Lost in a Forest: Firewatch Review


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Camp Santo’s Firewatch was released last year to relatively high acclaim. It garnered a strong following for an indie release and it won two BAFTA  Games Awards last week. And it’s a relatively simple premise. One that I am admittedly late to — but one that I am still compelled to share my thoughts about.

Firewatch is a first-person adventure, gravitating around a fire-lookout working in a Shoshone National Park. Prefaced by a troubled family life — the everyman ‘Henry’ moves to escape his past — only to find things are not as they seem.

Throughout the game, the player interacts with the forest in the classic point-and-click format and reports his findings to his faceless supervisor, Delilah, via a ham-radio. But as paranoia blossoms, the player invariably finds themselves caught amongst something of a conspiracy. Suddenly, perusing this lush and inviting environment becomes increasingly tense and puzzling. And with only Delilah on the radio for company, the player is bound to isolation.


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The game itself opens with a interactive text segment — allowing the player choose minor details to their backstory. Whilst this is not representative of the main drift, the gameplay is defined by its simplicity. It has more akin with those forms of text puzzles, that add weight and consequence to decisions, rather than anything technologically complex. In fact, the gameplay itself borrows a lot from other titles. It has the context-less meandering of Myst — where the player interacts with items and tries to make sense of their surroundings off the back of this. Players can unlock supply caches and stumble upon the remnants of previous Rangers. These photographs, notes and memos add more tangibility to the world than anything particularly rewarding. They are not used, for example, in the Far Cry or Tomb Raider sense to unlock greater prizes, but rather they offer humorous, non-essential supplements.

But as the story unravelles, this method works increasingly well. The heart of Firewatch is precisely this nonchalant attitude. That it defies certain conventions because it’s striving for something a little more human. Threats are introduced with a confused back-and-forth with Delilah rather than a dramatic cinematic. Supply caches are locked under the same ‘1-2-3-4’ code because, naturally, look-outs always forget the sequence. There are even items — namely books — that have absolutely no hidden meaning or relevance to the game. They add a normality to proceedings that is strangely refreshing. All those years of Broken Sword had me looking for secret keys in pinecones that were literally just part of the foliage. Whether or not this is fun, is a little more contentious. But the dialogue exchanges with Delilah typifies this well. It’s certainly the game’s strength: adding a wonderful humorous facet that offsets the lonelier or more tedious objectives. Backtracking across the forest is more palatable with her small talk and quirky jabs. And as the game gets increasingly darker; as does our relationship with Delilah. Making our trust part of the emerging struggle.


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Of course, for such a narrative heavy title, there is some overarching expectation regarding its pay off. With a well paced but short running time, the extent Firewatch makes for a satisfying ride its a little less clear. Indeed, the game opens with some rather heavy, personal topics — but it does little to tie up the loose ends of both Henry and what he finds in the forest. And there is a fair but of misleading throughout the middle that some may find underwhelming. But on reflection, Firewatch isn’t really about the conspiracy within the National Park. It’s not really about Henry or Delilah’s past, either. It’s about their cynicism. How this experience and bonding changes their outlook on life. To some extent, it’s also about how the player can learn from that. Even the central mystery of the game — the nerdy Brian Goodwin and his militaristic father — injects some sweet overtones about personality, youth and what constitutes for good character. I actually found the experience immensely bitter-sweet. The photographs during the end credits were especially striking; blending  player expression with linearity. (No spoilers!)

All the same, Firewatch is wrapped up in a charming art-style that really lends to its premise. It marries this character driven adventure with a simplistic, oversaturated design. Although I found an underwhelming graphical performance on the Xbox One — as always — with considerable frame-rate lag when sprinting — it served its purpose perfectly. This design brings a timeless to this adventure along with some rather memorable views, too. Its soundtrack is equally as understated –– with bass guitar segments driving tension over soothing piano chords. It solidifies both the thematic tones of this ‘tranquil paranoia’ along with its modest production values.


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Ultimately, Firewatch is a touching experience. It’s a game about people and how people can be. Good, bad and that murky middle ground. It plays on memory, love and loss but it’s surprisingly funny, too. And for a title that I had no real expectation for –– it captivated me immeasurably.  It stayed on my mind in between play sessions and I expect it will continue to do so, for time to come.


Masks, mutants and ‘the book is always better’: A Metro Review


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Last summer I read Dmitry Glukhovsky’s Metro 2033. Despite briefly playing the opening of 4A Games’ 2010 adaption some years prior to that, I recall little more than a survival shooter with some rather dramatic lighting. So the novel, invariably, stuck with me. An ambitious blend of horror, action, science fiction and political commentary in a lengthy — albeit poorly translated — literary package. I enjoyed its world building and conceptual premise. The idea of a post-apocalyptic world set within the Moscow Metro (or tube lines for us Brits); with respective stations operating under different regimes felt rich and well conceived. The rival factions, bandits, fascists and communists hypothesised how humanity would order itself when all is lost. It even touched upon how religion would explain and justify the end of the world to those who grew up beneath it. All whilst the protagonist, the confused and cynical Artyom, acted as an envoy for a reader trying to make sense of it all.

But Glukhovsky’s text had many shortcomings. It juggled the task of establishing this world whilst providing a coherent narrative arc. Artyom’s role seemed too eager to satisfy this: with his journey to Polis quickly detouring to other stations; to the surface and became increasingly like a tour-guide of the metro rather than anything particularly feasible. Although this world was fascinating — and I was eager to explore it — it became a little muddled and unrefined in its presentation.


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I have, however, recently completed Metro Redux on Xbox One. The award winning remasters of the original video game adaption and its 2013 sequel, Last Light. I played these on Ranger Difficulty and did so with only the knowledge of the original novel in mind. The experience I found was little short of breathtaking. A cinematic and immersive journey that was gruelling and rewarding in equal measure. It merged thoughtful gameplay with precisely that captivating world Glukhovsky built. It was also inexplicably terrifying at times. In fact, these titles struck me in a way that I did not expect. They not only excavated the better qualities of the source material but crafted something inherently better in the process. It is a living, breathing iteration of that very world. And it holds two cigarette-charred fingers up to ‘the book is always better’ mentality.


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An Ode to ODST: A Retrospective


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Halo is perhaps the first gaming franchise I ever truly clicked with. I picked up Combat Evolved in around 2003 and I regularly cite its sequel as my favourite video game ever made. Whilst I never profess to being a ‘gamer’ — I care little for the ‘master race’ and competitive playing — even Halo 2’s turbulent production and ending does not deter my affection for it. Nothing rivals the jubilation of a nine year old getting his copy a day early, nor the genuine awe its narrative, gameplay and soundtrack brought to the table.

Nostalgia aside, I have replayed the Bungie titles a number of times. A welcoming familiarity surrounds them, like returning to a favourite book. Indeed, my affinity has always been towards the lore and expanded fiction: the novels and stories that enriched its more knuckle dragging, Nukem-inspired segments. This year I purchased an Xbox One, largely for its exclusive titles, and to revisit the games of my childhood. Whilst my interest in the franchise has certainly declined in recent years — I followed the first decade or so of the canon — it’s been a cathartic experience. The prospect of the remastered Master Chief Collection resonated with the nostalgia junky in me; not only to beat challenging moments of old favourites but also to see how well these games hold up. The most revealing title, however, proved to be the most overlooked of all. The 2009 expansion, Halo 3: ODST.


Released on the Xbox 360 seven years ago, this ‘spin-off’ of sorts garnered the robust —frankly excellent — gameplay and engine of Halo 3 and poised it towards new territory. Replacing the iconic, Master Chief with a silent Orbital Drop Shock Trooper; ODST flipped the given tempo tremendously. And it did so remarkably well.

The gameplay offers a departure from the one-man-army that has come to define the series. As an ODST, one is inherently more vulnerable and susceptible to damage. You’re no longer a shielded Spartan, nor are you seven-foot-tall, either. Brutes appear naturally more formidable, with even the once-laughable Grunts and Jackals posing a more serious threat. This changes the given dynamic, forcing the player to rethink any habitual  trigger-happiness. This is, to some extent, all the more skilful. Whilst the sandbox elements see smaller Brute packs that those seen in Halo 3; the overall campaign hardly reduces the quantity of enemies. Ergo, the player, known only as ‘The Rookie’, are left to their own devices. AI characters, whilst scarce, help direct fire in that classic Halo sense — they’re useless in a firefight — meaning ‘The Rookie’ faces no less adversaries than his green counterpart. As a result, the single player gameplay becomes rather challenging. It’s slower and more systematic but deeply, if not more, satisfying. It has also aged remarkably well. The dichotomy between stealthy silenced weapons with bombastic vehicle segments manages to appease the principle elements of the game — whilst injecting a rare overture to the franchise.


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The structure of ODST is equally refreshing. Halo is loosely recognised by its linearity. Levels flourish like chapters of a book, with only combat choices offering moments of structural diversion. ODST changes this: an open sandbox on the streets of New Mombassa links its levels together. ‘The Rookie’ finds clues to where his displaced squad have landed and flashback missions explain how that came to be. The player investigates the streets at their own pace, avoiding Covenant forces in due course, and piecing together the almost epistolary narrative. It works exceedingly well: with overtones of Film Noir and detective novellas coming into play. So much so, the level design effectively doubles back on itself: ‘The Rookie’ explores the very same landmarks his comrades fought alongside, in both the day-time flashback and this shadow laden sandbox.


This also leads onto a more pertinent feature of the game: its artistic direction. With whiffs of Blade Runner and Out of the Past, this futuristic noir feels incredibly matured. It is a world that, whilst inherently small, breaths with a natural livelyness.  Halo, as franchise, is famously colourful. Albeit the beaches of the Cartographer, the grass of its eponymous second level or purples of covenant ships and weaponry. ODST sidesteps from all of this. Although those elements are still there — notably in flashback levels — the overarching design is much darker, burned out and resolute. The shadows and deserted towns are isolated and eerie. Even its metropolis backdrop with metallic metro stations and abandoned ATM machines ground it in a mundane reliability. It all serves to compliment its down-tempo gameplay wonderfully.

ODST‘s soundtrack takes this sentiment further. In a similar departure from awe and spectacle, Marty O’Donnells epic suites are replaced with a moodier, jazzier score. It flirts with the electronic moments — electric bass, distorted guitar and so forth — that seem reminiscent of  Halo 2, but it really crafts something of its own. These more avant-garde moments abandon any ‘Hollywood’ tendency to perpetuate this dectective theme that runs throughout the whole game. It’s also a testament to Bungie’s excellent world building. In the same vein that the scale of design, music and gameplay that defined the Master Chief’s exploits; ODST carves its own empire within that very same world. From the largest set piece to the tiniest orchestral motif: it has an identity and heart.


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As for its developing story, ODST is simple but effective. It follows a drop team as they are separated by a slip-space rupture in their opening launch. It slots in nicely with the middle section of Halo 2’s timeline; with the opening cut scene literally cross-cutting between a canonised event in the 2004 title. This sort of interconnectivity works well; the game needn’t establish a whole world or conflict but rather elaborate on the untold stories that surround it. The game incorporates recognisable vehicles, enemies and other semantic elements to great avail.  We even see a familiar face in the closing Epilogue. But it purposely steps away from the mean, green protagonist and his more conventional traits, to form its own identity. It is this capacity to remain familiar whilst grossly different that makes ODST so mesmerising. It also introduces the Engineers, a long standing characters within the wider lore, with great charm. By revealing this lovable and complex species, it grants the relatively short campaign a much larger pay-off .

Whilst the main characters aren’t fully fleshed out: Buck gets a little bit too much attention in lieu of a downplayed protagonist, it works with the material it has. I would argue that Micky, Romeo and Dutch appear more interesting, if not funnier figures to explore, but its eight hour campaign can only do so much. (n.b for this reason it is recommended to play Legendary Solo; not only got the ‘full experience’ but also a healthier  timespan). Their dialogue and quips reveal a humanity that is often amiss between the Master Chief and his counterparts; furthering the title’s ability to enrich an already standing universe.


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The story’s continuity with its aforementioned design, gameplay and score is also worthy of note. The narrative has a certain piecemeal quality to it; but the missions themselves reiterate those darker, exhausted undertones within the genealogy of its pacing. The majority of levels are about survival, escape, evading capture or glassing. Where the Master Chief is very much an agent of change: he would kill a Prophet, steal the Index, rescue Cortana and save the world. In ODST, we are very much on the back-foot, struggling to regroup and survive. The majority of the game alludes to team members being killed; making this less about triumph and more about sacrifice. The flashbacks lend itself to this weighted feeling and bolster its noir-ish quality without feeling clumsy or tact on. The execution — the delivery of all these components of design and composition — is remarkably strong. Even the easter-egg hunt audio logs, that for many represent merely an Gamerscore Achievement, reveals the civilian tale as to why the Mombassa streets have been evacuated. There is a coherency in the very arteries of the game. It wants to tell a story and breathes with a spirit  that is, at times, not even expected. It something all the more rare in titles today, least not those considered mere add-ons to much larger titles.


Above else, replaying Halo 3: ODST reminded me what I love about this franchise. Whilst I enjoyed 343’s foray into the series as a sleek, sci-fi shooter: it desperately lacks the creative fibre of the Bungie titles. It’s not my place nor desire to debate the merits of either studio, but ODST certainly serves to remind us how rich the Bungie-Halo universe had become by 2009. The expanded fiction complimented the games and the games did so vice versa. It had not become bloated nor confused about its direction. Given the turbulent production cycle for Halo 2 and 3; this is a testament to the studio’s innovation to prolong the franchise with such finesse. It is as if the fighting spirit of ‘The Rookie’ and his comrades extends well beyond the fictitious New Mombassa and into the development team themselves.

In its simplest form, Halo 3: ODST is an inditement of the world building prowess of Bungie in their prime. It also proves there are better stories aside from the standard, now exhausted, formula. Where Reach capitalised upon alternative characters in a feature-length title; it feels more crucial than ever to explore other avenues beyond Master Chief and his tiring tirade. I feel a Contact Harvest adaptation or ODST sequel would revitalise the series greater than the — frankly tedious — Promethean nonsense of recent titles. But perhaps the mature, experimental nature of ODST is a product of its time. Of a franchise both big and brave enough to take a risk. From a studio still hungry to prove themselves with a title that remains, to this day, a highpoint of the series.


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Paris in Pixels: A Retrospective

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‘Paris in the fall. The last months of the year, and the end of the millennium. The city holds many memories for me –– of cafes, of music, of love… and death.’


The opening scrawl of Broken Sword: The Shadow Of The Templars (1996) sets a rather curious precedence. A delicate depiction of France that whilst forbidding, lack the theatrics expected of a video game. But it is precisely its non-conformity –– the middle ground between a written text –– that characterises the charming and unique adventure that follows. A rich blend of intricate narrative, memorable figures, gorgeous visuals and quite literally genre-defining gameplay: Shadow of the Templars birthed a franchise that earns a special place in my heart.


Of course, the multiplicity of said franchise is rather expansive. Broken Sword emanates from British developer Revolution Games –– and co-founder Charles Cecil –– who enjoyed some acclaim with Beneath a Steel Sky in 1994. The games, typically, focused on historical conspiracies within a 2D ‘Point-and-Click’ format and remain, to this day, Europe’s biggest selling adventure series. Spawning four sequels, Broken Sword II: The Smoking Mirror (1997), The Sleeping Dragon (2003), The Angel of Death (2005) and The Serpent’s Curse (2014) –– with its third and fourth instalments briefly embracing a 3D engine –– the franchise is typically lauded alongside the popular LucasArts SCUMM titles.

But coinciding with the release of Duke Nukem 3D and Core Design‘s original Tomb Raider, Broken Sword began life amidst very different approaches to this medium. Its emphasis on hand drawn set-pieces, slow gameplay and dry humour make it not only incongruous within the video game trajectory at the time but even more so today. The relative subsidence of  Point-and-Click adventures seems to cement this. Posing the question: what is its appeal and longevity?


Broken Sword, as a series, is something incredibly special. It’s much more than one or three award-winning titles and more than a product of its time. It’s also more than a mere robust point-and-click game. (Thought it is commendable) There is a far richer quality that surrounds its role as visual, jovial entertainment. This article is not a love letter to its first game nor the nostalgia it inspires today; but rather a look at the various threads the franchise has spun over the last twenty or so years. In short, Broken Sword has a certain approach: a humour, an intellect; an idiosyncratic choice of location, design and pacing that deserves attention, if not praise, that it often fails to attract.

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Paris in Fall: Inventory screenshot from opening scene in Shadow of the Templars (1996)


In this grossest of generalisations, Broken Sword follows the escapades of American lawyer George Stobbart and French journalist, love interest and all round purveyor of sass, Nico Collard. The two cross paths in a number of fated incidents that bind them forever. In the Shadow of the Templars, a near-death experience finds them on the trail of the Knights Templar; a fundamentalist cult that sees the pair travel from Parisian catacombs to Syrian markets. The sequel bares a similar scale: with the pair caught in a Peruvian conspiracy for Aztec treasure and traverse the world as a result. Later iterations rekindle these undertones, exploring everything from dragons to Gnostic spiritualism.  Without descending into plot details, the emphasis on exotic, hollywood locations with hidden doorways and temples-of-doom are a cornerstone of this franchise. Protecting the world from well-hidden weapons and cults features heavily, too. But all the same, these moments are always juxtaposed with everyday locations: cafes, hotels and construction sites. There is a humility that surrounds its more spectacular segments. It is, in essence, the series’ charm: how its protagonists become ‘accidental heroes’.


Unlocking the extraordinary within the ordinary is the crux here. It ties together both its narrative and visual components. Its gameplay follows the traditional ‘Point-and-Click’ format of using inventory items to solve problems; with a leaning towards an every day sensibility. Whether it be the pencil through a keyhole or similar pocket-lint trickery, there is something very honest, if not Macgyver-esque about it all. Dialogue shapes this further, with NPCs often alluding to solutions and ways to move the  game forward. At time this can be more omniscient: how can I distract a police officer? Before descending into something far sillier. The officer clearly needs the toilet; perhaps the nearby fountains will get him to move? Such humour is always appropriately placed and never at the expense of story. Where the Monkey Island titles obviously strived for a more fantastical, outlandish tone, the Broken Sword games remain more reserved. They balance humour like any great text, to mediate the darker moments, without becoming farcical. It is, above else, an undeniably British approach.

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Broken Sword III: The Sleeping Dragon (2003) –– George and Nico become intwined with Arthurian legend in the franchises’ flawed but generally excellent foray into 3D gameplay.


In fact, the stories deserves greater attention. The mix of historical fiction, conspiracy and aforementioned normality is distilled rather well. The Neo-Knights Templar are reminiscent of an illuminati, freemason type group, but never feel too ridiculous for the subtext. As a historian, I find much of it rather digestible. That’s not to say fault-lines around the globe are harnessing the power of dragons; a power that will be exacerbated by a cult for world domination, but the build up is rather solid. The first title gives a wonderful, timeless insight into the execution of the Knight Templar by order of the Crown in 1314. The secrecy of their organisation is fitting and allows the player to journey across beautiful European and Asian locations as a result. By the third title, this pseudo-history is all the more acceptable. Revolution consistently embed their stories in a history that explores what is factually unproven but entirely possible all the same. In The Sleeping Dragon, which follows an Arthurian legend to Glastonbury, Revolution boast their British charm even further. It’s hard to imagine many developers venturing beyond Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament in their internationally touted image of Britain. But here we see conversations about the BBC, the ‘rowdy’ music festival and the folklore that swaps the Somerset town. It all goes to serve the character of this franchise. Something that is exotic and exhilarating whilst retaining a personal, familiar feeling.

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Manuscript in Shadow of the Templars offers exposition through ‘Point-and-Click’ format


Its approach to the past is important on a cultural scale, too. Broken Sword is not an Indiana Jones nor Tomb Raider adventure. The mysteries of old are not used as playground for idle action. The game entails signifiant dialogue –– excellently written dialogue at that –– which makes the overall experience somewhere between an interactive story and a narrative heavy adventure. The flagrant lack of guns and violence is most pertinent. This is not part of a child-friendly age rating, although I do not doubt that factors, but rather a gun-ho adventure simply wouldn’t work with the tone and direction. Henchman and antagonists often wield handguns, offering immediate death for George and Nico in gameplay. But there is little impetus for either party to stoop to their level. In situations where Lara Croft would simply shoot her way out; George and Nico use stealth, common sense and whatever objects surround them to avoid capture. Firearms represent an end-game for the pair, making such encounters deeply refreshing.


Arguably, this could be a reflection of its regional heritage. Without wanting to over intellectualise the point, note that British culture is less facilitating towards firearms and therefore less fitting with the ‘everyday life’ that frames these games. For George to take a shotgun to a cafe would simply not make sense. As a result, Broken Sword has a more tangible violence. We knock out henchmen and avoid gunshots, but we do not reciprocate their means. Primarily, because it wouldn’t be logical: these characters are not violent people. But more notably, it would lower the tension and momentum that the titles build. We need to fear for these haphazard heroes and align with their cause. Otherwise, the mountains of dialogue would become laborious.

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Opening cinematic from Broken Sword II: The Smoking Mirror (1997)


In other words, the dialogue that builds the character effectively compliments the gameplay. Indeed the strength of these titles can be credited to its well rounded cast and execution of such. George and Nico are defined figures who drive the qualities of the game. Stobbart is a stubborn, cocky protagonist but one deeply relatable. He is flawed, funny and his wise-cracks are not as sharp as he hopes. With Collard, we see a maturer flare, whose constant put downs make for a wonderful dynamic between the two. In later titles, the player bounces between these two characters, but what is important is that they remain recognisable throughout. They may not be immortalised in popular culture as previously noted tomb-raiders, but their depth outshines them all. It is also curious to note the criticism that the rather forgettable fourth instalment received for focusing on a new female counterpart. But all that said, the continuity between titles is well conceived. Gangster ‘Flap’, Museum curator André Lobineau and Police Sergeant Moue all make regular appearances in different titles. The games also have a penchant for easter eggs and internal jokes; poking fun at throwaway moments in early titles. More forgettable NPCs, from neighbours to the tourists George meets in Syria –– appropriately enjoying another vacation in its tropical sequel –– are scattered throughout the subsequent releases. Even the ghastly Goat puzzle in the first game makes for self-referential point about George’s irrational fear of the animal, nearly twenty years later. New characters are typically warm and interesting, but this continuity makes for a better experience. It threads the titles together whilst building a canonical universe of its own. Fan service or otherwise; this all contributes to the rich and unique Broken Sword world.

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‘The Goat Puzzle’


As for the relevance of this world today? A number of points seem pertinent. Primarily, the first two games saw resurgence a few years ago thanks to an App Store remaster. Smartphones make ‘Point-and-Click’ games rather more ‘touch and click’, but such a launch gave a new generation an opportunity to play these titles. It did so to great avail, although I personally did not care for the ‘Director’s Cut’ additions. (Revolution decided to pull a George Lucas and add new chapters to their remaster) Regardless, the sentiment was well received. More recently, and all the more excitingly, the fifth title to the franchise has seen a unanimous return to form. Released from a crowd-funded campaign, Revolution were free to make both the title they and the fans wanted. The overall result was a two-part title –– a pragmatic result of its unique production –– but a ‘sword’ game that saw the beautiful hand-drawn aesthetics, effortless humour and familiar faces embark on a new era. Boasting 1080p renders and more meticulous animation, this return to 2D ‘Point-and-Click’ proves an unyielding quality to these games. The Serpent’s Curse is the most enjoyable instalment for many years. It’s also available across all next-gen consoles and formats, making a remarkable revival for a supposedly dying genre.


There is also some underlying poignance to this newer release. The title of this article nods to the curious artistic design of Broken Sword. The games were always torn between gorgeous hand drawings and the choppy, pixelated technology of the mid-late nineties. But it’s seemingly come full circle. It once commanded the middle-ground between text and gaming; now does so with unashamed confidence. It is no longer held back by trying to fit in with its rivals. Broken Sword has both a style and substance of its own: the product of two decades of engineering.

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Deja vu: A familiar scene in Broken Sword V: The Serpent’s Curse (2013-14)


Above all else, the Broken Sword games are defined on their own terms. They have heart, wit and a truly personal approach to story telling. It has memorable character and remains the most British series I’ve played whilst forgoing a British protagonist. It also represents an effort to keep strong, to strive further for the perfect adventure game even in a world which fell for its pistol-wielding adversaries. When citing influential titles of 1996, few would look upon Broken Sword in the Call of Duty world. But is precisely that legacy that inspired this piece. For those who invested into this franchise, who stood by its curious middle-period and wanted more than mere remasters have found themselves rewarded beyond all doubt.

The Broken Sword games represent an integral part of my childhood; a growing desire to pursue history academically and an affection towards narrative-heavy gaming. But they also offer something far more profound. They are empirical proof that the flashiest, most expensive or trendy titles do not always attain longevity. That the more adventurous stories, the riskiest and more curious can be the most inspiring. That titles can hold intrigue well beyond exploring what passed as digital entertainment twenty years ago. It has been a precarious journey for this franchise, but its resolve and triumph is unquestionable. And I cannot wait to see where it goes next.


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