Late October

I jumped into this game aware that it is often credited as being the spark that lit the “new” genre of walking simulators in modern gaming history. It helped shape, and, some would argue, cement the genre into the current gaming consciousness. I also jumped into this game having already played a number of these walking sims, a genre that I adore, and a genre that has given birth to some of my favourite games in recent memory.

I wouldn’t say that taking a step back to play Dear Esther was a jarring one in comparison to more modern games like Gone Home and What Remains of Edith Finch, but it was certainly apparent how this genre has grown, and it was equally apparent to see this game’s influence.

I will admit that I wasn’t sold on the narrator. This is no knock against the writing or the voice acting - I found both to be accomplished and compelling - this is more a matter of personal taste. It felt, at first, like the game took place in a completely different era, one that I don’t tend to enjoy. I’d almost liken it to books like Pride and Prejudice, which I found to be a bore and a slog and So. Not. My. Thing. 

Granted, I think this ambiguity of time and place was an intentional one - it’s actually quite interesting how the narrator dips and dives and makes connections between different people who weren’t strictly connected to each other save for the mysterious force of the island. These characters lived in different times (dating back to the 1700′s), and the architecture and structure of the island denotes these different eras. 

Despite my first misgivings, I will say that I found myself warming up to the narration as I continued to explore this coastal ghost town of an island. More-so, I was intrigued by the story, and intrigued by this seeming Self-Eulogy that the narrator was presenting.

What really captured me, however, was the environment. I’m trying to think of walking simulators that don’t employ the conceit of you are alone. To be honest, none come to mind. Everyone’s Gone to the Rapture? Alone. The Vanishing of Ethan Carter? Alone. Gone Home? Alone. Firewatch? Basically alone. The same is employed here. 

You find yourself exploring an island, once a homestead to a modest amount of people - shepherds, farmers, ecclesiasts, and perhaps something more. However, the island has long been abandoned, the remote and harsh nature of the climate being primarily responsible. We’re left to explore the ruins, the graveyards, and the skeletal structures that hint to what once was.

There is something so effective about how this environment is presented. It’s empty of people (and animals), to be sure, but it feels so definitively alive. There’s a deliberate sense of tension, of horror, even, that’s built into the environment. So often, you see what looks like the silhouette of a stranger standing on the cliffs in the distance, only for it to disappear the moment you get close.

Beyond these more deliberate trappings, however, there’s a sense of a presence, a force, an idea that you are treading on something that doesn’t belong to you anymore (and that it’s probably best that you don’t overstay your welcome). It’s such an effective environment, done so subtly and aptly. I’m truly impressed how the creators imbued such a strong feeling of life in something that is so lifeless at first glance.

Cuphead, for me, was one of the first games in years which immediately brought me back to my childhood. Yeah, okay, I’ll explain. Its difficulty is fast and demanding. The game doesn’t hold back on the player, but instead provides the routines, elements, and boss attacks, and asks you to: watch, play, and learn.

A game as difficult as this is not something I typically gravitate to - I lack the patience and resolve. But Cuphead gave me just enough that I felt compelled, round after round, to try “just one more time”.

I don’t think I had really tackled a challenge like this since I was a kid. I hadn’t dug my heels in the ground, wiped my palms on my jeans, and resolved myself to just. do. this. Since... who knows? This game made that feeling a beautiful necessity that I was happy to indulge. 

And this does little to acknowledge the art direction of the game. It undoubtedly reigns King of the castle, if for no other fact that its meticulously hand-drawn animation (directly influenced by 1930′s era cartoons) brings to mind terms like, “zany!”, “wowza!”, “bombastic!”. By today’s standards, it’s pretty common to hear “holy shit - what am I looking at and how is it even possible?!”. Every frame, environment, scene, and boss, has been rendered with such detail and seeming intimate familiarity of its inspiration that it’s hard not to qualify the art direction as flawlessly executed.

The same argument could be made for its gameplay. Cuphead, from head to toe, contains tight controls coupled with smart and challenging rhythms for each boss. It’s a quick and contained mode of gameplay which seems to meld into your brain the more you play. So much so, that while playing co-op, I’d often look down at the controller and have to consciously unstick my thumb, still smashed into the ‘shoot’ button, because, well, I had been dead for 30 seconds or more.

I did find the jumble of chaos to be too much at times, made worse by the fact that Cuphead and his cohort, Mugman, look so damn similar that I’d sometimes confuse them onscreen. However, any setback in difficulty I ultimately contributed to the fact that I just needed to play more. This always made the game seem fair, and heightened my sense of accomplishment when I defeated a level.

Cuphead, as an understatement, is a mighty fine looking game. It’s hard to do it true justice with words because it begs to be experienced in order to appreciate all that it has to offer. From music to art to gameplay, it is the complete package, one which I am keen to enthusiastically share with others.

This doesn’t even take into account that my entire experience of the game was played couch co-op with my sister. This probably transported me back to my childhood more than anything. As we played, we’d coordinate our moves on the screen and talk each other through the challenge, we’d tell each other whether or not we planned to parry, and, if we noticed an enemy was transitioning to its next stage.

We’d scream, and yell at the screen as things became progressively more chaotic. Together, we’d unpeel our hands from the controller and take a deep breath between levels (ahem, deaths). I hadn’t experienced something so tense or exhilarating since the mine cart level in Donkey Kong Country, or, just about anything involving a pissed-off animal in Tomb Raider on PS1.