
It’s got heart, that puppy, but it needs more brains.


It’s got heart, that puppy, but it needs more brains.

Bum-bo may have to deal with a lot of crap, but it’s all well worth pushing through.

The only good part of Code Vein is its combat, but for me, that turns out to be enough.

It’s such a warm game. Touching and heartfelt, masterfully capturing the cosy excitement of the places and stories we explore as children.

For me to enjoy turn-based sneakery, I need more information. Naughty Police is a game where simply moving from A to B is riddled with uncertainty, and the cost of being spotted too often boils down to repetitive busywork. It’s not a price I’m willing to pay.

It’s a game where old-school decisions too often trump good ones. A blast from a past I never lived through, where puerile humour and “area complete” screens tease you about not being a “real player”. Ion’s tongue might be in its cheek, but I’ve got little interest in what it’s saying.

Even if you don’t care about disjointed storytelling, repetitive levels or cringe-worthy jokes, I can’t recommend Youngblood.

The parts I like far outweigh the parts I don’t. I’ve got my weirdo NPCs, my Ark hunting, my Whoopinkoffs and Dimbledicks. I’ve found every Ark, now, but I still plan on gambolling between side activities. I still want to explore, even though I wish I was exploring a world that had been less generically destroyed.

There is a demon, and I’m going to kill it. With style. I’ll shoot and slash and somersault, chaining together increasingly outlandish combos while listening to electro-metal where I only catch the odd word like ‘sword’ or ‘death’.

Apex goes so much further, reaching into every corner of a well-trodden formula and lavishing it with saucy new ideas.

Just a few weeks ago I wrote about how I wished more games would embrace the absurd, and that’s exactly what Away: Journey To The Unexpected set out to do. It succeeded, but oh boy did it fail.

That’s where Resident Evil succeeds. Not in the drivel spouted from its character’s mouths, but in the bullets spewed from their guns. Or better yet – the clicking of empty chambers, or the spine-chilling scratches of scrabbling overhead. I may hate lickers, but I’m also a little bit in love.