Halloween Matters in Costume Quest 2

Back in 2010, DoubleFine released Costume Quest, the first game to emerge form their now fairly famous Amnesia Fortnight process—the first short, tightly-focused experience in a long line of almost-uniformly excellent releases. As I said when I talked it up back then, Costume Quest is a game that brought out the kid in grumpy old me—and more importantly, a game that I’m glad to know actual kids are playing. It speaks to them without ever talking down to them.

In that context, I’m happy to report that Costume Quest 2 is more of the same.


The sequel has its problems, sure. It’s paced with the assumption that you’ll seek out every single upgrade, and the already grindy battles can get sluggish if you don’t, and yes, yes, schlepping to water fountains to heal up between battles isn’t quite risky enough to make the process feel interesting rather than niggling, or to tempt me into eating my candy rather than spending it on big ticket items.

That, and the battle system doesn’t do much of anything that the first game’s didn’t do. As a condensed, off-kilter JRPG revival, Costume Quest 2 really all that condensed or off-kilter. You want ultra-concentrated? Play one of the Half-Minute Hero games. You want bizarre? Play Space Funeral or OFF.

But what Costume Quest 2 does just was well as its predecessor is capture what it feels like to be a kid on Halloween—that feeling of being afraid but not in danger, of knowing you’re wearing a cardboard box but also believing you’re in a suit of robotic armor, realities overlapping frictionlessly.

The central mechanic of trick-or-treating-as-randomized-RPG-encounter is intact, and the atmosphere is still crisp and autumnal—and this time we even visit a crisp, autumnal New Orleans and a crisp, autumnal dystopia ruled by robots and Grubbins (remember the Grubbins?) and an evil totalitarian dentist.


When twin protagonists Wren and Reynold find themselves in the aforementioned dystopia’s requisite reeducation center (where kids get indoctrinated with outrageous anti-candy propaganda), the setting is quite pointedly pretty much just a school. The environment is oppressive, but nothing our heroes can’t handle with their unshakable smartass stoicism. The authority figures there are monstrous, sinister even, but ultimately feckless.

It’s a reminder that the sense of wonder and empowerment inherent in Halloween is worth taking back into the real world, and into adulthood—that it’s a way of staying bold and open-minded, inventive and unafraid.

Many of your allies in this second game are, after all, adult versions of your allies from the first, sometimes downtrodden but definitively still on the side of transformation and whimsy and whatnot. In less capable hands, that could easily come off as a smarmy, facile ode to The Magic Of Childhood™.

But here it works, because the Costume Quest games are so utterly honest in their nostalgia, so consistently genuine in their playfulness. These games goofy, sentimental, and unpretentious—perfectly evocative of the holiday they were conceived to celebrate, and highly recommended if you’re the kind of kid or adult who finds that holiday particularly meaningful.

As ever, words to live by.

As ever, words to live by.

Fearing The Legend of Zelda

When I was a little kid, the theme music from the first Legend of Zelda scared the bejeezus out of me. That rollicking beep-boop adventure theme seemed menacing beyond measure. The only thing I found scarier was the Game Over screen in Shadowgate, wherein the Grim Reaper cackled at me (and at my dad, who was usually the one actually using the controller back then; I was two or three).

It seems silly that I classed Zelda as a horror game, given its well-deserved reputation for evoking childlike wonder and the will to explore—but on the other hand, have you played the original Legend of Zelda lately? I hadn’t in quite a while, and so I’d forgotten that it’s basically Dark Souls.

Seriously. You’re in a dungeon, and you’re low on health. You could of course schlep to a fairy fountain, but that would mean dealing with that a bunch of respawned enemies upon your return. It’s the bonfire/estus mechanic.


Yes, and you’ve got just one central resource—rupees in this case, rather than souls—that you need for transitory consumables and hopefully-permeant upgrades both. That like-like ate my shield, but buying a new one would mean waiting that much longer for the blue ring (which pointedly costs about as much money as you can ever carry).

The game forces you to make heartbreaking decisions with those rupees of yours. It’s brutal, just brutal, doing very little to stop you from taking on challenges that you have scant hope of overcoming and then, when you die, shrugging and saying Well, you’ve got a fraction of your health and you’re in the middle of nowhere. Now what, hero?

More than that, though, what I’d forgotten is that the world of the first Zelda is an apocalypse in progress. True, there’s an End of Days flavor to the Dark World in A Link to the Past, Lorule in A Link Between Worlds, and the latter time period in Ocarina of Time, but here it’s conveyed with a certain bleak elegance: You don’t meet holdout communities or other would-be heroes in your travels. You meet standoffish profiteers and wise, sedentary, lonesome old people, all living underground. Above, it’s nothing but a swirling chaos of itinerant monsters.

Besides which, the blasted landscape in Zelda 1 isn’t some dark reflection of the world as it might be. It’s neither an alternate timeline nor an alternate reality. It’s just simply, chillingly, the world. Things really have gotten this bad under Ganon. It’s grim out there.

It’s not quite right to claim that there’s no overarching story at play, but what’s there is sparse, cryptic, unyielding, intoxicating. YOU DIED, it says, smirking.

In retrospect, no wonder just hearing it coming was enough to terrify Two-or-Three-Year-Old-Me.

Work-of-Art-as-Gateway-Drug (and How the Internet Will Hopefully Solve Everything), with Jack Lawrence Mayer

ETAO Podcast, Episode 15.

When I interviewed Jack Lawrence Mayer for UChicago Arts back in 2102, he was about to launch Single Long, his seven-episode digital series for HBO. His latest project, LA Famous, follows the same basic format—but he’s produced it without the backing of HBO or, for that matter, any other network or studio.

So this week, Jack Lawrence Mayer stops by to discuss his work, his overall mission “to do shows without permission,” and the implications of that mission: Isn’t it exciting that we can make things and put them out there without anybody having to put up huge amounts of money? Definitely. But also, isn’t it a little terrifying that so much work now gets produced without any expectation of money changing hands, like, ever? Again, definitely, definitely.

LA Famous

We also take some time to discuss the Jack’s new Monday Morning Movies podcast, the importance of being told no, how a lower budget is something that’s easier to hear than to see, and the utterly indefensible ending of Grease!

Plus, we tear into the noxious archetype of the good guy—or rather, the nice guy—protagonist who’s just been dumped by some cruel, incomprehensible woman. She is tearing [the straight male protagonist] apart, Lisa!

Yeah, Jack wants to react against that trope. Fuck that trope.

• I use the terms “digital series” and “web series” interchangeably in the intro, but Jack does mention that he prefers the former for LA Famous and Single Long.

• That period of wakefulness was sometimes called “dorveille.” Quoth WikiPedia, “This was also a favorite time for scholars and poets to write uninterrupted, whereas still others visited neighbors, had sex, or engaged in petty crime.”

WikiPedia also tells us that “the nature and classification of the ASMR phenomenon is controversial, with a considerable cult following and strong anecdotal evidence to support the phenomenon but little or no scientific explanation or verified data.”

• “There have been eras that took a far more intense interest in spectacles of cruelty than ours, but none that was so transfixed by watching people act like assholes,” says Geoffrey Nunberg of the UC Berkeley School of Information.

• Shane Carruth’s second film is called Upstream Color, and it’s just as weird and wonderful as I’m describing, I promise.

• Louis CK’s first movie (before Pootie Tang, even) was Tomorrow Night.

• The only Magic Johnson Theater still open for business is the one in Harlem. It’s currently owned and operated by AMC.

• I think I combined “glib” with “gloom and doom” to form “gloob and doom.” You heard it here first.

• As Jack says, High Maintenance is very much worth checking out.

• And do absolutely give Yasujirō Ozu a go.


LA Famous

“All The People Say” by Carpe Demon.
“Jazz De Luxe (1919)” by Earl Fuller’s Famous Jazz Band.
“I’m in the Mood for Love” by Vera Lynn with The Casini Club Orchestra.
“Knockin’ at the Famous Door” by Charlie Barnet and His Orchestra.
“Do What You Can To Shine” by Steven Brent, performed by Jenn Romero.

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Teslamancing the Wii U with Teslagrad

So Teslagrad is out on the Wii U, and everything I said about the PC version applies to the port. The gameplay, like the audiovisuals, seems like something you’ve seen a hundred times before until you look a little closer. Then you see that it’s got far more Metroidvania DNA than your average Braid-alike, and that it draws more from cel animation and rotoscope than from the painterly and/or pixelated aesthetics usually associated with indie games. It’s something quietly and subtly special, this game.


There’s a real intimacy to playing Teslagrad on the Wii U Gamepad, and a real joy to seeing it next to Shovel Knight on the Wii U Menu—a celebration of platform games’ twitchy, adventurous origins, sitting next to a prime example of the lush, contemplative places the genre has gone since.

Also worth noting: Achievement descriptions served as Teslagrad’s only textual exposition on PC, and so the Wii U’s lack of achievements allows the game to double down on its wordlessness. Which is just fine by me. Say what you will about Nintendo’s frequently antediluvian online infrastructure, but it can be refreshing to play a game that functions simply as a game—as an experience solely for you, the player—rather than an implicit social performance.

Here’s a port that plays to most of the Wii U’s strengths and is unhampered by most of its weaknesses, and more importantly, a game that is every bit as worthy of your attention as it was last year.

Highly Competetive Nonsense in Gang Beasts

It’s so clever, because it’s so dumb, the idea behind Gang Beasts: Take the isometric arena brawling of Power Stone 2 (complete with environmental hazards) and make the combatants little ineffectual Play-Doh people, punching and pummeling, lifting each other up and tossing all comers off to oblivion.

It’s like if Octodad were a character in Super Smash Bros. Or if you could play QWOP competitively.

That’s the real magic: Taking the wonky-controls-as-comedy genre and applying it to a competitive multiplayer setting. Two to eight players, just sort of flopping around and bumping into one another, but doing so with a certain undeniable seriousness. This is absurd, but even so, I’m clearly better at it than you are and furthermore I’m going to prove it.


Gang Beasts is an Early Access title, published by DoubleFine, and it should be said that it’s in a much earlier state than, say, DoubleFine’s own Hack ‘n’ Slash. The game is undeniably in alpha, rough around basically all of its edges, with menus that need work, sometimes-dodgy framerates, and lack of variety in characters and settings.

If you can look past that, though, there’s already tremendous fun to be had provided that you can wrangle some friends and get them into the spirit—not too hard with my group of friends, but your mileage may vary. The old alpha version is still free if you’d like to give it a shot without committing to the vagaries of Early Access.

I daresay this is one to watch. Straightforward as Nidhogg and dead-serious about its sillier-than-hell core mechanic, Gang Beasts has the potential to become a fixture at right-thinking parties everywhere. Bring it on.

The Joyously Disorderly World of Super Time Force Ultra

All videogames are about time travel, kind of. They’re about the strangeness of repeating or overlapping timelines. They’re about going back again and again until you get it right.

Dark Souls and The Stanley Parable both address the existential dread lurking behind that idea—the idea that we live in a disorderly and mutable universe, or else in an absolutely preordained universe whose strange mechanics we can never understand.


Super Time Force, which recently saw a Special Edition release on Steam as Super Time Force Ultra, takes that same chaos and gives it a propulsive, Rick and Morty energy. If somebody really did invent time travel, the game argues, then everything from that point on would be unbridled madness, with the inventor altering history for selfish or short-sighted or just-plain-stupid reasons, and the world being destroyed and undestroyed and destroyed again, many times over.

It would be awful.

And also, it would be irresistibly fun.

The titular Super Time Force treats individual human lives, the flow of history, and the fabric of spacetime itself with gleeful nihilistic abandon. After all, we can always go back and fix this stuff later, right?

Sure we can.



But alright, the nuts and bolts: Super Time Force Ultra starts each mission by giving you sixty seconds on the clock and the ability to rewind time thirty times. You can rewind a fraction of a second, or you can rewind to the beginning of the mission, or anything in between. And you can initiate a rewind whenever you like—though usually, you’ll do it when you die.

Prevent your own death, and you can absorb your former self’s special attack, as well as an extra hit point. Or let the old you go, and use the diversion to sneak around and flank the enemy. Or screw up your rescue attempt a half-dozen times, then finally get it right, giving you seven now-not-quite-dead selves to absorb.

Of course, you can also embrace the idea of having multiple timelines going at once, fanning out two or three yous to explore the level while another powers forward to the end—a speed run and a completionist run, all in one.

Find yourself asking how you could have possibly seen that trap coming and, well, you’ll know it was coming next time, now won’t you?

Find yourself wondering how in the world you’re going to do that much damage to the boss in that amount of time, and an answer prevents itself immediately: Have five of you firing right at each of your enemy’s weakest weak spots the instant the fight begins. Glory ensues, and afterward you can see it playing out as it would have looked to some omniscient outside observer, your attempts all overlapping Super Meat Boy-style.


Super Time Force Ultra satisfies the perfectionist in me, and it satisfies the large part of me that needs things to feel a little messy if they’re going to feel authentic. It’s a precise and finely tuned simulation of a universe that’s all disorder and flux. It’s a functional model of a hopelessly broken reality.

It’s probably the most realistic prediction I’ve ever seen of what the world might look like after the invention of time travel.

In that it’s chaos.

Beautiful, endlessly repeatable, just-about-but-not-quite-perfectible chaos.

Making a Sequel to Chess and Making Sense of IP Law, with Zac Burns

ETAO Podcast, Episode 14.

Zac Burns of Ludeme Games joins me to discuss his studio’s digital adaptation of Chess 2, which is out on OUYA, and as of today, on Steam as well. Along the way, we talk about the challenges of translating tabletop games into videogames, the (many) problems with modern intellectual property and copyright law, and why the OUYA has been and remains such a welcoming space for first-time independent game developers.

That, and why free-to-play is not, in and of itself, the devil.


Chess 2: The Sequel is just what it purports to be, namely a sequel to Chess. Not just a variant of Chess, mind you, but an attempt at an iterative sequel that builds on the original game’s much-lauded merits (deep, chance-free, intellectually demanding one-one-one confrontation) while eliminating or mitigating its key deficiency (an emphasis on strategic stasis and rote memorization).

Chess doesn’t have an author as such. Chess 2 does. Which raises all manner of odd questions about ownership, tradition, culture, subculture, and yes, sequels.


Here are the rules of Chess 2. You can download them for free, or kick in a $5 “tip” if you so choose—and as Zac says, you can try the game out with nothing more exotic than a regular old Chess set and some loose change.

• As Zac says, we recorded this interview on Independence Day. Yay America.

• For those interested in the Aereo case.

• WordPress was indeed hiding some of the older episodes from iTunes, Stitcher, Podbay, and so on. That should be fixed now, and you can always see our whole back catalog of podcasty delights right here on ye olde blog.


“All The People Say” by Carpe Demon.
“General Lavine” from Preludes, Book 2, by Claude Debussy.
“I’m in the Mood for Love” by Vera Lynn with The Casini Club Orchestra.
Nocture in D Flat Major, Op. 27, No. 2, by Frédéric Chopin.

Both piano pieces were performed by Paul Pitman, and the recordings are available for free on Musopen.

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Lose Yourself to Necrodance in the Crypt of the Necrodancer

After a long period of semi-private gestation, roguelike-alike/rhythm game mashup Crypt of the Necrodancer is about to enter a period of mostly-public gestation on Steam Early Access. Leading up to the June 30 launch date, the developers are putting on a Twitch-streamed “NecroThon” for charity, and thereby also offering you—yes, you!—the chance to see monsters being slain to the beat, and to see whether the game looks like your kind of thing.

It’s definitely my kind of thing, as I said back when I got to play an early build. The game has come a long way since then. There’s a solid tutorial, and lots more NPCs to rescue, and many more items, and all that.

But more to the point, the shopkeepers will now sing to you in an autotune-modulated operatic tenor while you browse for torches and broadswords.

I’m not made of stone.


Kentucky Route Zero by Night: Act 3 (Xanadu, Rock Mine)

I’m outside of time again, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. This time I’m headed to Belgium. I’m going to land in Brussels, and then I’m going to drive about an hour to a little town called Genk. It’s in the Flemish part of Belgium, so people are going to speak Dutch there, mostly—but practically everybody in Belgium also speaks French or German or both.

Later in this trip, I’ll learn that each linguistic group actually has its own government, federalized under the national one and existing alongside the figurehead monarchy. It sounds like chaos, and it maybe even sounds volatile, but everybody in Belgium, or in the Flemish part at least, or in Genk at the very least, seems to regard the system as first and foremost a waste of money.

Anyway, I don’t know any of that yet.


I only know that they speak Dutch in Belgium, even, because I noticed that they were making flight announcements in Dutch as well as English and French, and I decided to wiki it. (When every announcement has to cycle through three languages, you have the time to wiki all sorts of stuff from the runway).

I barely speak French or German, but man, I really don’t speak Dutch. So there’s a better than even chance that, sometime on this trip, I’ll misunderstand or be misunderstood. Which isn’t usually a big deal. Usually it’s merely awkward. But occasionally it’s disastrous.

It won’t be at all clear what this has to do with Act III of Kentucky Route Zero unless you’ve played it. If you have, then you’ll probably know that it’s about misunderstanding, ambiguity, lapses in communication, leaps of faith. You’ll know about Ezra’s conversation with Junebug about how you can never be yourself until you’re sufficiently specific in how you describe yourself, and your relationships to others.

You’ll know that finally finding the Zero may be a matter of rendering the familiar unfamiliar, and vice-versa.


You’ll know how ambiguities—including intentionally confusing, deeply nefarious ambiguities—have profoundly affected Conway’s body, and his sense of self, and how they may have just changed his career path as well. As he says at the end of the act, that’s just the way these things go sometimes.

And you’ll know about Xanadu, which (without giving away anything specific) is a Synecdoche, New York-style thought experiment about worlds within worlds, representations within representations, simulations within simulations—and also, appropriately enough, an attempt to create a surreal, alluring, vectory game-world within the surreal, alluring, vectory game-world of Kentucky Route Zero.

Not just a game within a game, but a version of this specific game living within this specific game.

Making sense of things, and sparring with the possibility that some things are nonsense, and worse, that you may lack the tools to know sense from nonsense.


Like going to a country whose language you don’t speak, whose language you don’t even know until you’re already on the plane, harried business traveler that you are.

My misunderstandings were mild this time around. Misunderstanding how to use two lane roundabouts. Having a hell of a time finding my way back to the airport. Finding it more or less impossible to explain to the proprietor of The Rock Mine in Genk that I’d like dinner as well as drinks—maybe because my German is awful and my Dutch is worse, or maybe because they play their metal at the appropriate volume, which is to say pretty loudly, at The Rock Mine.

That kind of thing. No big deal.

Nothing life-changing. Nothing urgent.

Not this time, anyway.

Lizardry, Technology, and What to Call Roguelikes, with Geoff Blair and Matt Hackett

ETAO Podcast, Episode 13.

At first glance, A Wizard’s Lizard doesn’t seem like a roguelike-alike, but more specifically like a Binding of Isaac-alike, what with its distinctive combination of Zelda and Smash TV. But on closer inspection, A Wizard’s Lizard is a fairly different beast, owing more to A Link to the Past than to the original Legend of Zelda, and not exactly riding Isacc’s nightmarish coattails—more drawing from a common pool of Spelunky-afflicted design DNA.

Geoff Blair and Matt Hackett, the team behind A Wizard’s Lizard and the Lostcast, stop by to discuss their creation, the lizardry (sorry) behind its systems, the cult of Spelunky, and all manner of things that the three of us all really roguelike. (I’m so, so sorry).



• Tiny Speck did indeed put all of Glitch’s assets not just into Creative Commons, but into the public domain.

• That Clay Shirky quote is from Here Comes Everybody.

Lars Doucet coined the term “Procedural Death Labyrinth.”

• For more about how games teach through their level design, take a gander at Anna Anthropy’s “Level Design Lesson” series, and also Extra Credits’ new “Design Club” series.

• Great Caesar’s ghost! There is a new Sequelitis about Zelda! (And it was in fact just two days old when we recorded this podcast).

• If you’re keeping score, Egoraptor hates Skyward Sword considerably more than I do, but still probably less than Alex Preston does.


“All The People Say” by Carpe Demon.
“A Wizard’s Lizard” and “Buy Me Something!” from the A Wizard’s Lizard Original Soundtrack by Joshua Morse.

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