of fate and forced to grapple with transient opportunities, than a deathless spirit-of-the-nation able to advance your strategy regardless of what might be happening.

The other commonality is that there’s always a wolf at the door. In the first game, you played as the German SPD, desperately trying to maintain a truce with Russian-aligned leftists as Nazis and their paramilitaries attempt to overthrown the Weimar republic. In the second, you can play a variety of Russian parties during the interregnum between the February and October Revolutions of 1917, though by default you’re the Mensheviks, waiting to be outmaneuvered by the more hardline Bolsheviks. In this third game, you guide the French Popular Front, a coalition of left-leaning parties that takes power in the late 1930s, so we’re back to the Nazis again – but this time it’s not street violence and idiot conservatives handing them the chancellorship you need to worry about, but tanks. So many tanks.

One thing to admit up front is that while I went into the other two games with a dim sense of the time periods and their politics, this is not an era of French history with which I’d previously had any familiarity. So while I was excited to learn, I was also worried that my ignorance would leave me just hitting my two default buttons (1) vulgar Keynesianism, 2) no enemies to the left unless they’re authoritarians) without any understanding of where I was getting myself into trouble. Fortunately, I needn’t have worried, since I think Popular Front is the easiest of the trio to get up to speed with. See, the game starts just as a wave of popular unrest carries your coalition into power, and unlike previous games, where regular elections producing splintered results made forming a government an agonizing, repeated part of gameplay, here you come in with a strong majority and no elections scheduled until after the Nazis invade (I at least knew that much off the top of my head). You’re also handed a program of agreed-upon policies for the Front to pursue, which acts as a relatively simple framework pushing you towards short-term goals you should be pursuing.

You’re also much less dependent on the luck of the draw this time out. You have enough juice to snap up half a dozen important ministries from the get-go – the rest go to your coalition partners – and cabinet members show up as always-available cards in addition to the trio in your hand, meaning that if you’ve got the finance ministry, you can use an action to tweak tax rates or mess with tariffs (or devalue the currency) any time you want. You also get more than one action per turn if your coalition is strong enough, though they start to decrease if your partners get fractious or the Senate gets restive at the pace of progress (though I was a little surprised their disapproval had as much impact as it seemed to, since almost my first course of action every time I’ve played is to remove their veto and kneecap their prerogatives – I’m no idiot, I know what to do to Senates).

As a result, Popular Front can play more like a traditional strategy game, where you can play out a proactive strategy and take action on your own terms, and marshal almost the whole powers of the state rather than a single formation within it. It makes for an empowering change of pace, but there are of course reminders that you’re still subject to the whims of history, most notably the events that play out at the end of many turns: in the early stages many are entirely domestic, highlighting the agency of players outside your control, like union leaders or other parties, but as time goes on they increasingly have to do with foreign relations. The Spanish Civil War kicks off early, and you have some ability to influence it via arms sales; similarly, German rearmament and adventurism create a constant, escalating drumbeat to which diplomacy can only offer so much of a response.

Thus, the central dilemma of the game reveals itself to be the question of when to pivot from domestic considerations to a military buildup. In my first game, I didn’t have the War Ministry included in my portfolio by default, and I figured that was OK – I spent three years leading France out of the Depression via judicious public-works programs and pro-labor reforms, giving women the vote, encouraging immigration, and accomplishing various other liberal priorities along the way, all while keeping the budget more or less balanced, inflation under control, and the government unified. As German saber-rattling about the Sudetenland increased, I figured it was time to reshuffle the cabinet and run a crash-investment program to get the military up to snuff. But I was horrified to see what my complacent coalition partner had been up to when I took over the War Ministry, as a few dozen armored divisions and an anemic air force didn’t seem likely to give the Wehrmacht much of a pause. Nine months of maxed-out deficit spending, alas, wasn’t nearly enough to get things back on track, and I had cause to regret erring so far on the butter side of the guns-or-butter debate (while still appreciating how awesome it was to have all that butter) as the tanks rolled into Paris.

My second time out, I made the opposite mistake, rushing defense production too early which meant the economic recovery never really took and some of my allies got a bit cranky (especially after the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact meant the pro-Soviet tankies didn’t like my antifascist propaganda any more). Still, I was able to keep the plates spinning long enough to get an impressive army pulled together, and with some judicious save-scumming to explore the set of strategies control of the military allows you to adopt, this time it was French troops entering Berlin in 1940.

All of which is to say that while Popular Front may be a bit easier and more conventional than other games in the series, it very much works gangbusters as a story-creation engine, and it once again helped me see history in a more direct, participatory way. And not just history – this is a small thing, but as I played the card that allowed me to organize a mass rally and picked as the theme, as always, “against fascism, at home and abroad!”, I found myself comparing this attempt to educate the party’s voters about their interests, and form a public around these ideas, to our current, cramped debates about how best to sacrifice vulnerable minorities to public opinion for maximum electoral benefit. Perhaps more so than any other game in the series, Popular Front reminds us that politics is not just the pursuit of economic growth and a 50%+1 electoral margin: there are larger things at stake, then as well as now.

In the spring of two thousand and twenty six, I, Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, poured all the gold of my rich nature into this heroic task: to review a game in which I am the prime mover, but do not appear in my full splendor – rendered, by the pen of a grasping and jealous author, farcical, capering, an organ-grinder’s monkey gifted, admittedly, with my mesmeric gaze, but subordinated to the caprices of chance rather than elevated above it by virtue of supreme intellect. As one who originated the rôle of the sensation-novel villain, I recoil to see it performed today in so tawdry an imitation.

I note these personal reasons to deplore the present work, only to dismiss them. One of the rarest of all the intellectual accomplishments is for a man to judge with perfect impartiality even when his reputation is called to question. Immense privilege! I possess it – do you?

But to commence upon the matter. To create an interactive fiction drawn from the world of the sensation novel and its gothic-novel antecedent is only natural; and it is just as natural to align the player with the interests of the devilish antagonist, rather than the insipid protagonist. Lurking in a decaying manse, bent to the realization of a grand design, the villain starts at the intrusion of those who would foil my – that is, his – conspiracy:

"After years of meticulous manipulation, your plans are nearing completion. You are so close to your goal you can taste it. As you stare out the window of your only somewhat stolen manor you see a blot on the horizon that troubles you."

The author – surely a person of the lower classes – is not content to present a single elegantly-laid narrative, but has recourse to games of chance instead. The pair of heroes who burst onto the scene are chosen at random – perhaps a ghost, or a turncoat partner, or simply a nosy neighbor who has no business in interfering with matters as far beyond them as is Fosco from a gnat!

The throw of dice likewise governs the resolution of the repeated confrontations between these contending forces. The villain must choose where to set an ambuscade for his quarry, knowing that their strength waxes in some environs and wanes in others. And as a master of matters both chemical and metaphysical, I look with approval upon the influence of weather on the success of the villain’s endeavors: the black, baleful eye of the new moon will set some heroes’ sinews a-tremble, while endowing others with false courage, and it is much the same case with clouds, the lashing wind, &c. Still, is matching opportunity to action so mechanical a process as the game proposes? It is not. And does success turn on the mere fortuity of happenstance, rather than the perfection of premeditation? It does not – infuriating, insufferable insolence!

My own mental insight informs me that three inevitable questions will be asked here by persons of inquiring minds. They shall be stated—they shall be answered.

First question. How may a mere glance defat the heroes? The answer is, the villain is like myself a disciple of Mesmer, capable of reducing the most stalwart of meddlers to a senseless swoon with the precise application of their gaze (subject, I repeat, to the vagaries of the dice which so enamor the author). Should they faint ten times or more, their strength shall fail and, chastened, they shall slink back to the London drawing-rooms of their friends, in search of sympathy for their unmanly failures. One gloats at the prospect, though one also quails at the repetitiveness of besting such unworthy opponents so many times.

Second question. May the villain also complete his plot? Answer: perhaps, though even I – I! – have not managed it. The vulgarity of the present author extends to assessing the success of a design not according to its sublimity, its refusal to obey the limits inscribed at the borders of human imagination and human morality, but instead by a counter of Plot Points. These are increased by using an appropriate item against the heroes at an appropriate time, rather than relying on the gaze, but beyond the damnable abstraction, Fosco must raise an objection: why can poisoned lemonade be proffered profitably in a cloudy colonnade, but not a sunny lake? And having once sucked its sour venom, would any hero truly be dull-witted enough to sup again, and again, when given the chance? To exhaust the possibilities compassed by the author’s limited mind would exhaust me as well.

Third question. Is this as much fun as it sounds? I answer, to be Fosco is to feel, with Icarus, the tips of your wings brush against the firmament of heaven – but, besting the Greek, to rise once more, rather than to fall! The game gives the taste of such bliss, but only the meanest taste.

I enter into no sordid particulars, in discussing this part of the subject. My mind recoils from them. With a Roman austerity, I pass on in silence.

Well, perhaps you are owed one sordid particular:

"Ice hangs off the balcony, like the teeth of some impossible beast. The cold wind blows, and you are exposed, no longer protected by walls and warm tapestries. Snowflakes dust your shoulders, as bright as diamonds and three times as cold.

"You break icicles off the ledge and drop them off the roof, waiting to hear them shatter below. The only thing better would be if they actually hit someone.

"‘How fraile ice is. Just one tap and it shatters. How similar to human bones. You just need to know where to hit it.’ You snap an icicle and the heroes jump."

A captivating scene, truly. But the misspoken word, the recourse to mere brutishness, the sullying of one’s hands – these are the actions of a lackey, nothing else.

A word more, and the attention of the reader (concentrated breathlessly on myself) shall be released. Shall the Perilous Plot be indicted in the public dock? Can the verve of its conception survive against the accusation that it does not do justice to its theme? Can we set aside the ways it has insulted me, as the origin and archetype of its protagonist?

No. It cannot be permitted – the enormity cannot be forgiven. Youths! I invoke your sympathy. Maidens! I claim your tears.

I announced, on beginning it, that this narrative would be a remarkable document. It has entirely answered my expectations. At immense personal sacrifice, I followed the dictates of my own ingenuity, my own humanity, my own caution. Receive these fervid lines—they are worthy of the occasion, and worthy of

–FOSCO

(With apologies to Wilkie Collins)

One of the coolest things about IF Comp is that every year, you come across brand new authors who bring something fresh and idiosyncratic to this hoary old genre of ours. So one of the highlight of last year’s Comp was getting to play not one, not two, but three games by a debut author that boasted a high level of craft and shared a common vibe – cozy, nonviolent D&D-inflected fantasy focusing on romance and mystery – but managed to each put their own spin on things. Of Lamp Post Production’s trio of games in their annus mirabilis, though, Fantasy Opera: Mischief at the Masquerade seemed like it would most benefit from elaboration. That’s not because it was a weak entry by any means; far from it, playing a private detective in a magical version of early-modern Venice trying to track down an anonymous threat to a world-premiere opera was all sorts of fun. But its use of RPG elements felt like it was crying out for elaboration, and its shorter running time meant the romance elements didn’t have as much room to breathe. So while I very much enjoyed the author’s other two games, I was happy to see that it was Fantasy Opera getting the sequel treatment this Spring Thing.

And this second installment proves that 2025 was no fluke. Theater of Memory boasts the same strengths as the author’s earlier work: while you’re in a different city, investigating a different music-related mystery, once again there’s a wide cast of appealing characters, design that feels responsive to your chargen choices without evoking FOMO, and lush art illustrating proceedings. But there are some differences too – notably, you can’t actually romance any of those appealing characters, which is a good choice given that the timeframe of the investigation is once more fairly curtailed, and there’s a new dream-analysis system that enlivens the game’s central metapuzzle.

See, this time out you’ve been called in to discover why all the musicians in the company of a newly-built theater are plagued by uncanny recurring dreams. While the first stage of the investigation proceeds in a straightforward-enough fashion – you interview your client, then a bunch of the people who’ve been affected, with your choice of whether to specialize in observation or charm, or build expertise in matters mystical, magical, or (m?)architectural providing slightly different clues – there’s an intermezzo section where you’re tasked with identifying key commonalities in the various dreams before proceeding to the climax.

There are some slight rough edges in this bit – in particular, I found distinguishing between “love” and “romantic relationship” when sussing out shared themes to be a bit overly-narrow – but there aren’t penalties for guesses so far as I could tell. And solving the puzzle isn’t that hard, but made me feel very satisfied: the groundwork for the eventual revelation is well established, and even once you get the overall gist, working through the exact mechanics of how to end the haunting is a very fun process, and again, one that isn’t overly reliant on what skills you picked or how poorly you’ve been rolling (I think some unluckiness with dice meant I didn’t fully understand how the (Spoiler - click to show)paintings worked until relatively late in the process, despite magic being my best skill, but the game still made me feel like a clever detective who’d figured everything out, with the only indication to the contrary being a deduction from the number of points I was assigned at the end).

Throughout, there’s a pleasing attention to detail that enlivens the world and the people in it – it’s a straightforward mash-up of early-modern Italy with 5th edition Dungeons and Dragons, I suppose, but there’s real research undergirding the first part of that equation (just read the detailed source notes in the afterword) and while species is a big part of how the characters are defined, they play against stereotypes as often as with. The prose, meanwhile, remains direct and keeps the pacing up, while offering more than enough specificity to draw you in:

"You walk over to the bass singer. The pacing minotaur towers intimidatingly over your average human stature. Long, curling horns extend from his bovine head, and the floor of the wooden stage seems to tremble whenever he hits his lowest notes."

It’s true that few of the ensemble come through as strong characters in their own right – I felt like I only got a good read on the maestro who hired me, as well as the trio of suspects, who get more detailed backstories and conversations – but again, that feels like a good decision given the game’s length and structure. And keeping the focus on the NPCs relevant to the mystery is similarly appropriate to the genre.

All told, this second installment in the Fantasy Opera series makes a good case for this as a sturdy framework for a procedural, and for the author as no one-hit – or three-hit – wonder. Keeping the brand identifiable while bringing fresh mechanics and storytelling approaches to each game is an impressive feat, and whether Lamp Post Productions goes with another sequel, or something brand new in the house style, sign me up for whatever’s next.

I suppose this exposes me as a person of limited imagination, but before I played Maybe you’ll respect this dead person instead, I’d never really contemplated the broad advantages – to one’s social life, career, and general psychological well-being – of being able to summon a giant hermit crab to wreak havoc at your merest whim. Christmas party running long? GIANT HERMIT CRAB. Frustratingly vague performance review? GIANT HERMIT CRAB. Seasonal affective disorder? GIANT HERMIT CRAB. Truly, self-actualization via enormous crustacean is an idea whose time has come – get this crab a podcast and an Instagram account.

Admittedly, the protagonist of Maybe you’ll respect… has more legitimate reasons for letting a hermit crab do the talking than the generalized anomie of modern life. As a mute spirit-summoner in a fantasy milieu, he must rely on a quartet of ethereal allies not only to defeat the powerful monsters trying to destroy the world but also for basic communication, not to mention to push back against the institutionalized sexism of the all-female Hunter’s Guild he wants to join. And players with more restraint than me might lean more heavily on the other three inhabitants of the censer he uses to call forth the spirits: a diminutive sword-saint, a giant ogre warrior, and a duelist as deadly as she is conceited (this last one does double duty as the game’s narrator – she’s almost as fun as the crab).

(Almost).

The plot here is very basic – our hero is snubbed by the powers that be and takes on a dangerous mission to prove himself, accompanied by a plucky ally who provides the exposition that’s tricky for a mute character to deliver. As well, the game’s got the kind of hazy fantasy worldbuilding where the guild of monster-hunters has property and casualty insurance for their headquarters (it’s not clear this is meant to be a joke), and the prose is evocative but occasionally tends to adjectivitis:

"The perpetual lava falls on the cliff face backlight the marble white city in the evening light of the setting sun and the planet’s orbiting rings."

It feels churlish to complain about these slight rough edges when the main business of the game is so entertaining, though. The gameplay revolves entirely around choosing which of your four summons to lean on from moment to moment, through two major setpieces: first, trying to persuade the guild to let you join, and second, the aforementioned adventure to bring back trophies from some defeated monsters. You can’t always summon anybody, and the author does a good job of imposing restrictions to help the player internalize the fancy anime-style names (at least as long as you’re playing; I’ve completely forgotten them one day on) and get familiar with their capabilities. The choice of two radically different scenes also highlights the importance of versatility – contra my intro, the crab isn’t always the optimal choice. And speaking of optimal choices, while I think you can get to a good ending no matter what, the game does keep track of stuff like how many times you and your partner get hurt in the fight, awarding fun achievements at the end, which feels like the right level of consequences (I didn’t get many of these, because again, any time I could introduce my opponents to the power of my Crab Style Kung Fu, I did).

Maybe you’ll respect… makes good use of this simple but novel gameplay structure, then, and the straightforward story does resonate with positive values of representation and belonging. And, as the “to be continued” at the end indicates, this might only be the introduction to a larger saga, in which case keeping things comparatively simple before proceedings get more complex is entirely understandable. And as long as “that’s an interesting point, why don’t you repeat it to my GIANT HERMIT CRAB” remains an always-available option, bring on the sequel.

There was a year when I was in middle school that the Redwall series were my favorite books. As with so many artifacts of one’s youth, I’ve no idea how they hold up today, but I remember them as King Arthur meets Brambly Hedge: action-packed medievalish adventure, with sieges and abbeys and ancient swords, and a cast of animal characters that followed what in retrospect is slightly uncomfortable species-based determinism. Like, the vicious, untrustworthy baddies were stoats and weasels, badgers were all strong and kinda prickly, and the main characters were mice – humble, clever, kind, and always underestimated by those around them. They were a lot of fun, but I have to say, there’s something profoundly un-mouse-like about an epic, isn’t there? Like, the metaphors all work well enough, but those were stories that had mice in them, not mouse-shaped stories.

A Quiet Scurry illustrates the difference: this choice-based look at the nightly gauntlet a British mouse must run to survive until its next morning is wholly concerned with rodent business, and beyond that its small, focused size make the choice of subjects entirely apropos. Short, near-poetic bursts of text introduce each of your basic needs in turn: first, satiating your hunger, next, finding something to drink, and lastly, scouting out a safe place to rest. So far so cozy, but mice are vulnerable, and danger is always near, whether from hungry predators or the uncaring human world. While you’re not overwhelmed with choices, the game does a good job of presenting three or four plausible-sounding alternatives at each juncture; while careful thought got me to a good ending on my first playthrough, I replayed Quiet Scurry a few times (it only takes about five minutes) and confirmed that even small lapses of judgment can have deadly consequences.

The prose does a good job of situating you in a mouse’s-eye view of the world, neither needlessly obfuscating what’s happening nor giving the player-mouse more understanding than seems reasonable. It’s all conveyed through quick, concrete details:

"Now safe within the roots of the hedgerow your thirst tugs at your mouth, the dryness of the oats worsening the need."

The one place where the writing gets less precise is the various bad ends; here, the merciful veils of indirection and metaphor conceal the violence that the player intuits must have happened, but isn’t forced to confront. I suppose this means Quiet Scurry shies away from the full nature-documentary experience, but I was glad of it – along with the game, I’d prefer to dwell on the plucky, indomitable spirit of the mouse that succeeds than the violence that befalls those who fail.

I don’t have much more to say about the game than this – it has modest ambitions, it realizes them well, and its form follows its function. Part of me wonders what a more robust take on the subject matter would look like, perhaps digging into the social world of mice, or expanding the timeline to examine their different stages of life. But that risks getting us back to the oxymoronic mouse epic: part of what’s appealing about mice is that they seem small and contented, so let us be contented that Quiet Scurry is small.

Local government is weird. In my career I’ve done advocacy at the federal level as well as the state level in California, working on bills that would raise and spend billions of dollars or make substantial changes to major sectors of the economy. But I’ve also done work in cities, counties, and other local governments, and while a lot of the dynamics are exactly the same, just with smaller numbers, I’ve also come across irruptions of pure chaos that are impossible to explain without just saying “man, this is weird.”

Like, one time I was supporting a community group that was pushing for expanded weekend burial hours in a rural public cemetery district – they were Hmong, and had a tradition of doing Sunday funerals – which seemed pretty straightforward. They’d gone to the district superintendent, who was an old guy who didn’t much like changing the way things were done, and he’d said he wouldn’t do it, so they went to a sympathetic board member who said he’d be willing to push for it if he could get a sense of what it would cost. The superintendent wasn’t going to be helpful, so I worked with a colleague to analyze the district’s budget, made some estimates, and concluded it would cost maybe a couple thousand bucks wouldn’t really impact the bottom line. We were feeling good about things when my colleague went out to one of the district’s board meetings to share the analysis – except instead of greeting her presentation with a “huh, cool, glad this won’t be a big deal after all,” the superintendent freaked out at the idea that someone else was looking at the (publicly available) books. Even more unlikely, it turned out that one of the attendees at the meeting was a woman who’d decided to spend her retirement going to every single cemetery district meeting, and she tracked down my colleague’s phone number so she could leave a rambling three-minute voicemail in which she expressed how upset she was about… something, it was very hard to tell. Everyone got angry at everyone else, the county supervisor had to pull some strings to get people removed from the board, and the superintendent eventually decided this was all too stressful for him and retired. It was an enormous mess that took hours and hours to deal with, a gigantic fight over the smallest imaginable iota of policy. Like I said: weird!

But not as weird as what’s going on in the Missing City Council (ha, managed to get around to it before we hit the 500 word mark!) The premise of this debut parser game is that you’re a Finn at City Hall for a hearing about a zoning dispute, but when you arrive, the building is almost deserted: nobody’s in any of the offices or meeting rooms, except for a pair of British guards inexplicably hanging out in the basement. So your task is to explore the building, get through some locked doors, and solve a multi-step puzzle to find out what’s happened to the misplaced aldermen so they can rule in your favor.

At least, that’s what I think is going on, based on the title and blurb; the game itself doesn’t provide any direct context or motivation, so this is really one of those fumble-around-with-everything-that-looks-like-a-puzzle-until-you-win affairs. And fumble I did, because Missing City Council makes a bunch of idiosyncratic interface decisions, like eschewing compass directions in favor of having you ENTER or go IN various doors and passages. The contents of rooms are also often listed in a jumble at the end of the sparse location descriptions, which lends a bizarre air to proceedings:

"You can see a staircase up, a door to the lift, a left guard, a right guard, a door to the toilet, a door to the shelter and a door to the garage here."

There are also a lot of the usual infelicities of a minimally-implemented game that didn’t receive any outside testing – many objects (including the player) have default descriptions, there are locked doors that open only by PUSHING and items mentioned in descriptions that aren’t implemented, and so on. The puzzles also seem like they must only make sense to the author – while I dimly intuited that I needed to make some tea to distract the British guards (points for knowing national stereotypes), the steps required are so Byzantine that I can’t see how a player would make progress without going to the walkthrough. Like, the first step major step is to intuit that an avant-guard art piece described as being made of boiled sweets would dislodge some of its hard candies if you hit it, then hitting it enough times to get a lemon drop to pop off so that you can put it in the tea to make lemon Earl Grey.

Usually try to say at least something nice about authors’ first games, no matter how much I’ve complained about their rookie mistakes, and that’s actually easy to do here: this is a charmingly zany premise, some of the scene-setting, like the art collection crammed into the upstairs sauna, is memorably silly, and the ultimate explanation as to what’s going on made me laugh. So this is an author with a unique comedic angle, and we could always use more farce in parser IF – hopefully their next game will get some more testing, and sand down the weirdness so that it’s quirky rather than completely impenetrable.

(Oh, and there’s a happy ending to the cemetery district story: a new superintendent took over, and confirmed that yeah, they could extend the hours for just a couple thousand bucks, no big deal. I’m not sure whether that lady kept going to the board meetings, but I like to think she does, and finds something new to get incredibly upset about every month).

One of the blessings of middle age is that I’ve arrived at a stage of life where I’m neither especially good at video games, nor especially bothered by not being especially good at video games. I can bumble my way through an immersive sim with plenty of save-scumming, have an adequate enough understanding of roguelike strategy that I can usually eke out a lowest-difficulty win eventually, and have the wisdom to give anything that advertises itself as a Soulslike a wide berth (no, wider). But IF is a relatively sedate pasture, where fading reflexes and blurred vision don’t exact much of a toll, and by this point I’ve played more than enough of it to have a solid feeling for the common tricks and tropes, so it’s usually not too much of a challenge to get to a good ending (especially since some of the wisdom time brings is a lack of compunction about consulting the walkthrough).

Nonetheless, I’m forced to confess to y’all that I absolutely suck at Cryptid Hunter.

It doesn’t seem like it should be that fiendish of an experience – in fact, its first impression is almost cozy, drawing you into a heartwarming story where an aspirational hunter after obscure creatures is gifted the tools they need to make their avocation their vocation (well, actually that’s the second impression; my first impression was chagrin that the very first word of the blurb is a typo’d “your” in place of a “you’re”, which thankfully isn’t reflective of the mostly-solid editing in the game proper, but is still worth correcting). Your mysterious benefactor also gives you a list of three specific cryptids they’d like you to nab, each characterized by a trio of vague traits like “near water” or “elongated.” After a quick trip to the library to read up on the spooooky background of the town’s six creepy locations, and a glance over the thoughtfully provided notebook where you can scribble observations and guidebook that memorializes your quarries, it’s off to the field.

Investigations follow a consistent pattern: after a few introductory passages where you explore the chosen location, you come across evidence of a cryptid or the thing itself, at which point you have a few choices, which always includes taking general observations, snapping a photo, capturing it, or leaving it alone, at least for now (sometimes there are additional bespoke interactions, too). Usually a casual perusal will establish one of the creature’s traits with clarity, but often there’s a fair bit of ambiguity, so you need to think carefully about what the game is presenting to you. You’ll also need to pay close attention to the photos, which are rendered in-game, not just described in the text, and are impressively surreal and creepy.

Indeed, the cryptids are a real highlight; we’re not just talking about Bigfoot here, these are unique beasties I don’t recall coming across before. And while the prose is a bit too informal to be really scary, it nonetheless lifts up well-chosen details to set the mood:

"Actually determining the lake from its banks is harder than you thought. The lake is filmed over with dense, slimy algae matching the muddied moss that you’ve been schlepping through. Pieces of trash float around the sides of the dock."

So all the elements are in place for a satisfying deduction game, the more so because the creatures you’re searching for are randomized each time you play. After you capture your third cryptid, an endgame sequence triggers that sees you bring your prey to your employer, unlocking a climactic encounter if you’ve gotten them all correct. Sadly, as I mentioned, it turns out I was quite bad at this! I felt confident enough in deciding whether a particular beast let out a scream or had a smell, but some of the traits are far more obscure – does a monster that goes on all fours but sometimes rears up have “two ways of moving”? If water is rippling in all directions around a sea creature, is that an indication that it’s got “elemental manipulation” or is it just thrashing around?

I’m sure smarter, more observant people than me would play carefully, take careful notes, rule certain monsters in and out, and only begin capturing once they were sure they had the solution. I, on the other hand, preferred to squint uncomprehendingly at the guidebook, shrug and make a gut decision, and trust random chance to deliver me to the true ending.

This, as it turned out, was an amazingly effective strategy at getting me two out of three of the right monsters, which I managed to do six times running before the gods of the random number generator finally took pity on me. And while the climax was worth it – it has a fun twist and some choice-based gameplay that feels like it allows for some satisfying variation in endings – playing Cryptid Hunter that many times unfortunately did take some of the bloom off of it. The location descriptions, the monsters, and the places where you find them are exactly the same in each playthrough – it’s only the list of targets that changes – meaning that almost all of the text is exactly the same every time; if you didn’t quite grok a creature’s traits last time, well, good luck, you’ll be reading through the same fuzzy description next time. The game also presents itself in a lot of shorter passages, meaning that even if you know exactly where to find a monster you want to capture, you need to do a lot of brainless clicking to get to that point.

As a result, I’m not sure Cryptid Hunter is as replayable as its blurb claims, but it’s very much a good time over the first playthrough or two. So if I didn’t have quite as fun of a time with it as I would have liked, well, I guess that’s just down to my failure to Git Gud.