2418: The Bonds of True Friendship

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As someone who, for the most part, tends to put narrative concerns front and centre when considering what to entertain himself with, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that the main thing that draws me to my favourite genre of video game — RPGs — is not the stat-crunching mechanical goodness that goes on behind the scenes (though good mechanics can make a game I’m already emotionally invested in even more satisfying) but the almost overwhelming sense of camaraderie and “all being in it together” that a good ensemble cast brings to the table.

When considering narrative tropes, this sense of comradeship is regarded as “true companions” or sometimes nakama, from a Japanese word that translates to “friend” or “comrade”. Indeed, if you turn the Japanese voices on in many JRPGs, you’ll hear the word nakama used pretty liberally when characters are talking about their friends and travelling companions in the party; it’s a contrast to another Japanese term referring to friendship, tomodachi, which is typically used when talking about friends in a more social, casual manner. To put it crudely, your nakama friends are the ones who travel with you, who will go to the ends of the earth with you, the ones who are closer than family; your tomodachi friends are the ones you go down the pub with once or twice a month and talk about girls or football.

This sense of true companionship is, for me, what defines a great RPG story, and it’s a big part of why I find solitary experiences like Skyrim and Fallout — which, mechanically at least, ought to be right up my alley — so fundamentally unsatisfying: you don’t get that sense of being part of a group of people with complex and interesting relationships.

So with that in mind, I thought I’d share some of my favourite ensemble casts from the past few years. You can probably guess at least one of them.

Neptune and the gang

Yup, you were right! The biggest thing that keeps me coming back to the Neptunia series time after time — and the thing that kept me persevering with the shaky first game in the series — is the wonderful sense of camaraderie between the characters.

Interestingly, Neptunia’s cast can be split into a few different elements, each of which overlap a little and which all have Neptune as their common element.

First up, you have IF and Compa, who will always have an important place in any Neptunia fan’s heart due to them being pretty much the first characters you have a meaningful conversation with in the series. IF and Compa are friends, but also a study in contrasts; IF is somewhat sullen and tsundere (with a secret otaku side) while Compa is feminine, ditzy and honest. They’re good foils for one another, and with the chaotic personality of Neptune in the middle, just these three make for a good cast by themselves, and indeed a significant portion of the original Hyperdimension Neptunia consisted of just these three core cast members fighting alongside one another.

Then you have the more well-known faces of the series, the CPUs Blanc, Noire and Vert. These were introduced in the original Hyperdimension Neptunia almost as antagonistic characters, but over time their personalities have softened somewhat, and the four of them (including Neptune) have become very close friends with one another. Once again, they work as a group because of how they contrast with one another. Noire is determined and driven to a fault, but secretly wishes for close friendships; Vert likes to play the older sister but in many ways is one of the most immature of the group, often disappearing for days at a time to indulge in her hobbies rather than doing her job; Blanc, meanwhile, despite her youthful appearance, seems calm and mature until something — it doesn’t take much — attracts her ire, at which point she becomes a devastating force of fury.

mk2 onwards introduced the sisters of the CPUs to the series, and again, they made heavy use of contrast to make them stand out from one another. Neptune’s sister Nepgear, for example, is the opposite of Neptune in almost every way: she’s smart where Neptune is dim; she’s articulate where Neptune tends to let her mouth run away with herself; yet she’s timid where Neptune is (over)confident. Blanc’s twin sisters Rom and Rom contrast both with each other and with Blanc, with Rom being quiet and shy, while Ram is loud and rambunctious. And Noire’s sister Uni, in her own way, contrasts with the rest of the group altogether by actually being similar to her sister — a little too similar at times, so closely does she follow in her sister’s footsteps.

All together, you have a substantial ensemble cast with a variety of contrasting character types. They often clash with one another, as contrasting personalities tend to do, but their shared hardships and common goals bring them together time after time. The particularly dark mk2/Re;Birth2 story is arguably the catalyst for their closeness, thanks to the especially unpleasant events that occur therein, but by now their relationship has grown so close that each new Neptunia game feels like being reunited with a group of old friends. It’s a delight.

The Witcher

The Witcher series is an unusual case in that they’re not party-based RPGs, but they nonetheless carry a strong sense of camaraderie, friendship and even romance between their major characters. This is helped along in part by the fact that the games are based on some already extensive pre-existing lore from the original novels, but even if you’re unfamiliar with the source material, The Witcher’s relationships are a real highlight of the whole experience.

For starters, despite protagonist Geralt usually working alone for each of the games, there’s a strong sense of comradeship between him and his fellow School of the Wolf witchers, some of the last remaining witchers in the world. Months or even years can pass between them seeing one another in some instances, but when they do meet up with one another, it’s like no time has passed. The Witcher 3 in particular plays with this delightfully in a scene where Geralt and his witcher buddies get absolutely hammered before going to try on the fancy outfits of sorceress Yennefer, Geralt’s significant other (or onetime squeeze, depending on how you’ve chosen to play that particular subplot out) and play with her megascope. In game terms, it’s utterly irrelevant to the main plot and doesn’t give you any mechanical benefits, but it’s a beautifully captured moment that emphasises the fact that despite the work of witchers typically being solitary, they, too, still have need of the ties of friendship.

Then there are the recurring characters like Dandelion the bard and Zoltan Chivay the, um, dwarf. These characters show up throughout the novels and all three games, and their relationship with Geralt is likewise one of close friendship and trust. Indeed, the bond between Dandelion and Geralt is so seemingly close that all the in-game journal entries tracking your quests are written not from Geralt’s perspective or even that of an omniscient third-person non-participant narrator, but as if Dandelion is narrating Geralt’s tale in the past tense to an eager audience. It’s a nice touch.

The Witcher prides itself on shades of grey, though, and this is true for Geralt’s relationships, too. In The Witcher 3 in particular, Geralt will come into contact with a number of people with whom he’s had dealings in the past, many of whom will seem like unquestionable friends if you’re unfamiliar with their history. Yet depending on the choices you make and Geralt’s subsequent actions, their relationships can take some very surprising — sometimes tragic — turns. The arc with former spymaster Dijkstra in The Witcher 3 is particularly interesting to see play out.

The Witcher, then, definitely has an ensemble cast of the kind I find particularly appealing, even if they’re not all there obediently running along behind Geralt for the whole game. In the case of The Witcher 3 in particular, it’s proof positive that it’s more than possible for the Western open-world RPG to pull off this sense of “true companionship” — even without a persistent party — and that Bethesda should consider trying a bit harder in this regard with future Elder Scrolls and Fallout games.

Tales of Xillia

Two of my favourite RPGs in recent years were Tales of Xillia and its sequel, and the strong ties between the party members in those games are what made those games special for me.

The first Xillia had two overlapping storylines that were mostly identical apart from their very beginning and a significant chunk in the middle. The two protagonists were Jude, a somewhat idealistic young medical student who gets swept up in a series of rather peculiar events, and Milla, a mysterious young woman who claims to be the earthly incarnation of the deity Maxwell.

The journey through the two Xillias is very long, but its epic nature works to its benefit, because it allows us to get to know the two protagonists and the party members they gather around them very well indeed. There’s Jude’s childhood friend Leia, who is clumsy but charming; there’s butler Rowen, who turns out to be a highly regarded former general; there’s the cynical mercenary Alvin who seems like a pleasant enough “big brother” type but is clearly hiding something; and there’s young girl Elize, who captures the feeling of a young girl being alone in the world and finally finding people who understand her perfectly.

Xillia’s cast works because of the game’s frequent use of “skits”, where action stops for a moment and the party members have a quick chat about something. This might be important to the plot, or it might be seemingly irrelevant information, but all of it is essential to the characterisation of the group as a whole. In the first game in particular, Milla is the centrepiece of the group, and we come to understand the world of Rieze Maxia through her eyes, with her party members explaining and supporting her along the way. That said, Milla isn’t a helpless waif by any means; on the contrary, on more than one occasion her companions have to hold her back from getting a little too inappropriate with her explorations of life among the humans.

Xillia 2 takes an unusual step in this day and age by actually being a direct sequel to the first game. All the characters from the original make a reappearance, along with a couple of new ones — just enough to keep it feeling a bit different from the original, while still familiar and recognisable as a continuation of the same story. Interestingly, Xillia 2 introduces a new protagonist named Ludger, and for your first playthrough he’s an almost entirely silent protagonist, his contributions mostly being limited to grunts and gasps. (Calm down.) There is a narrative-related reason for this that I shan’t spoil for you here, but the use of a silent protagonist is also often a way of making the player feel like “they” are in the world rather than just controlling a character who isn’t them.

Regardless of the reasons for his silence, Ludger forms a suitable nucleus for the party in much the same way as Milla did in the first Xillia game, and once again we’re treated to a variety of enjoyable skits on a variety of subjects, both plot-relevant and inconsequential. By the end of the two games, you really feel like you’ve been on a lengthy journey with a group of people who have come to be close friends.

Persona 3 and 4

Shin Megami Tensei purists may thumb their nose at the later installments in the Persona series, but for me the thing that made them special to me is their strong emphasis on the bonds between people.

In both Persona 3 and 4, these bonds take many forms. They might be the bond between the protagonist and a member of an extracurricular club he attends, who gradually grows comfortable enough to open up a bit about their own concerns. Or they might be the bond between party members who come to understand one another as events start spiralling out of control around them.

In Persona 4 this latter case is particularly true, given that the majority of the dungeons are themed around one of the characters confronting their “true self” and admitting something that they would previously rather keep quiet about for one reason or another. The game goes to some surprisingly daring places in terms of subject matter, though it also leaves a few bits and pieces just ambiguous enough for you to come to your own interpretation of what you just witnessed.

Like Xillia, one of the biggest strengths of both Persona 3 and Persona 4 is the sheer amount of time their respective quests take — and the fact that, in both games, you can actually see how much virtual time you’ve spent in the world thanks to the ever-present readout of the in-game date, which also acts as a reminder that each month, you are on a tight deadline to ensure things don’t go horribly wrong for someone you know.

The sheer amount of time you spend with the characters in both Persona 3 and 4 coupled with the game’s setting in a school and its surroundings means that you really come to think of these characters as friends by the end of the game. This makes a relatively minor aspect of Persona 4’s ending, where you leave on a train and see all the people whose lives you touched standing on the platform to see you off, incredibly touching and borderline heartbreaking. It is likely no coincidence that one of the most frequently heard pieces of music on the soundtrack is called Heartbeat, Heartbreak.

The Witch and the Hundred Knight

This is an unusual one in that it’s an action RPG in which you play a distinctly non-human silent protagonist and don’t actually have a party gathered around you at all times, but nonetheless it manages to have that strong sense of “true companions”, with numerous characters who go through significant developmental arcs over the course of the complete narrative.

In The Witch and the Hundred Knight, you play the Hundred Knight, a mythological creature that turned out to be a bit disappointing in the flesh. You were summoned by the witch Metallia, who lives by herself in a swamp and is pretty much a psychopath. Your stated aim at the outset of the game is to spread Metallia’s swamp across the land so she is able to move freely and dominate the world — she can’t go far from her swamp — but over time things become much, much more complex.

The Hundred Knight, despite being the playable protagonist, is in many ways the least important part of the plot, though his actions do serve as the catalyst for most of the major plot beats throughout the narrative. Instead, the story is about Metallia: why she is so angry, why she is so violent — and why she is so sad. The tale itself features some gut-wrenchingly horrible moments to depict Metallia’s seemingly “beyond redemption” status, but her growth as a character across the entire narrative — a process witnessed and helped along by a young cursed noblewoman called Visco, who eventually becomes very important to Metallia — and the three possible finales, none of which can be called particularly “happy”, makes for a game that takes the unusual step of being an outright tragedy in terms of its narrative.

The story works, once again, because of the close bonds between the characters. We see how horrible Metallia is at the beginning of the game, and we see how poorly she treats Visco. But we see how Visco keeps coming back for more, obviously seeing something in Metallia that others don’t, and we see how Metallia, despite continuing to be foul-mouthed and aggressive, softens a little as she realises that she is developing feelings of friendship — arguably more — for this young woman cursed with the face of a dog. I shan’t spoil the “bad” ending (which is actually the most significant ending, despite the game’s terminology) but suffice to say the Metallia at the end of the game is a completely different person from the one at the beginning, and as the Hundred Knight, we’ve been there to see that whole process.

Fairy Fencer F

And perhaps most relevantly, given that I’m still playing through it at the moment, I was delighted to discover that Fairy Fencer F has a wonderful ensemble cast, too — and despite its aesthetic similarities to the Neptunia series thanks to artist Tsunako on character design duty, it has an overall darker tone to its stablemate, allowing for its characters to share hardships and sadness as well as good times with one another.

Like Neptunia, FFF’s cast can be split into a number of components. There’s the core cast of playable characters who centre around protagonist Fang, who is initially lazy and cynical, but later turns out to be far more responsible and caring than he would care to admit. Then each of these characters has a companion fairy, who form a sub-cast of their own who are usually with their human partners, but sometimes get the chance to do things by themselves. Then there’s a cast of villains, too, but without spoiling too much, let’s just say that on the Goddess route, at least — the narrative path that comprised the original Fairy Fencer F, rather than one of the two new ones introduced for the PlayStation 4 version — the lines between “good” and “evil” are frequently blurred to quite a significant degree.

An crucial moment at the midpoint of Fairy Fencer F carries more emotional weight than I’ve ever seen from a Compile Heart game, eschewing the company’s usually breezy comedy and satire — both of which are present in Fairy Fencer F when appropriate, make no mistake — in the name of something truly awful happening as a catalyst for one of the three subsequent divergent narrative paths that follow. This moment only works because of the first half of the game, in which we get to know Fang and his ragtag group of companions very well indeed, and because of its sharp, surprising contrast with what we, the player, had been led to expect would happen at that point in the story.

I haven’t yet seen how things turn out. I can guess, but given that this game has already surprised me more than once with the direction its narrative takes — mostly with regard to how dark it gets at times — I’m not going to believe it until I actually see it. It’s been an enjoyable journey so far, though, so I’m looking forward to seeing how it ends. And then seeing the other two ways in which it ends after that.

1591: Beat It

I beat the “bad” ending of The Witch and the Hundred Knight this evening. I’m not going to talk about that right now, though, because I feel there’s at least one MoeGamer post in that game and its interesting story. What I instead wanted to talk about was the idea of “beating” games.

I love finishing games. I love the satisfaction of fighting the final boss — usually, if the game’s sound team has any sense, accompanied by the best piece of music in the game — followed by the story’s conclusion and the credits roll. Well-designed games feature satisfying conclusions that wrap everything up nicely, but at the same time leave you a little sad that you’ll be leaving the main cast behind. Even poorly designed games can give a palpable sense of relief once they’re all over.

Interestingly, though, I don’t seem to see an awful lot of people talking about beating games. There’s occasional talk of scoring a Platinum trophy — usually from trophy whores who make a point of earning Platinum trophies on even games they don’t particularly like — but I very rarely see people publicly expressing satisfaction that they’ve completed a game, seen its end sequence and have finally achieved some closure.

I wonder why that is? Perhaps it’s to do with the excessive spoilerphobia we have on the Internet these days. You can’t mention a single plot point from recent popular media — be it games, movies or TV — without someone complaining about spoilers. It’s a fair concern, if we’re being honest; it’s always nice to have a few surprises in an unfamiliar story. But it does make talking about interesting stories extremely challenging at times. How can you talk about School Days without talking about the ending where Kotonoha kills Sekai? How can you talk about Nier without mentioning the bit where it deletes your save file piece by piece in front of you as your character is erased from existence? What discussion of Hyperdimension Neptunia Victory is complete without mentioning the fact that the main villain is a disgruntled, embittered Atari? (Okay, maybe it’s just me who cares about that last one.)

Or perhaps people simply don’t finish games as much as they used to. And if so, that’s rather sad: all those dangling plot threads, ever to be unresolved; all those final bosses, waiting to show you their awesome piece of battle music, ever to remain unfought; all those 20-minute staff rolls left unread.

I’m actually the opposite; I finish a whole lot more games these days than I used to. I remember one of the first games I ever beat — Super Mario World on the Super NES — and it being a huge deal. It was an even bigger deal when I got that magic “96” on the main menu: the 16-bit equivalent of earning a Platinum trophy. Despite the fantastic feeling that came from beating that game once and for all, it would be quite some time before I’d beat any others, though by the time I started getting into point-and-click adventures you couldn’t stop me from reaching the end credits of even the most stubborn games (hello, Discworld) if you tried.

I’d be interested to see the statistics for how many people beat particular games. It sort of is possible to get a general idea these days by looking at achievements — the cynical (or observant) might suggest that achievements are more a means of metrics-tracking for developers than an actual reward mechanism for the player, anyway — but it’s not always easy to get the global picture using these. I have a strange feeling that a lot of games might get started but never finished by a lot of people, and this can be at least partly attributed to the ridiculous pace with which things come out these days. In some cases, you’re barely out of the tutorial levels of one game before the Next Big Thing comes along vying for your attention, and the natural thing to do is to want to try out that Next Big Thing, which leaves the Last Big Thing languishing.

I’ve had to discipline myself pretty ruthlessly to avoid this going on. Once I start something, I try and finish it — unless I’m really not enjoying myself, in which case I’ll abandon it. Spanners have occasionally been thrown in the works by review obligations, but after the end of June I won’t have to worry about those any more, meaning I can concentrate on clearing my ample backlog. (And purchasing all the titles I mentioned yesterday, of course, along with a couple of others I’d forgotten about — Mind Zero and Hyperdimension Neptunia: Producing Perfection). For the most part, this strategy works well; I’m in the good habit of playing a game as much as I find enjoyable, then setting it aside once I’m done, perhaps to be replayed at some time in the future. For games I particularly enjoy or want to show my appreciation to, I make an effort to obtain that Platinum trophy; not only is it satisfying to know I’ve been rewarded for everything the game is offering rewards for, it also provides the aforementioned feedback to developers that someone, somewhere out there enjoyed their game enough to want to see everything it had to offer.

So, an open question to anyone reading and comment-inclined: how often do you beat games? Do you tend to focus on a single game and play it to completion, or juggle lots of games at the same time? How do you keep track of them all, if so?

1563: Sullen and Ill-Tempered

I’ll level with you, dear reader, I’m not entirely sure what to write today. The Black Dog has been creeping in somewhat over the course of the day, leaving me somewhat morose and not particularly in the mood for a great deal of communication. This feeling sucks, but I am taking some small solace from the fact that there are a few irons in the fire right now. Whether or not any of them will come to anything remains to be seen, but at least they’re there.

In the meantime, it’s largely been business as usual. I rediscovered the fun of Japanese doujin title Croixleur earlier through its new Sigma edition and would encourage anyone who enjoys a bit of hack-and-slash goodness to check it out. Then I spent some time moving towards cleaning up the rest of The Witch and the Hundred Knight. I’m torn on which ending to try for, since both the Normal and True endings are very straightforward to get, while the “Bad” ending actually takes significantly more effort to attain.

This isn’t the first time a Japanese game has locked its worst ending behind a particularly complicated series of hoops to jump through, and it probably won’t be the last. The last time I encountered such a practice was with Hyperdimension Neptunia mk2, where the “Conquest” ending — an incredibly dark affair that, despite featuring a huge tonal shift from the rest of the game managed to fit in quite well with the overall narrative — required a huge amount of faffing around to accomplish. And your reward? Feeling awful at what you had done to the characters. I am, frankly, glad I did it first, and it’s for this reason I’m contemplating getting The Witch and the Hundred Knight’s “bad” ending out of the way first.

Meanwhile, I continue to be enraptured by Demon Gaze. I adore the characters whom you get to hang out with while back at the inn between expeditions into the game’s sprawling dungeons, but I was surprised to discover that it’s the dungeon-crawling aspect I’ve been having the most fun with. Demon Gaze’s dungeons are relatively simple in terms of tech, being designed on a flat 2D grid, but their design is superb. The current dungeon I’m running through — Endless Road, a dungeon towards the end of the game — is a multi-floor monstrosity that demands you pay careful attention to the relationship between the different levels and areas, and search carefully for secret doors.

Secret doors! When was the last time you searched for a secret door in a video game? Demon Gaze is full of them. Granted, much of the old-school frustration of hunting for secret doors is mitigated by two things — the demon Comet, who, if equipped, marks them with a big flashing mark, and the fact that players tend to leave helpful Gazer Memos in front of them — but it’s still enjoyable to kick down a wall and discover a door behind it.

At the other end of the spectrum, I’ve been enjoying the aforementioned Gazer Memo feature a great deal, too. Somewhat similar to the messaging system in Dark Souls (in that you can’t type freely but instead pick from predefined words and phrases) but with a few more suggestive terms included along the way, the Gazer Memo system allows you to scrawl messages on the dungeon floor which are subsequently uploaded to the Internet and downloaded into the game of anyone else who happens to be playing. During the time I was reviewing the game, the messages were fairly sparse and mostly helpful; now, they’re still fairly helpful, but there’s been a clear explosion in players: the sheer number of messages making rather suggestive implications about spears and butts is testament to that, I feel.

It’s fun to leave these messages, too. At several points during the game, after overcoming a particularly challenging maze of one-way doors, I found myself deliberately going back and leaving memos to future adventurers helping them out. (I also left them a few sarcastic “Nope”s if they went the wrong way.) I also couldn’t resist a “Caution! Gigantic Butt Ahead” at the entrance to one particular dungeon — a message that I now see every time I happen to wander back to that area.

But anyway. I’m rambling on about nothing much in particular and it’s getting late. As such, I’m going to leave that there. Here’s hoping that tomorrow is a more positive day.

1528: Oi, Hyakkihei

Now I’ve actually written my review for it over on USgamer, I can talk a little more about The Witch and the Hundred Knight, the game I’ve been playing most recently.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it initially. It’s one of those games where there was a fair amount of negative buzz surrounding it quite early on, led by an early review from IGN that wasn’t altogether kind. But if my experiences with Time and Eternity were anything to go by, I knew very well that “popular” opinion was something I was unlikely to mesh with, and thus I went in to The Witch and the Hundred Knight with an open mind.

I was very pleasantly surprised. What we have here is a very unconventional Japanese RPG in every respect. It’s not turn-based, it’s not party-based, it’s not overly moe or ecchi, it’s not a comedy. Instead, it’s an action RPG with a surprisingly dark, deep storyline, and one of the most interesting main characters I’ve had the pleasure to hang out with virtually in quite some time.

Metallia, the eponymous Witch, is a horrible person. Or at least she initially puts herself across as one. She’s foul-mouthed, she’s quick to anger and she’s aggressive. She appears to have no qualms about inflicting bloody revenge on those she feels to have wronged her, and she seems utterly miserable and bitter about everything.

Over the course of the game, we learn about her. We get to see her gradually letting new people into her life, and starting to seemingly trust them. We get some hints about where all that bitterness and rage has come from. And, quite early on, we also learn that Metallia is not long for this world — though not why immediately.

We observe all this through the eyes of the Hundred Knight, a supposedly mythical figure that Metallia summons at the outset of the game to do her bidding. The Hundred Knight is the player avatar, though, so you have a certain degree of autonomy from Metallia’s wishes, and indeed can express your opinions non-verbally at various points throughout the game. You’re still bound to Metallia, so progress in the overall plot is largely determined by eventually fulfilling her wishes of destroying the “Pillars of Temperance” and spreading her swamp around the world, but between those predictable story beats, the Hundred Knight gets involved in a number of distinct adventures, each of which forms itself into a neatly contained episode of the overall narrative.

A particularly effective episode is the seventh chapter in the game. I won’t spoil the details for those who are planning on playing the game for themselves, but suffice to say that it tells a complete, surprising and interesting self-contained story with a surprisingly emotional payoff. It explores both Metallia and the other members of the cast who have joined by this point, and blends both humour and pathos to a surprisingly effective degree.

The pathos aspect is what I think I’ve found most surprising about The Witch and the Hundred Knight so far. Developer Nippon Ichi is typically known for relatively light-hearted fare, though in some cases (ZHP is a good example) there’s often a more thought-provoking core underneath the exterior fluff. The Witch and the Hundred Knight is, I think, the first Nippon Ichi game where the “dark” aspect has been very much pushed to the forefront, with any comedic moments being somewhat incidental rather than the other way around. The narrative is bleak and, at times, genuinely sad without resorting to being overly “gritty”. It’s a stark contrast to what I wrote about a short while ago with regard to triple-A games; compared to Thief, which wants desperately to be treated as an 18-rated movie, The Witch and the Hundred Knight never feels like it’s trying too hard and, consequently, ends up coming across as far more genuinely mature than Thief ever did despite being considerably more colourful and stuffed full of stylised, bizarre characters.

Anyway. As I noted in my review for The Witch and the Hundred Knight, I’m sure not everyone will be into the particularly abrasive personality of Metallia and her adventures, but if you’re after an interesting action RPG with a compelling, unusual story and some satisfying, challenging game systems, you could certainly do far worse, so check it out if you have the chance.