Tuesday, 22 July 2014

What I'm Playing: OUT THERE

Moving house and not having an internet connection has put something of a dent in my proposed fortnight month-long series of blogs. But that's all done with now, which means we're back on track with our look at mobile games and what makes them tick – and hopefully less of the maudlin introspection that has frequented the subtext of this blog for the past six months.

Now, onward with the games blogging!

Out There Logo
Out There is, essentially, a modern update of the choose-your-own-adventure book. You know:
You are an astronaut stranded out in space, alone. Through the viewscreen, you see a constellation of stars. Do you pilot your ship to the YELLOW DWARF or the distant NEUTRON STAR?
The similarities are most obvious in the chunks of text the game displays when you arrive at each new star system, a sort of randomised captain's log. Some of these provide a bit of flavour (“99 alien races and not one looks like a pretty girl. Damn you, Captain Kirk”). Or they might unexpectedly damage your ship's hull, or dump a bounty of desperately-needed supplies in your cargo bay. Or they might hand you another decision:
You encounter a giant alien pyramid. Do you FLY INTO ITS DARK HEART or FLEE LIKE A COWARD?
Out There 4

The remaining majority of Out There is compromised of basic resource management. Each star is orbited by a handful of planets, broken down into three types: rocky planets which can mined for minerals to repair your hull or build new equipment; gas giants which can be probed to extract fuel; and, best of all, the oxygen-rich Garden Planets inhabited by alien lifeforms.

Even here, though, the simple binary choices the game presents – do you go to one planet, or all of them in sequence, or just switch on the hyperdrive and continue on to the next star – and the often unexpected consequences of those decisions still retain that same choose-your-own-adventure feeling.

The key difference is that when you do inevitably make a mistake, when the fuel runs out leaving you stranded orbiting a planet that you have single-handedly exhausted of its natural resources, there's no option of cheatily flicking back to the last time things were okay and trying to work out where you went wrong. It's back to page one.
Out There 2

This might sound familiar if you've read my last blog on Hoplite. At its heart, Out There is another roguelike. A slightly peculiar one, admittedly, stretching that 'like' to its elastic limit, but built around the same two vital components: a randomly-generated word to explore and a start-the-game-all-over-again fail state.

The most obvious roguelike(-like-like) comparison is FTL, which also put you in the seat of a spaceship captain, but Out There lacks that game's focus on combat and crew. FTL evokes Star Trek or Star Wars or Firefly. Playing Out There feels more like... actually, I'm not sure there is a completely accurate film comparison for Out There, and that's wonderful.

In Out There, you come in peace. Your encounters with aliens don't end in violence, but in conversation, in the standardised gibberish spoken by the various races spread across its universe. Each time you come across an alien, they ask a question. Whether you answer correctly or accidentally threaten genocide, this will add a new chunk of language – just one or two words – to your arsenal, so that you have a better chance of understanding and saying or doing the right thing next time.

This is the game at its most brilliant. In general, games' most successful verbs are either 'look' or 'kill' but, by approaching language as a mechanical puzzle, Out There makes 'talk' into a viable alternative. More, for my money, than any Bioware RPG or Lucasarts point-and-click adventure ever really managed.

The writing – not always perfect, but packed with giant warships chucking moons at one another, planets baked to caramel, and other pulpy sci-fi ideas – is the tractor beam that pulls you through Out There's weaker parts.

Out There 3
Those weaker parts being the actual traditional 'game' bits of Out There. The resource management is basic, right up until it's frustrating.

Basic because the game is built around a mindless core loop: arrive at a planet, choose a drilling intensity out of 10, use the collected resources to top up the fuel, hull and oxygen bars, and move onto the next. And it doesn't take long to figure out that 7/10 is the correct level of drilling, producing the highest yield with little chance of breaking your equipment.

Frustrating because every ship is slightly too small to hold everything you're likely to want. 'Inventory Tetris' can be a greatly satisfying sub-game, but there's no way of knowing what you'll need or collect next, and there are too many limits on when you're allowed to use or move around the contents to free up space without having to chuck them out into the void.
Out There 1

So, Out There is an unusual thing for me: a game made attractive almost exclusively by the way it's written.

The stories I tend to remember from games are the ones I authored myself, out of the unexpected way two parts of a system rubbed against another or from a scattered series of incidental environmental clues.

The irony of 'choose your own adventure' was always that you did no such thing. The reader/played followed a firmly set path, with the only real deviation in mistakes and subsequent backtracking.

There is a specific story waiting for you in Out There, with set twists and turns. But that took me a few dozen plays to even uncover, and it lets you tell your own story in the margins. The strange adventures of a space captain, stranded and going slowly insane.
Out There 6
The text vignettes that make up this side story are shuffled with each playthrough, but what makes them really special is the context. Each event takes on a new weight when you know you haven't got the resources to repair any of the damage that giant snowball did to your hull; or when you encounter a dozen disastrously ruined ex-civilisations, one after the other; when a conversation with an alien rewards you with a block of omnipotent Omega which can be transmogrified into the fuel you need to make it to the next star along; or...

This is unexpectedly powerful stuff, especially if you can give Out There an unbroken half-hour session. It's much more of a long-term investment than Hoplite's 10-minute dips below the earth, and coming back to your virtual bookmark a day or two later, none of it makes any sense.
You hold this game up to your face, explore its facets. Some shine brighter than others, but you have a feeling that without these, the whole just wouldn't hold together. 
If you decide to PICK OFF the dull elements, then turn to a proper text adventure instead.
If you think you'd rather PLAY SOMETHING with a bit more meat to its strategy, then why not check out this new FTL Advanced Edition expansion written by Chris Avellone?
I'm indecisive. I put the book down,  forever unanswered. Choose your own conclusion.
Out There 5

Other games what I've been playing:

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

What I'm Playing: HOPLITE

Part two in a promised four part series, trying to figure out why mobile games so rarely make any impact on me.

Hoplite Logo

Hoplite is a roguelike. Comfortable with that bit of game jargon? Then you can skip the next section. But if not, allow me to quickly explain:

Named after Rogue, a 1980 game that cast the player as an adventurer pushing deeper and deeper below the crust of a fantasy world, the roguelike is a peculiar little subgenre. As in the original, movement and combat most are commonly based around tiles and turns. Heroes are upgraded by levelling up and/or collecting equipment as you descend. But most importantly: every death is permanent, whisking you back to the start of the game to face a whole new set of randomly-generated dungeons and monsters.

More recently, the likes of Spelunky and FTL have distilled the genre's spirit into something frothier, keeping the permadeath and different-every-time levels but translating them into platformers or strategy games. These game are known as roguelites.

(Suggested Further Reading: my potted history of the genre for IGN.)

Hoplite 1

Hoplite keeps the same quest structure as classic roguelikes: you play a chunky little Spartan warrior, tasked with the retrieval of the Fleece of Yendor. (The name is a dual reference to the McGuffins from Jason and the Argonauts and classic roguelike Hack.)

The Fleece is on the sixteenth level down, protecting an ever-increasing number of enemies. Once you've picked it up – which took me a few dozen attempts – you can choose to port back to the surface, ending your game in victory, or push further and deeper for a better score and the simple thrill of challenge.

In fact, while it feels like a roguelite, Hoplite is actually a remarkably orthodox example of the genre. As well as the permadeath and random levels, it maintains the turn-based combat: your avatar is able to move one hexagon at a time, slaughtering anyone on an adjacent hex, or take one action, then the forces of hell take their go.

The big difference is that Hoplite is built from the ground up with mobile in mind, streamlining the experience to fit the small screen and fat fingers. Classic roguelikes utilised an entire keyboard's worth of commands, even down to capital letters having a different effect to their lower-case equivalents. Hoplite does away with all that, leaving only movement and three attack commands: use shield, jump, or throw a spear.

Combat feels like a puzzle, thanks partly to this limited arsenal and partly to the clean Fisher-Price presentation, which displays attack paths for any character you hover a digit over. It encourages the player to think ahead a couple of turns – if I jump over this baddie's head, running him through with my sword, I can use this demonic demolitions-expert as cover from that archer, and next turn deflect his bomb back at them both – for my money, more than Threes ever did.

Hoplite 2

You'll need that kind of forward planning as you descend further. Each successive floor pushes up the number of enemies by one and adds new flavours of demon to the mix – the most fearsome being the sorcerer, who can shoot fireballs across almost the entire screen. Before long, each level is  painted with a convoluted criss-cross of attack patterns leaving only one hex safe, and often tantalisingly out of reach.

To balance this out, there are altars on every floor where your Spartan can pray – in a shouty Scottish accent, if 300 is to be believed – for one of five upgrades. It's the levelling up process simplified to its absolute core principles, minus skill trees or item augmentation.

The upgrades on offer range from prosaic (an extra healthpoint, a quicker reset on the shield bash attack) to game-altering (the ability to teleport to any hex your spear lands on), and can be expanded through the game's achievements system. Restore your health with a single heart remaining, for example, and next game you'll be able to pray for a pair of winged sandals which let you leap across much further distances.

These upgrades, once unlocked, are available from the same altar each time. That's useful for planning but it's also indicative of Hoplite's one major issue . The game in general could do with a little more randomness. Each floor always features the same number and type of enemies, with only their placement and a few scattered lava tiles to differentiate it from the last time you made it this far.

Maybe that won't matter the first few dozen times. But after your hundredth battle with the third level's two swordsmen, one archer and one bomber, it starts to feels a little restrictive. And make no mistake, your playthrough count will reach the triple figures.

It's shocking how well the pecularities of the roguelike suit mobile. Just about any chunk of dead time can be transformed into a string of enjoyable deaths, a couple of minutes apart. In fact, once you've done it a couple of times, beating Hoplite – that is, picking up the Fleece and teleporting back to the surface, presumably to be carried on the shoulders of your cheering comrades and paraded through the streets as a hero, never to sleep alone again – can be done inside of ten minutes.

But as the challenge of grabbing the Fleece fades, the promise of cheers and endless lovemaking for your little Spartan pales into insignificance next to the promise of a few extra points, a new level reached, a new ability unlocked. You push deeper and deeper, taking more chances, deftly avoiding the attacks that would have felled your younger self.

Until you suddenly realise you have to jump off at the next stop, and abandon your hero's epic tale, never to be finished. So what? You've lost maybe fifteen minutes of your time. It's not like you would have done anything good with it in the first place.

Hoplite 3

Other games what I've been playing:

Friday, 20 June 2014

THE WICKED + THE DIVINE #1: "People We Want"

Image's The Wicked + The Divine #1 landed this Wednesday, bursting with the promise of being my new favourite comic. It's too early to say that yet and, besides, reviewing single issues of a comic is a bit of a vulgar business. So let's get our essay on.

(Spoilers follow, both visual and textual.)

WicDiv Covers

Let's kick off this two-part blog with a big old declaration of bias:

Jamie McKelvie & Kieron Gillen together make up just about the only fandom that I'd identify as part of. Their first comic together, 2006's Phonogram, introduced me to a whole host of ideas – formalism, poptimism, Kenickie – which make up a not-inconsiderable chunk of who I am today, and not just why but the way I'm writing this blog.

Their work is the exception to the rule that I don't buy comics monthly, and certainly not as print issues – I'm writing this having read a digital copy of issue one, knowing there's a pre-ordered copy waiting for me in my local comic shop. Their Thought Bubble DJ sets drag me halfway up the country on an annual pilgrimage of drinking, dancing, and ill-advised behaviour. I'm pretty sure Drunk Alex has tried to make out with at least one of them.

I am a complete fanboy and frankly, my opinion on any new comic they put out is not to be trusted.


So why the hell am I telling you this? Because it's one half of what The Wicked + The Divine is about. It's a story about the relationship between creator and consumer, centering around an excellent high concept: once each century, twelve gods reincarnate on earth. In human bodies. As pop stars.

The story is already in motion when we join it. The gods have been manifest for a while – or at least, based on the three blanks in the chapter's introductory Jonathan Hickman-esque diagram, nine of them are. The public are aware of their apparent divinity and are reacting in various ways, ranging from utter devotion to the application of semi-automatic weaponry.

This is a narrative-driven comic – exposition and explosions, a couple of mysteries, a cliffhanger to close – in a way Phonogram never was. My first impression was that the issue flies past too quickly, despite the doubled page count, but it actually manages to seamlessly introduce the concept and establish an incredibly broad cast across two distinct time periods without ever having to stop the story to make time for introductions.

So let's do some introductions:

WicDiv characters

So far, it appears that The Wicked + The Divine belongs to Laura, our viewpoint character. For now, she's pretty much just a Fan, with the suggestion that she's trying to escape something in her own personality through her relationship with music.

Amaterasu is the first of the gods we see, mixing Florence & The Machine and Kate Bush with an added splash of Bolan glam, some openly mystical iconography and eyes that (in a classic McKelvie/Gillen motif) turn into tiny eclipses when she's in full performance-god mode.

Luci(fer) is the first god we actually meet. She's an androgynous Bowie-esque retro revivalist, referencing the Rolling Stones, Beatles and Philip Larkin, decked out with a white suit and a La Roux quiff. Luci probably gets the most development of any character in the issue. She's introduced as something of a standard-issue Warren Ellis Female – sharp tongued, fearsome and permanently smoking – but towards the end of the issue that trope gets exploded, fairly literally, and again we get a glimpse of the young woman she is underneath.

If Luci and Ameratsu were real pop stars, though, I suspect they wouldn't be part of my pantheon. The god I could imagine tributes to on an alternate-universe version of this blog is also the one we see least of: Sekhmet, Egyptian cat goddess by way of Rihanna.

It's the most striking and direct visual resemblance to an actual celebrity in the comic. More specifically, though, Sekhmet embodies a particular side of Rihanna: the pelvic thrust of S&M, the stamina-and-virility-challenging super-dominatrix of Rude Boy. She's all that good stuff stripped back to pure animal form, draped over two groupies (one of each sex, obv), uninhibited in the most literal sense, chasing red dots across the furniture like an actual cat.

Then there's Cassandra, a journalist and non-believer who probably deserves her own essay. For now, let's just say acts as the voice of scepticism. 

(Something you might have noticed – that was a lot of 'she's. Of the (by my count) ten potentially recurring characters, just two are boys. If that doesn't sound too important to you, well, you're probably not a regular comics reader.)

WicDiv 3

Cassandra tries to ground Amaterasu by reminding her she's just "a seventeen-year-old from Exeter". It's simultaneously a paean to the transformative power of pop and a suggestion that maybe she's just playing the same game as Laura. Less Amaterasu, basically, and more amateur.

She points to Sekhmet, saying it's not "a dignified way for a woman to behave". You've probably heard someone say a similar thing about Rihanna or one of the other pop stars in Sekhmet's DNA, and it raises a question of control and choice. Would whoever Sekhmet was before have chosen to become a cat sex god? How much of Rihanna's sexualised presentation is self-determined?

For a comic which I said goes by far too quickly, it manages to pack in a remarkable amount of questions about the creation and consumption of pop creation, both the specifics and the universal. Here's one more question: how much am I extrapolating?

Look, I told you I wasn't to be trusted. The Wicked + The Divine feels like a comic that was made for me, from concept to execution to the fact that, based on the caption box and the look of the houses, Laura lives a ten-minute walk from where I'm currently sat.

There's a scene early in the issue where Laura attends an Amaterasu gig. The star-god scans the audience, and meets Laura's eyes. You can read in her wonderfully-rendered expression what Laura's thinking: some variation of 'she knows me'. 

"It's so seductive when she understands", to steal a Kenickie lyric. But it's more than that. The art responds. Ameratsu extends a hand, in a gesture I last saw on the poster of Michaelangelo's The Creation of Adam that hung on the wall of my student flat, next to a McKelvie print.

What makes Laura different, so that she is the one picked out? Internally, we don't know yet. But externally, I think it's that, unlike the other girls at the gig cosplaying as Amaterasu, unlike the one passing out to her left, Laura's makeup is a reaction to the style of her hero, not a straight lift. It's a work of criticism.

You can maybe see why I like her.


Saturday, 14 June 2014

What I'm Playing: THREES

I've been moaning since 2010 that I don't have enough time to play games anymore. With an hour-and-a-half of dead time to fill each commuting day, mobile games should be the perfect solution, but I've struggled to find anything I really loved. 

This is the first of four posts going up over the next month or so, looking at the mobile games that have been dominating my tube journeys of late, and trying to work out if there is anything that can change my mind. Threes Logo

Even as I'm playing Threes, I don't really understand why I'm doing it.

Threes is a puzzle game where you move around tiles with multiples of three on them. If you can get two matching numbers next to each another, they can be combined into a single double-value tile. Two 3s become a 6, freeing up more space and, once the game is over and points are being counted, exponentially growing your score.

The exception being 1 and 2 tiles. Firstly because, as the more eagled-eye of you may have noticed, they aren't multiples of three. And secondly because they can't be combined with themselves, only with the other corresponding number. Two adjacent 1s other aren't any use to you, but a 1 and 2 can be squashed together into a 3.

Threes 1

This is a game of mathematical speed dating, and to matchmake these tiles you have to move the whole board. Each turn you have four choices: move all free tiles up, down, left or right. Trace Three's family tree back a few generations, and you'll see that it's a direct digital descendant of those plastic sliding block puzzles found in Christmas crackers and at the bottom of 99p lucky bags.

The key difference is that, being a virtual game rather than a disappointing toy, Threes is able to introduce more tiles with each turn. Move everything to the right, and a new tile will pop up on the left. This also introduces a fail state: let the screen fill up and you're out of moves. Game over.

Sat at the top of the other major branch of that family tree is Tetris, and like that mighty Russian patriarch, Threes presents you with a preview of the next tile, so you can control roughly where it will land, and make space for it to get intimate with a compatible number. In theory, you can predict what comes next, what you need to do, what the smart move is. In theory.

Threes 2

In practice, that doesn't happen, at least not for me.

Threes should be one big balancing act. I should be massaging my chin, muttering to myself: 'Right, if I move this, then this will squidge into this, but this will block this'. But for a puzzle game, I rarely feel like I'm solving anything.

That preview of what's coming next doesn't make me more strategic, it just makes me reactionary. The sky is constantly falling, and I'm thoughtlessly swiping to avoid any chunks landing on me. I look for easy matches, never thinking more than one move ahead and worse, it doesn't feel like I really need to. Once, out of curiosity, I tried to force a game over, sliding my finger around randomly, and was disheartened to find the game lasted another couple of dozen turns – probably longer than if I'd actually been trying.

You might have noticed we've switched here from the second person 'you' to the first person 'I'. I can't escape the feeling that the fault is with me. Honestly, I can't quite work out why I don't like Threes more.

The game removes any complexity of controls, which so often trip up mobile games, in favour of a single motion. The focus is put firmly on challenging the player's mind rather than their aching thumb joints. Each game is randomised, meaning it's endlessly playable. And most of all, the presentation is gorgeous. Everything has its corners rounded off like a safety-tested child's toy – all the way down to the fonts and icons and the pastel colour scheme. Every tile has its own little face, more detailed and filled with personality for each increasing number.

Threes 3

Here's the thing: I've played a hell of a lot of Threes. But I still find it very difficult to recommend. There's no elation when I beat my previous high score, no real feeling of defeat when that last immovable tile fills up the screen. 

Around the time I started playing Threes, a lot of my life was waiting for stuff to happen, stuff that was out of my control, and that's how the game feels to me, a process of swiping and watching things fail and then press restart until the allotted time is over. The fancy big-money word that cropped to mind, then and now, is 'anhedonia'.

In my Hearthstone blog, I said that game might have been better off with its fantasy trappings removed. Playing Threes suggests I was wrong. For all its visual charm, the game lacks any real theme or flavour. It's too abstract to give you the pleasure of filling a character's shoes and playing out their role, or just moving around in their world.

I was about to say that I can't work out why I've spent so much time playing Threes – but that's not quite true.

It's the ne plus ultra of a certain aspect of mobile games Threes is a precision-crafted time killer. A few rounds tesselate perfectly into a tube journey, or a waiting room, or an early morning trip to the loo. It's a process for gobbling up dead time. And it's great at making that time disappear, but it entirely fails to do anything more with it.

Of course, that might just be a problem with me. I'm the guy who doesn't like Angry Birds or Bejeweled or Tetris.

Threes 4

Other games what I've been playing:

Sunday, 8 June 2014

What I'm Playing: MONIKERS

A quick break here before we launch into a four-part special, ignoring the huge backlog of games I've made notes on and instead talking up a game I first played last weekend and just couldn't keep quiet about:


Monikers doesn't really exist as a game yet. The version I've played was printed, by me, onto some card we had lying around the flat. The lovely pictures I'm using throughout this post are nicked from the game's Kickstarter.

Which brings us neatly to the reason I'm writing about it now, rather than any of the other games I need to get written up before Mario Kart 8 arrives and dominates my playtime for the next half-year. While Monikers quickly passed its rather conservative $20,000 goal, you still have the chance to help the campaign push past its various stretch goals and essentially help improve the game you, and everyone else, will play.

And unlike most Kickstarter games, you can be guaranteed of Monikers' quality. Why?

Because I've played it, and I'm telling you it's ace, obviously. And also because you can play the same demo version yourself, for free.


Monikers is based on a public domain game called 'Celebrity'. You might not have heard of the game, but you'll have played a variant of it. Split into teams, pick a bunch of famous names from a hat, set a timer, and try to get your teammates to guess as many as possible using verbal clues. Taboo + the Copycat cards from Cranium + that 'Who Am I?' game they play in Inglourious Basterds where one of the Nazis is King Kong.

You play with a partly random, partly chosen deck of cards shared by both teams – each player picks up seven, throws out two they don't fancy, and combines them all into a big pile. This gets whittled down in a series of 60-second rounds, as the correct guesses are plucked out of the deck and the remainder are shuffled back up and passed to the next player. You keep playing until even the names that nobody's heard of (Punxsutawney Phil and Thomas Kinkade were the ones that killed our group) have been guessed.

The range of names on offer is Moniker's first stroke of genius: a mix of history, celebrity and internet culture that feels carefully picked to guarantee the maximum amount of conversational silliness. The second is that the process I've just described is only round one.

Once the two teams have worked their way through the deck, the the whole cycle begins again. The scores at the bottom of each card are counted up to find each team's score, then the cards are shuffled back together. Welcome to Round Two, where teams again have 60 seconds to guess as many names as they can, but this time they can only use a single word.

Eventually, the deck will be conquered once more. Count. Shuffle. Round Three. Where those same few dozen names have to be conjured with only gestures and sound effects.


Using charades to convey, say, 'David Foster Wallace' is a pretty tall order, but because the card will have cropped up at least twice before, your pathetic impression of a lobster stands a fighting chance. Unless, of course, 'Sebastian the Crab from The Little Mermaid' is also in your deck.

Because you're working with a finite number of cards, of which each player saw five before the game even began, you can start factoring traditional game skills like memorising and elimination and card-counting into your strategy.

All of which might sound like cheating, but it's not really. This is how Monikers wants to be played and, because it's a chaotic party game you're most likely playing with a drink in hand, it's hard to get too serious about things. Instead, this strategy manifests as a makeshift shorthand, a language each team constructs as they play.

(And I have to admit, as beautiful as the cards in these pictures are, I'm a bit concerned about the effect that the added descriptions will have. Our version of the cards just feature the name and a category, meaning that when you encounter 'Krang' (the brain-in-a-belly villain from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, fyi) and have no clue who they are is, you either have to find a unique angle of approach ("like the cartoon sound effect for two swords clashing against each other") or give up and move onto the next one, something that's explicitly encouraged in the game's rules.

Whereas in the forthcoming version of the game, when you've got a minute to fire through as many names as possible, and you hit the same card and there's a helpful 50-word biog of someone you've never heard of, the most sensible thing to do is to read it out loud. It's also the lame thing to do, and I doubt anyone I'd want to play this game with will rely on it, but the temptation is certainly there.)


As it is, though, Monikers balances both halves of the party game equation beautifully. It gets competitive in a way that Cards Against Humanity, generally considered the gold standard around these parts, never does but it also encourages you to be even more inventive, more silly, more filthy. Unlike Cards Against Humanity, you don't have to work blue – only a few of the cards are rude ('Fluffer', 'Goatse', 'James Deen' with that vital second 'e') – but it quickly goes that way because your friends are disgusting human beings.

Take the example of 'Rick Santorum', which cropped up in one of our group's games. Santorum is a US Republican Senator most famous for being a vocal opponent of gay marriage, but as far as clue-giver Dav 'Ain't No Stinkpen' Inkpen is concerned, the single most salient fact about him is that his surname has been coined, in a moment of beautiful internet vengeance, as the term for a slushy byproduct of anal sex.

Our team has no idea about any of this. But when the cards finally get back to me and I draw 'Rick Santorum', having no clue who this is but figuring that they sound appropriately gross, I look at Dav and say "anal leakage?". He gets it instantly.

By the second round, this becomes simply "leakage". By the third, I'm standing up making a deeply unpleasant combination of hand motions and mouth noises that probably factors into the imminent closing of the bar we're in.

Monikers has you reaching for old in-jokes to communicate ideas as quickly as possible, mining years of friendship for a word you can use instead of 'horse'. Better still, by repeating the same cards over and over, it forces you to create new ones too.


Other games what I've been playing:

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Videogames, film, music, comics: feed them into the Alex-Spencer machine and out come neat little articles. Like the ones you're looking at here.