You go through door number one with the graceful obedience of the game player who knows that they have to go through all the doors to get all the outcomes and to get the special achievements. I just tried to help you with your choices, you know? I tried. I warned you not to take matters into your own hands. It has pierced you through the aorta and you are dead. But you don't want to write a caption.Įven though you can't jump or interact with much, you have impaled yourself on one of the editor's pencils somehow. This first-person exploratory game made us think about what we really mean when we say we want to choose our own path in games. But this year brought us Kentucky Route Zero, Redshirt, Gone Home and Papers, Please, and then Davey Wreden and William Pugh decided to bring us a fully fledged remastering of the wonderfully cerebral Source mod The Stanley Parable on Steam.Ī humorous game about the illusion of game choice and the tyranny of game designers, your every move is narrated, remarked upon, mocked, by someone whose deep, mischievous voice reminds me of the BBC TV show Look Around You. It was a bad year for new IPs in the big budget lines. Oh so that's how it is, is it? Well so long as you're here maybe you can have a look at the innards of this article: it has taken me a full week to decide to get the guts to write it like this, and it went through several iterations, beginning with me writing the following:Ģ013 was the worst of times, it was the best of times. Don't go to door number three, because that's where the editor stores his pencils. Gosh, how wonderful choice is, isn't it? You should scroll to door number one, because it's in your own best interest.
Well there are two doors you could go through. Go straight to the comments and type about how this article doesn't even say anything about The Stanley Parable. And to add to all this you have this kind of Scottishy, sort of Karen Gillan narrator annoyingly narrating everything. The editor's desk just has one of those silly weighted bird toys tapping at a glass over and over, and the deputy editor's desk is just an abandoned scribbling of nob jokes (you, dear Stanley, added some extras to it yesterday), but now there's a listless sense of unease drifting over you and a half-eaten Tunnock's Teacake. Dearest Stanley, today you got to your desk and found that all your fellow writers weren't there.
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