I don't really know how to process this, so I'm just going to start typing and see what happens.

Many moons ago, you may recall me talking about a little group called the Squadron of Shame that originated on the 1up.com forums. We were a group of people who eschewed the big hits of the day in favour of the overlooked and underappreciated; our collective name was inspired by the term "Pile of Shame", which we first heard discussed on the 1up Yours podcast.

For the unfamiliar, the Pile of Shame is the pile of "stuff" you have that you keep meaning to get around to, but never do. You can have a Pile of Shame of pretty much any form of media, and pretty much everyone has one these days; some refer to it as their "backlog". The concept behind the discussion on the podcast was that the participants would take a game that they felt had passed them by — in this case, Psychonauts by Double Fine — then play it through independently and come back later to discuss it.

That never actually happened on the 1up Yours podcast because everyone involved was much too busy to be able to devote any time to such a project. But a group of us on the "Radio" forums on 1up.com thought it was a great idea, so we ran with it instead, playing through Psychonauts together and discussing it on the forums. We quickly gained a reputation for lengthy, in-depth discussion, but the Radio boards were a good place for that sort of thing, since they were generally relatively quiet, and free of the general console fanboy wars that were going on in the more generic forums.

I'm honestly not entirely sure if Jeff was with us right from the beginning, because to be perfectly honest he's felt like a fixture for as long as I can remember. In that respect, I think it simply doesn't matter whether he was there from the start or not; fact is, he was a part of our little group. A precious friend. A valued contributor to our discussions. Part of something bigger than each of our own, individual selves.

After 1up.com went through its slow, agonising death, much of the Squad drifted apart for one reason or another. Many of us moved to Twitter (from the period before it was The Worst Place On The Internet — yes, believe it or not, there once was a time like that) and there were several attempts to build our own little communal spaces online through shared blogs and forums. We got together and did our own podcast. Some of us even managed to meet face-to-face — and yes, that includes me, despite the vast majority of the Squad being in the U.S. and Canada. On one occasion I was happy to meet Jeff, who was pretty much how I had imagined him. That's a good thing.

The 2010s were, generally speaking, a fairly dark period for me for all manner of reasons that are beyond the scope of what I want to talk about today, but the net result was that I lost touch with a lot of people for a good few years, including former Squadmates. But when I emerged from the other side of things and found that there was a small but dedicated little unit of the Squad still hanging out online, chatting and sharing war stories, it was enormously comforting — and a big part of that comfort came from the fact that I saw Jeff was still there. He had always been there, even if I hadn't.

Jeff was the sort of person I always enjoyed seeing in the chat — and, of course, on that one occasion we were actually in the same place. He always had a kind word, something to contribute or something to share that he thought we'd be interested in. He was someone that it was simply nice to have around; as I say, he had always felt like a fixture, in a good way.

It's shocking, upsetting and scary to think that he could be gone so suddenly. The world has lost a wonderful person while so many other complete shitbags continue to exist.

It's not fair. It's not fair on Jeff, it's not fair on the people he leaves behind. But I hope, wherever he is now, that he knows how much people cared for him, and how much people are going to miss him now that he's gone. And that whatever is next is a better, more peaceful existence than the world we live in right now.

Farewell, Jeff. Forever a Squaddie.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 602: A farewell to Cpt.Carnage appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Likely to be a long one today, and I'm not entirely sure exactly what I want to say, nor exactly how to say it, but I ask you to indulge me, whether you're a regular reader, someone who stumbled across this page, or someone I specifically pointed in the direction of this post.

I'm just going to start typing and see where things go from there.

This is something I've been meaning to write for some time, but have never really known exactly how to write it. It's probably going to be difficult to write, it's probably going to be difficult contemplating the possible reactions to it, and I honestly don't know if it's a good idea to even write it at all in the first place. But having had… Feelings festering inside me for probably the best part of a decade and some change at this point, I think it's time I got at least some of them down on paper.

I was inspired to write this by Chris "Papapishu" Person's excellent post over on Aftermath, I'm Only Here Because I Was A Forum Poster, in which he contemplates how, in the mid 2000s, he found a community of like-minded folks on the forums for 1up.com, and that, via a somewhat roundabout route, resulted in him being a professional games journalist, initially for Kotaku and subsequently for Aftermath.

Pishu isn't the only person for whom this is true. I can probably attribute my current position indirectly to those days back on the 1up.com forums, and Jeff Grubb and Mike "Tolkoto" Minotti of Giant Bomb, both specifically namechecked in Pishu's piece, almost certainly have their own similar stories. Those heady pre-social media days on 1up.com were, it's fair to say, a real high point for online socialisation for me and for many others, and I feel like things have only gotten worse since the collapse of that site and its consequences: the community scattering to the four winds, never really settling down and calling one place "home" ever again.

I first came to 1up.com because of the family connection. My brother, John Davison, helped to launch the site, and was also working on Electronic Gaming Monthly and the Official U.S. PlayStation Magazine at the time. 1up.com was a bold new experiment in online video game-related media: its social features were, at the time, pretty revolutionary, allowing any of its users to start a blog, create a club with its own private message board, and post on the forums. The site still had professional staff, of course, and for many folks the various 1up.com podcasts by that staff were a real highlight of the site. But for me, the thing that made me happier more than anything was the sense of community it had at its peak.

As someone who is what I now understand to be autistic, finding a community of like-minded nerds online was an absolute lifeline. Finally, I had a place where I could well and truly be myself, among "my people". And it didn't take long for me to find a niche within a niche: nerds who enjoyed video games, and who enjoyed talking about them at great length, in great detail, and with a mind to proper in-depth critical analysis rather than just flame wars or quickly writing things off because they didn't score over 80% in a review.

If you look back over the past entries of this blog, you'll see frequent references to "The Squadron of Shame". This was a loose conglomerate of 1up.com members who came together after a discussion on the 1up Yours podcast about "The Pile of Shame": what today tends to be referred to as "the backlog". The pile of games that you've bought, but haven't gotten around to. The games you always meant to play, but haven't. The games that don't get the time of day in reviews, but which you always thought looked interesting.

Fun fact: the first video I ever posted on YouTube was a hacked-together "trailer" for the games we'd covered up until that point.

1up Yours was initially intending to pick a game from the hosts' respective Piles of Shame, play it as a group, then discuss it the following episode, book club style. They didn't really manage to do that — and this isn't a criticism or admonishment of them, as they were all busy people — but a group of us on the forums thought that it was a really good idea… so we did it instead, beginning with the game the 1up Yours crew intended to cover: Psychonauts.

Squad "Missions", as they were known, took the form of a forum thread, in which the person proposing the "mission" would outline the reasons they thought the game in question was noteworthy and why they thought it could do with some in-depth discussion. These initial posts were often long and in-depth in their own right, and they set a good tone for the subsequent discussion: Squad threads became notorious as being wordy, but no-one gave us grief for it, and we often got a shout-out on 1up Yours for successfully picking up and running with the otherwise aborted concept.

One day, something terrible happened on those forums, and I'm not entirely sure why. Where there once had been a selection of subforums specific to particular types of discussion — including individual platforms, plus a special forum for the "1up Radio" podcasts, which is where the Squad threads resided — there were now just two forums: "Games" and "Not Games". Presumably this was done in an attempt to make moderation easier, but it was the beginning of the end for 1up.com's community.

The first Squad thread we posted under this new layout (in "Games") was immediately trolled by someone, clearly unfamiliar with how we had done things on the 1up Radio boards, complaining about a "massive fucking wall of text", and things derailed quickly from there. It was abundantly clear, both from this forum upheaval and various other behind-the-scenes happenings at 1up.com, that the writing was on the wall for this community, and so we started looking into alternative approaches. (1up.com actually hobbled along until 2013, but most of the community and staff left long before that.)

Many of us settled on the fledgling Twitter as a means of interacting with one another, but one of the most important things we did was organise a podcast. This would take the place of our megathreads on the 1up.com boards, and allow a rotating group of us — with several regulars — to discuss the games in-depth, in person, for as long as we wanted. Although severely lacking in confidence to speak up when surrounded by people I always felt were probably a lot more clever and articulate than I was, I quickly developed a reputation among the group as The Guy Who Was Good At Editing The Podcast, so my seat in pretty much every episode was all but assured, and I made a (now-defunct, and apparently non-archived) website that left a written record of all the podcast episodes and the things we discussed. (The episodes themselves, thankfully, survived — you can find them all on my Soundcloud.)

For a while, things went well, and friendships solidified. I even made the trip across the pond to visit various other members of the Squad (who were mostly North America-based) on multiple occasions, and we played host to some Squaddies on at least one occasion that I recall.

We changed the format in which we discussed things several times over the podcast's complete run, shifting from the "book club" format to focusing on a particular topic and bringing our own examples to the table. Things were good, for a while. Then we stumbled across Katawa Shoujo, a visual novel about a boy with a heart condition and how he came to love a group of girls with disabilities that he came into contact with when they all attended the same special school.

Katawa Shoujo was — is — a thoroughly interesting cultural artifact, if you're unfamiliar. It stems from the work of an independent Japanese artist named RAITA (if I remember correctly), who sketched some girls who had various forms of physical disabilities. Various members of the notorious imageboard 4chan found these images somewhat striking, and so, seven years after the original images' publication, they took the unusual step of forming a development collective of individuals from all across the world in order to bring these characters to life. The result was an absolutely fascinating visual novel that handled the subject matter infinitely more sensitively than anyone would have ever expected, given the origins of the development team being a website commonly referred to by many (not without cause) as a "cesspit".

In keeping with the visual novels that tended to come west at the time of its release, Katawa Shoujo was a sexually explicit game, featuring erotic scenes between the protagonist and each of the various heroines. Unsurprisingly, this made some people uncomfortable, particularly given the high school setting of the game and the way it (like many other localised Japanese works) left the cast members' ages somewhat ambiguous. And, although we had a great podcast discussion about the game itself — during which several of us opened up emotionally more than we'd ever done in public before — some damage had been done to our group. I don't blame the folks who splintered off or their reasons for it, but I am still sad that it happened, because it marked the beginning of the end.

We managed a few more episodes post-Katawa Shoujo, but eventually things petered out. We'd had plans for a Squadron of Shame website with its own forum to host discussions just like in the Good Old Days, but it took a long time for those to come to fruition, and it never quite built up the same momentum as in the 1up.com era. Eventually, it fizzled out completely, and after many years of reflection I probably can't say with any confidence that I was completely blameless in this.

Around the time of our Katawa Shoujo discussions, I'd started getting to know one of our members known as "Shingro" a bit better, and he was particularly interested in anime, manga and Japanese games. He, along with a couple of other people I knew in other places online (including Google+, remember that?) had given me some recommendations for some localised Japanese games to try — games that never got much attention from the press, weren't received particularly positively when they did, but which were likely to appeal to anyone who "got" what Katawa Shoujo was going for. Among those games were the early entries in the Hyperdimension Neptunia series, the Atelier Arland series and the Ar Tonelico series.

I played and absolutely adored all of those games, and, along with Katawa Shoujo, found that I was experiencing something unusual and interesting: I was enjoying games that felt like they had been tailor-made to suit me and the way what I would later come to recognise as my neurodivergent brain worked. I recognised that they likely wouldn't appeal to everyone for a wide variety of reasons — and not just the sexually provocative element. They were unabashedly cheerful, they were colourful, they were often gleefully experimental (and not always successfully so) with their game mechanics, and their voice acting had a lot of screeching and shouting, particularly if you played in Japanese.

But I liked them for that; they knew their audience, and they unashamedly catered to that audience and no-one else with a laser-like focus. I started to discover hidden depths in these games; even the most silly-seeming ecchi titles, like Senran Kagura Burst, had something interesting to say, and they often had a lot less shame about it than many mainstream titles, many of which were still in their "dark and edgy equals mature" phase. In stark contrast to my growing disillusionment with triple-A games — Gears of War was my absolute last straw in this regard, as I hated that game and pretty much swore off "big games" after that — I felt like I was discovering gaming afresh for the first time.

And, naturally, I wanted to share the way these games made me feel. So I did. And for a while, things were okay, until I saw a few messages that made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Messages that, while it almost certainly wasn't the intent, given the sources, made me feel like I was being judged for the type of entertainment I was enjoying — entertainment that, let's not forget, I had recently come to feel was "speaking" to me like pretty much never before in my gaming career. Words like "creepy" and "perverted" were bandied about a bit too readily, and I… did not like that.

For a bit of context, I was struggling in my personal life around this time. (So what else is new?) Shortly after I took one of the aforementioned trips across the pond to meet some Squad members at PAX East in Boston, I split up with my first wife. And I… did not handle it very well. I felt betrayed, broken, utterly destroyed, and the things that I could cling onto for some degree of comfort in those trying times were of increasing importance to me. By the time Katawa Shoujo and the aforementioned other games came along, I was several years deep into A Difficult Time and, although I had met Andie, the wonderful person who is now my wife, I was still struggling and in great need of comfort.

I started to get frustrated when I saw the things I enjoyed come under what I perceived to be "attack". In the early to mid 2010s, this really started to come to a head, as the modern progressive movement started to really raise its head online — and was being more than a little abrasive about it, with public shaming often being the weapon of choice. In retrospect, I recognise how effective this can be — and how flaccid groups like the USA's Democratic party appear when they're not willing to step up and confidently declare their opponents to be Bad People — but at the time, I did not like it, particularly as I saw people I knew and cared about caught in the crossfire on multiple occasions.

At this point I should clarify that I have always had beliefs that are broadly in line with what one would call "progressiveness". I believe that straight white men have indeed been in a position of power and privilege for many years, and that marginalised groups, including women, have had an uphill struggle to stand on the same level — and that it is the responsibility of those who are in positions of power and privilege to help others up, so we can all benefit. I believe trans rights are human rights, I believe everyone has the right to love whoever they want to love, regardless of gender, and I believe racism is something we should have left behind long ago, and that it doesn't go challenged nearly often enough these days.

At the same time, part of my frustration stemmed from those mid-2010s feeling like I was being demonised for my gender and my sexuality in particular. I am sure at least part of this was down to my vulnerability at the time, but when I saw articles literally branding people who liked certain games as "creepy", "paedophiles" and "sex pests", I didn't like it. At all. Striving for equality, I felt, shouldn't mean dragging people down — particularly when there's a lot more nuance to the situation than just "white straight man = privileged". As someone having difficulty with my own personal situation — and what I later learned was neurodivergence — I certainly didn't feel like I was in the same position as the hypothetical straight white bogeyman, sitting in his suit with his perfect white teeth, counting his money and posting slurs on the Internet.

So I lashed out. There are numerous posts on both this blog and on MoeGamer where I did just that: I attempted to express how I was feeling about this. I attempted to express how these things that were important to me made me feel — and how it made me feel when I was called all manner of horrible names simply for what I liked, including by former colleagues. When I left USgamer, I was subject to some absolutely horrible abuse from an individual who joined the organisation as I was on the way out, and I received absolutely no support from anyone when that happened.

All this, as you might expect, eventually attracted the attention of the Gamergate crowd, who also counted among their number people who liked sexually provocative (or explicit) games, just like I did, and seemed to be forming a community of like-minded folks. I recognised even in the early days that Gamergate — and particularly its subreddit, KotakuInAction — was a scarlet letter, so I always took care not to publicly associate myself with the movement or even express support for it, particularly as things escalated and it became clear that no, for some of those people, it really wasn't about ethics in games journalism.

I maintain to this day, however, that among the early Gamergate crowd were some genuinely good people who wanted change for the better — and in a few cases actually achieved meaningful change that didn't involve any sort of bigotry — but with the inherently disorganised nature of the whole thing, it was, in retrospect, very easy for it to become an alt-right pipeline, and for bad actors to take control of things. And, as silly as it may sound for a dispute supposedly over video games to have such power, I firmly believe that at least part of the reason the world (particularly the online world) is in such a mess today is down to Gamergate.

Although I continued not to associate myself with Gamergate or its supposed beliefs, I found supporters from among its members for what little overlap we had. And I won't lie, it was nice to feel like there was someone who supported the way I felt, regardless of where they'd chosen to plant their flag. I found people who seemed to understand me, many of whom were on the periphery of the whole "culture war" by choice, much like I was, but who often got dragged into things whether they wanted to or not.

I continued to feel frustrated and vulnerable, though, like I was being pushed aside by people I had once called friends and a community I had once felt part of, all for the things I enjoyed. I continued to lash out, including towards people who had once been good to me, close friends, all because I felt like they had "sided" with people who didn't value my opinion, who wanted to brand me some of the worst names you can call people. And all because I liked anime-style games that occasionally crossed a line into sexual provocativeness or explicit scenes.

I said some things that I regret on multiple occasions, and I am deeply sorry about that. I recognise today that, in retrospect, I was standing at the very mouth of the alt-right pipeline and, if I had made some very different choices, I would be in a far worse situation than I am in today. Thankfully, I eventually recognised the danger I was in, and successfully changed my ways in such a way that I could continue to enjoy the things I loved without putting myself at risk of becoming one of those "everything I don't like is WOKE" idiots who infest online discourse today. And one of many positive results from that was a very enjoyable period in charge of Rice Digital, which subsequently led to my current position with Evercade — a job that, were it not for the necessity to check in on social media every day when I have otherwise mostly abandoned it for my personal life, would be 100% a dream assignment.

That doesn't change the regrets I have, though, and I wish I had come to the above realisation sooner than I did. There was still a period where I was in a bad place, and doing bad things, whether or not I really intended to. I deeply regret lashing out and pushing people away, and I wish I could make up for what I did, regardless of my reasons for it.

The reasons don't even matter any more; all that remains is the result, that being that I am growing older, I am mostly alone (except, thankfully, for the blessings that are my wife, cats and family) and in complete and utter despair at the mess I've made of my interpersonal relationships over the course of the last decade and a half.

I have many regrets. I am sorry to those I hurt. And I want to make things right. I just don't know how.

So this post is, hopefully, a start.

If you're reading this and you used to know me before… all this, I would like to know you again. I'm sure both our lives are very different to how they once were, hopefully for the better. On the whole, my life is much better than it was 10-15 years ago.

But I wish I hadn't lost those 10-15 years, and all the people I lost with them.

I am sorry to those of you I pushed away, either consciously or unconsciously. I am sorry to those of you I hurt. It doesn't matter if it was deliberate or not; if I hurt you, I hurt you, and I am sorry.

I just want things to go back to how they were during that one brief time in my life when I can say I was happy, when I felt I was accepted, when I felt I was among "my people". I know it can never be exactly the same as it once was. But I'm willing to put in the work needed to rebuild, reconnect and rekindle lost friendships.

Whatever it takes.

Thanks for reading.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

The post #oneaday Day 251: I'm Also Here Because I Was a Forum Poster (or: Reflections on Losing a Community, Mistakes Made and a Desire to Reconnect) appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I played it for a good 6 hours or so in total, so I think it's safe to say I'm having a good time. I thought I'd reached the end, but then a whole new bit started, and with it being half past 1 in the morning I thought I'd probably better stop.

I don't want to spoil too much about the game because it's very much a "story game" that is light on what we'd call traditional "gameplay" beyond moving around various beautifully presented environments, but I thought I'd pen a few words at least.

In 1000xRESIST, you play the role of Watcher, a clone of the mysterious "ALLMOTHER", the sole survivor of a global crisis that wiped out the rest of humanity. An entire society of the ALLMOTHER's clones has apparently sprouted up and is functioning about as well as can be expected in a futuristic post-apocalyptic dystopia where breathing the unfiltered air causes all your bodily fluids to leak out through your eyes.

What's particularly interesting about this game is that you get to see the "past" of the ALLMOTHER via various means, and because your character is from a time period that is completely unfamiliar with concepts like "high school" and "boys", there's a marvellously "uncanny" feel to everything you do and see.

It's not overdone, but it is almost intoxicatingly disorienting to begin with. As time goes on, you get used to it, though; you learn the curious little phrases that have come about as a result of generations' worth of worshipping the ALLMOTHER, and you start to understand why this peculiar society functions the way it does.

There's definitely a lot to unpack in the narrative as a whole, as there's a swathe of different themes tackled at various times. It's intelligently written, never patronising, and dear Lord is it (apparently) compelling, given the amount of time I've spent on it today.

Thankfully, I have a couple of days off work tomorrow and Tuesday, so I should hopefully be able to polish it off in that time. I'm keen to talk more about it, as I suspect pondering it on "paper" will help me process the many varied themes it brings to the table.

For now, though, sleep beckons.

The post #oneaday Day 163: A thousand resistances appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I was pretty intrigued, then, when Andrew Dice of Carpe Fulgur proudly announced the team's fifth project: a peculiar affair called This Starry Midnight We Make. Unlike Carpe Fulgur's previous output, it's not a role-playing game. It is… well, it's kind of baffling, to be honest. I guess technically it's a puzzle game of sorts, but I actually want to describe it more as a game about experimentation.

I sat down and played the demo version — available now on Steam, with the full version coming later this month — and recorded my experiences, bewilderment and all. Here's what happened when I had a go:

As you can see if you watched the video, the game blends visual novel-style storytelling with its main mechanic: creating "stars" in a magical basin that appears to influence what happens in Kyoto according to the astrological phenomena you create.

The basic format of the game involves plopping stones into this basin and watching them do stuff, then figuring out how to make them do other stuff. The basin is split into five elemental areas, represented by faint swirling coloured gases, and the combination of the elemental area you drop a stone into and the type of stone you drop determines what happens next.

As you progress through the game, you're tasked with a series of quests that ask you to create specific phenomena. What's interesting is that after an initial, rather brief and unenlightening tutorial, you're pretty much left to figure everything out for yourself. How, exactly, do you create a nebula? The game sure isn't going to tell you right off the bat, though it will record the phenomenon in your notebook once you've created it once, allowing you to refer back to it and check how you did it if you're not sure.

Beginning with the simple task of creating individual stars, the quests later start demanding that you create evolved forms of stars that involve mixing different types together, manipulating the amount of elemental gas in an area of the basin and even using "clay stars" to fuse others together. Beyond that, you're tasked with creating "constellations" using specific combinations of stars that you've created, and the game hints that once these have been created, they'll be used as "tools" to further manipulate your astral creations, though the demo stops before you get to see what this means for yourself.

What I found initially offputting but subsequently rather compelling about This Starry Midnight We Make is what I hinted at above: you have to figure out everything for yourself. And this is a huge adjustment from a lot of modern games, which spend much of their early hours walking you through every step of the mechanics you might be using throughout the game until you're absolutely sure you know what you're supposed to be doing. Not so in This Starry Midnight We Make. You are, in effect, a scientist, given some interesting things to fiddle around with and left to your own devices to try things out and see what happens. Some of the things you do will work — and these form genuine "Eureka!" moments, since you've figured them out for yourself — and others will not work, forcing you to analyse your "mistakes" and learn from them… or perhaps determine what caused an unexpected reaction to happen.

I find it difficult to envision how the game will carry this strange concept through a full-length narrative, but I'm kind of intrigued to find out. It's a slow burn of a game, for sure, and its obtuseness will doubtless put many people off within about ten minutes of starting, but if you put some time in and make the effort to actually experiment with it yourself, you'll find a strangely compelling experience waiting for you.

Do I recommend it? I'm hesitant to do so before seeing the full version, but I can at least recommend that you give the demo a try for yourself to see what you think and whether it might be for you. It's available now from Steam.

The post 1937: This Starry Midnight We Make appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

But it wasn't enough by itself to make me want to buy one. For a new platform to be truly compelling for me, there needs to be some long-form games that I'm interested in, whereas Resogun is an arcade game, intended to be enjoyed in relatively short bursts. This isn't a criticism of it, mind, but I'd have had a tough time justifying a PlayStation 4 purchase to myself purely on the strength of what is, essentially, next-gen Defender.

But oh, what a game Resogun actually is! I'm still skeptical of whether I'd have found it worth buying a PS4 for by itself — although in retrospect, I bought an Xbox 360 primarily because of Geometry Wars, which is even more simplistic than Resogun — but I'm absolutely in love with it, because it represents a true fusion between classic old-school arcade-style gameplay and modern presentation.

At its core, as previously noted, Resogun is similar to the classic arcade game Defender. You fly a little ship that can move and fire left and right at will. Like Defender, the game unfolds on a scrolling, wrapping stage, though here it's represented as a cylinder that you fly around the outer surface of. Like Defender, your job is to save little green humans from being abducted by invading alien flying saucers. Unlike Defender, there's significantly more to it than that.

For starters, the humans are held in captivity before you can rescue them. In order to do so, you need to destroy "Keepers" — special enemies that show up every so often with a green glow surrounding them. You'll get an audible announcement when some Keepers show up, but not a visual indicator showing where they are if they're around the other side of the level, so you'll need to find and destroy them quickly to save the human in question, because if you miss any of them — or, in some cases, destroy them in the wrong order — the human will immediately die. Succeed, however, and the human will pop out of his little prison box and start running around on the ground, at which point he becomes vulnerable to being abducted, falling into holes, drowning and being splattered by unpleasant things. He also becomes available to be picked up by your ship and transported to one of the rescue pods at the top of the level.

To complete a level, you need to proceed through three "phases". Each phase requires you to destroy a certain amount of enemies represented by a bar filling up at the bottom of the screen. When you complete a phase, you get a brief "time out" where you can still move and fire, but you're invincible and the enemies move in slow-motion. This allows you a moment to compose yourself and get yourself into an advantageous position before proceeding. The end of the third phase, however, jumps directly into a boss battle, with bosses taking the form of various peculiar geometric shapes that warp and twist before your very eyes as you shoot chunks off them and chip away at their energy bar. When the boss is dead, the whole level explodes and you move on to the next one. Repeat for five levels, beat game.

Except that's not all that there is to Resogun — at least not with the excellent DLC packages that have been released since it originally came out. Between these two packages (available as a bundle or individually) there are several new modes, including Survival, which places you on a single level and tasks you with surviving through a series of increasingly difficult days, acquiring power-ups by picking up humans; Protector, which requires you to deliver humans to cities to rebuild them and subsequently defend them from giant alien flying saucers; Commando, which casts you as a human attempting to protect his house from falling meteors in scenes somewhat reminiscent of Missile Command for a new generation; and Challenge, which gives you a series of unconventional ways to play the game and tasks you with completing some generally pretty fiendish objectives.

Resogun is unabashedly a score-attack game, and consequently it naturally comes with online support, allowing you to compare your scores both to your friends and the rest of the world's players. You can also filter these scores by time, allowing you to challenge friends each week or month to see who is truly the best (this week/month), and scores are tracked completely independently for each mode and difficulty setting.

Combine this with a robust ship editor, allowing you to create your own custom ships using the 3D "voxel" pixels from which the entire game is built (and which it is very fond of exploding things into at a moment's notice) and the ability to share said creations online and you have a remarkably "complete"-feeling package that, now I've spent some time with it, I'm pretty confident in recommending as an essential purchase for anyone with a PlayStation 4. (Assuming you like shooting things and watching numbers go up. And who doesn't like shooting things and watching numbers go up?)

So yeah. Buy Resogun. You won't regret it.

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I think the reason it's "working" for me is that I'm not attempting to make it the focus of my gaming life or anything, but it's something enjoyable to do during brief moments of downtime — sitting on the bog, waiting for pasta water to boil, being unable to get to sleep, that sort of thing. It also helps that it's a fairly solid game at its core, too; it's not the deepest game in the world, but it has enough substance to keep it interesting in short bursts.

What I find curious about it is that it's essentially Pokemon with all the fat trimmed off, and yet while Pokemon didn't hold my attention at all across the three installments I've tried — Red, Gold and Y — Brave Frontier has managed to keep me interested, and I think it's because of all the stuff that's been trimmed out from the Pokemon formula.

Pokemon, to me, always feels like it's not sure what it quite wants to be. It has the structure of a traditional RPG, but then the collectible, tradable and upgradeable aspect of a trading card game. It is arguably more widely renowned for its competitive metagame than anything significant it brings to the storytelling table, though it has managed to spawn a number of anime series and movies since it first burst onto the scene. The "JRPG" side of it and the "collectible monster battling" stuff always seem to be somewhat at odds with one another, and I think that's what's caused me to lose interest in them partway through every time I've tried.

Brave Frontier, meanwhile, focuses on the collectible battling side of things almost exclusively. There's no exploration, no wandering around caves, just battles of various descriptions and, between those battles, upgrading your units to be more powerful, stronger and capable of taking on tougher opponents. It's satisfying to build up a team that works together, whether you've been trying to go for a specific angle (all the same elemental type, for example, or perhaps a strongly defensive group that can survive against hard-hitting enemies) or whether you've been working with the hand you've been dealt, as I have been.

And the game presents you with interesting, meaningful choices to make every time you boot it up. I still dislike the use of "energy" bars in free-to-play games throttling your play sessions, but as I noted in my previous post about Brave Frontier, this game makes use of it as an interesting "risk/reward" mechanic by presenting you with the option to effectively "gamble" your potential play time against the possible rewards available.

You can spent small amounts of energy working your way through the "Quest" mode, which is a linear sequence of battles of gradually (very gradually) increasing difficulty tied together with a surprisingly not-that-bad, if cliche-tastic storyline. In doing so, you'll acquire a selection of not-very-good units (that can be used as "fusion fodder" to upgrade various aspects of your actually-good units) along with the game's currencies, and you'll also get a decent amount of experience.

Conversely, the daily dungeons that pop up throughout the week each cost significantly more energy to participate in but offer their own unique special characteristics and greater, more predictable rewards — the Monday dungeon, for example, offers significantly greater amounts of experience points than usual, providing you with the ability to level up your "Summoner" character quite quickly, in turn increasing your energy stock and the amount of "Cost" points you're allowed to spend on building your party; other dungeons throughout the week offer units that are required to "evolve" level-capped units to their next tier, large amounts of gold coins or various other rewards. Part of the thing that makes the game interesting is that you have to discover the value of each of these dungeons for yourself; it may not be immediately clear why you'd want to hunt down elemental idols, for example, but once you figure it out you'll know that you need to check in on that particular day to get your hands on some.

There's a certain amount of random-number generation (RNG) at work, of course, but as any MMO player will tell you, that's sort of part of the fun in a perverse, masochistic sort of way: imagine how much more satisfying it is to acquire something you've been trying to hunt down for over a week rather than having it handed to you on a plate. It's frustrating and annoying at times, sure — I'm currently in the aforementioned situation as I attempt to track down the last "Evolution unit" I need to upgrade my party member Selena into her next tier of power — but, as manipulative as it is, it keeps you coming back for another try.

Oh, and I've reached a stage now where my party is winning in the player-vs-player "Arena" significantly more than it loses now, which is satisfying to see. But then the game took me down a peg or two by throwing a boss at me that absolutely obliterated my entire party within a few turns. Time to get busy with the Fusion, I guess…

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Perhaps "all of its own" isn't quite the right description, mind, since Omega Quintet's combat is executed as something of a curious blend between the battle systems from the Atelier series, the Ar Tonelico series, The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky, Final Fantasy X and Final Fantasy XIII. That's quite a mixture, but it works really well, particularly when you pull off something as enjoyably silly as this:

The above sequence was recorded at just level 20, by the way; I shudder to think what numbers the girls will be putting out by the end of the game.

Interestingly, the game doesn't bombard you with the complete combat system right from the get-go; it gradually increases in complexity over the course of the first few chapters at a fairly sedate pace, allowing you to get comfortable and familiar with each new concept before a new one is introduced. Ultimately, by the time the complete battle system has unlocked, you should be well familiar with all the possibilities it has to offer. At about 15 hours or so in, I haven't seen everything the system has to offer, yet; for some, this may draw unfavourable comparisons to Final Fantasy XIII, which was lambasted for having a "20 hour tutorial", but it's worth noting that Omega Quintet does sidestep this issue a little by being somewhat less linear than Final Fantasy XIII was; at any given moment, there's a bunch of sidequests to do, hidden treasures to find, new areas to open up, items to craft, special items to unlock and all manner of other things to do. (And besides, there was nothing the fuck wrong with the way Final Fantasy XIII did things, anyway. So there.)

Here's roughly how the system works. Like the Neptunia games, you can get the advantage at the start of combat by attacking an enemy before they come into contact with you; conversely, letting an enemy touch you from behind will give them the advantage. How battle begins sets the opening initiative order, and from there the game follows a clear to understand turn order system, reflected by a graphical representation down the side of the screen.

Each party member has a number of actions per turn, increasing as they increase their overall proficiency with each of the game's five weapon types — axe, gun, spear, fans and gauntlets. These actions can be used to attack, use a skill or use an item, and when all the actions have been chosen, the party member performs each of them in sequence before the turn order moves on to the next combatant. Of key consideration when choosing skills is the "wait time" — more powerful skills will push the party member's next turn further down the turn order, potentially giving enemies the opportunity to attack several times before she can go again. Conversely, certain skills increase the enemies' wait time when they successfully land, so you can manipulate the turn order yourself to a certain degree.

Attacks, skills and even items have an effective range, represented by coloured lines on the ground. Do something to someone in the green area and it will be most effective; then comes blue, yellow and finally red, which means you either can't do the action at all, or it will be at severely reduced effectiveness. Certain attacks and skills also have a radius, either circular or a range of "tiles" horizontally, vertically or both, meaning you can hit multiple enemies at the same time. At the start of a party member's turn, you can move them forward or backward in the formation, allowing you to manipulate the positioning to your advantage. There are also "knockback" skills, which are self-explanatory, and "reverse" skills, which… uh, I'm not entirely sure what they do.

Here's one thing I have to nitpick slightly; there are certain aspects the game doesn't explain very well or, indeed, at all in some cases. The stat names, for example, don't take the usual Attack/Defense/Magic Attack/Magic Defense/Accuracy/Agility format from other Compile Heart games; instead we have Song Power/Stamina/Knowledge/Divinity/Technique/Vitality. You can work out what they are from a bit of experimentation, but it takes a bit of adjustment. Likewise, some of the status effects and added effects (such as the aforementioned "Reverse") aren't made very clear at all, though again, you can probably work these things out for yourself.

Personally, I'm actually all for games encouraging you to figure out some of their mechanics for yourself. You don't need to understand these things to get a kick out of Omega Quintet, but if you're the sort of person who likes to min-max your characters and have them fighting at maximum effectiveness, be aware that you'll need to get your hands a little dirty — particularly as the characters in Omega Quintet are significantly more customisable than, say, the Neptunia girls, who don't allow you to take any control over their development at all, though they do allow you to set up your own custom combos according to how you like to fight. In other words, Omega Quintet's apparently deliberate obtuseness at times will be a turn-off to some people, but personally, I actually like not being spoon-fed absolutely everything.

Anyway. It's good. Real good. And I can't wait to play more. So I'm probably going to do just that right now; I've got a combo record to beat, after all.

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Omega Quintet, lest you don't follow Japanese games with the same borderline obsessiveness as I do, is a role-playing game in which you take on the role of Takt, a rather sullen young man who occasionally has trouble with demonstrating the personality trait that he shares his name with. He has fairly good reason to be sullen, however; he lives in a dystopian future in which some sort of lurking unpleasantness called the Blare keeps showing up, driving people mad and turning animals into monsters. (Aside: In the Japanese original, it was called the Beep; I kind of wish they'd kept that name, particularly as the Japanese voices still use it!)

So far, so post-apocalyptic. It wouldn't be a post-apocalyptic JRPG without a band of plucky heroic types to save the day, however, so enter the Verse Maidens: young women who have the power to drive back the Blare with the power of their songs. Takt and his childhood friend Otoha get swept up in the world of the Verse Maidens as the "ever-17 Momoka" (who is actually 37, and starting to feel it) stumbles across them after exhausting herself clearing out a particularly nasty batch of Blare. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, Otoha awakens to her potential power as a Verse Maiden, leading Momoka to reluctantly retire and make way for Otoha and two other young, inexperienced Verse Maidens called Kana and Nene.

Idea Factory and Compile Heart have proven themselves to be talented at satirical games with the Hyperdimension Neptunia series, which pokes fun at the video game industry and video games in general. Omega Quintet, meanwhile, tackles the Japanese idol industry, a subject that Idea Factory has previously explored in Hyperdimension Neptunia: Producing Perfection, and something we don't have an exact analogue to in the West. The closest equivalent we have is the phenomenon of "manufactured pop groups" like the boy bands of the '90s and the few examples of groups that have made successes of themselves following talent shows such as The X-Factor and its ilk, but neither of these go anywhere near as far as the Japanese idol industry.

Japanese idols have to contend not only with the most crazy, obsessive fans, but also with their management pretty much taking control of their entire life — including personal relationships, socialising and all the sorts of things that young girls should probably discover and explore for themselves in order to grow up as well-adjusted individuals. Omega Quintet reflects this through Takt gradually being trained up to become the Verse Maidens' manager and sternly told in no uncertain terms at regular intervals that he absolutely, positively must not do anything inappropriate with any of these girls, lest he tarnish their pure image and anger the fans — because Verse Maidens draw their power from their fanbase.

The character of Momoka is also used as a means of reflecting the falseness of the idols' lifestyles. We're initially introduced to Momoka as a young, beautiful, heroic woman whom everyone looks up to and depends upon, but as we see her exhausting herself on what turns out to be her last mission and subsequently revealing her true, rather abrasive personality, we come to understand that she's been playing a part — for twenty years, in her case. It will be interesting to see how the titular Quintet, once they assemble, will come to terms with this existence, and I suspect it will be an important part of the overall narrative.

Mechanically, Omega Quintet is fairly similar to other Compile Heart titles: there's a lot of standing around talking with some well-written, witty dialogue, punctuated with dungeon-crawling and snappy combat. Rather than repurposing the Neptunia combat system, however, Omega Quintet has its own rather deep and complex system that encourages you to be as flashy as you can while maintaining control of your characters' resources. There are some really interesting mechanics in there, such as characters being able to obtain bonus actions for their next turn by fulfilling particular conditions, and a Final Fantasy X-style "turn delay" mechanic allowing you to manipulate the turn order to your advantage. The protagonist also plays an interesting role by not directly participating in combat, instead offering passive support effects to the party and having a limited number of action points to be used throughout the fight either for follow-up "Pursuit" attacks after his current partner has performed an action, or stepping in to soak some of the incoming damage on his partner.

There's also a frighteningly deep-looking character customisation and advancement system that involves unlocking abilities on a "disc" that works a little like Final Fantasy X's Sphere Grid, choosing abilities carefully for a limited number of slots, weapon proficiencies, equipment, outfits with upgradeable durability and "amp" slots for bonus effects, formations, chain skills and all manner of other things. I'm only about 5 hours or so into the game so far and it's clear there's a lot of systems I haven't been introduced to yet; it looks like the complete picture will be quite complex, but the game has proven very accessible so far, gradually introducing concepts and giving you ample time to familiarise yourself with them in practical situations before throwing something new into the mix.

Oh, and the soundtrack is amazing. Which you'd sort of hope for a game ostensibly "about" music. And, as usual for the genre, it's the battle theme that presents one of the best examples, featuring a distinctly Final Fantasy XIII-esque feel with its use of solo violin over driving rhythms. So what better way to wrap up these first impressions with said piece? Here you go.

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I was keen to check out P.T. then, since I'm now the proud owner of a PlayStation 4. P.T. was originally released under something of an air of mystery and it wasn't until people cleared it that their suspicions were confirmed and it was revealed to be a teaser for an upcoming "next-gen" Silent Hill game, developed as a collaboration between the dream team of Hideo Kojima and Guillermo del Toro.

I was especially keen to check out P.T. right now, because owing to Kojima's apparent departure from series publisher Konami and the seeming cancellation of Silent Hills — there are still some people who believe this might be an elaborate troll by Kojima, mind — it had been suggested that P.T. would no longer be available on the PlayStation Store after today, meaning that anyone who was interested to check it out would no longer be able to do so if they hadn't already downloaded a copy. If, indeed, Konami has cancelled Silent Hills — and, sadly, it looks as if that is the case — then there's no sense from a business perspective for having a teaser demo available, even if said teaser demo is both baffling and creative.

P.T. doesn't tell you anything. You wake up in a room with a cockroach scuttling away from you. You exit the room and find yourself in a house that has seen better days; it looks like the apparently absent residents have had some fairly major issues with drinking, drugs and violence — something which appears to be confirmed by the radio broadcast you hear shortly after entering the house, which speaks of the horrific murder of a whole family.

You wander through the house, eventually coming to an open door that seems to lead down to a cellar. Upon passing through it, you come to another door, only to find yourself back in the hallway you just left. From there, things start to get more and more weird as they go along — I shan't spoil the specifics, but suffice to say there's evidence of Metal Gear Solid-era Kojima mindfuckery at play here; the game appears to crash and reset at one point, for example, only to then continue on its way if you persevere rather than closing it in disgust, and the final puzzle requires you to wait for the clock to strike midnight, walk exactly ten paces forward, stop, wait for scary noises and then utter the name "Jarith" into your PlayStation microphone. (Yes, really, that is the actual solution; I just did it.)

While the "puzzles" throughout P.T. — if you can call them that — are brain-fryingly obtuse, even by adventure game standards (my eternal respect to the dudes who figured out the solution to that last puzzle), the experience as a whole is spectacularly terrifying, recreating a type of experience I hadn't realised I'd been missing for quite some time.

There aren't many modern games that are genuinely scary, you see. I'm talking a combination of lurking horror and occasional jump scares; Silent Hill has always been particularly good at the former, while the latter has usually been the territory of Resident Evil (which isn't what it used to be, but let's not jump down that rabbit-hole just yet). P.T. provides both, and it wasn't until I played it through this evening that I realised it's been quite a long time since a modern game made me feel genuinely uneasy, made me jump or made me actually cry out in surprise. (Yes, I did all of those things. I am a wuss.)

As a result, not only am I sad that we're seemingly not going to get a new Silent Hill game, I'm also sad that an increasingly rare example of proper horror gaming has been canned.

I'm glad I had the chance to experience P.T., though; it's quite something.

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I made a video of two unsuccessful runs earlier; here you go:

I'm really impressed with the additions to the base formula. In particular I'm excited about the fact that there are a number of new quests involved in unlocking the additional character classes; these quests replace the standard adventure to defeat the Demon Lord (or win in a couple of other super-secret ways) and task you with additional objectives, confronting you with new challenges and powerful foes on the way.

The small additions to the game's interface are great, too. The hotbar in particular is an excellent addition, even if you only use it to quickly access skills like Awakening (your default "stop time for three turns" ability, which is very useful for getting out of a pinch) and Lockpicking. It's also great to be able to customise the interface somewhat; it's still a little cluttered thanks to it running in 640×480 (or upscaled 640×480 now, at least) but simple changes like being able to put your gauges at the bottom of the screen and the minimap up the top make it a lot easier to see where you're going.

More subtle changes only become apparent if you've played both games. The pace of levelling has been considerably increased, but in exchange the "Goddess Statues" at which you can "spend" levels to get numerous benefits are considerably more expensive to use, and no longer provide the same possible bonuses every time. Skill merchants offer the ability to learn new abilities in exchange for stat levels, Iron Hags will make a random item for you (including "air", which just means you're out of pocket), benevolent Force practitioners will teach you defensive, utility or restorative spells… the list goes on.

And the game is still absolutely packed with charm and a surprising amount of depth. Most notably — and this was true of the original, too — is the fact that, despite initial appearances, the game does have a plot. Or, more accurately, a number of different intertwining narrative threads that only become apparent if you come into contact with the recruitable NPCs, figure out a way to stop the Demon Lord trying to set fire to you long enough to have a chat or try some of the daily "special campaigns" that add small but significant tweaks to the basic formula. A particular favourite that I had the other day was a world where every normal attack had a massive knockback effect on it, so you had to take care not to fight with your back to the encroaching Darkness lest you get slammed into it by your foe landing a blow. It shook up the way I played a great deal; unfortunately I didn't quite get far enough to take full advantage of it by whacking the final boss of the Force Knight unlock quest into the Darkness — the main means through which you deal damage to this rather unpleasant adversary — but it was an enjoyable journey nonetheless.

I'm well and truly hooked then. And if you're yet to discover the fun for yourself, I recommend giving it a look now. It's just $6.99 and it will keep you busy for a very long time. You can grab it from publisher Playism, or soon from Steam, too. (If you buy it now at Playism, you'll get a Steam key when that version releases.)

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