Mike Russo's ParserTHON 2025

It’s been a minute! Having sat out Spring Thing due to it coinciding with a long international trip, I am back on my reviewing BS. July of course boasts two exciting events, the Review-A-Thon an ParserComp. I spent a bunch of time going back and forth on which to do first, but then decided I was doing this wrong: when reviewing a big pile of games, variety is often the spice that keeps me going, and with ParserComp living up to its name and the Thon skewing heavily choice-based this year, mixing all the entries together into one giant heap and then randomizing the resulting slurry felt like the way to go.

ParserComp:

The 13th Quest, by OlderTimer
Desperados, by the BDB Project
EYE, by Arthur DiBianca
The journey, by paravaariar
Last Audit of the Damned, by thoughtaction
Lockout, by xkqr
Mystery Academy, by thoughtaction
A Taste of Terror, by Garry Francis
Swap Wand User, by Sarah Willson
Tin Star, by the BDB Project
Wild West, by the BDB Project
Witchever, by Charles Moore, Jr.

Review-A-Thon:

Ataraxia, by Lauren O’Donoghue
Blood and Sunlight, by alyshkalia
Habeas Corpus, by Grim Baccaris
Heaven Alive, by Grim Baccaris
A House of Endless Windows, by SkyShard
Lazarrien: A Love Story, by DemonApologist
Lewd Mod: Noir, by HHRichards
machina caerulea, by manonamora
Method in My Madness, by Max Fog
Office Temptation, by HHRichards
Quotient, the Game, by Gregory R. Simpson
Resurrection Gate, by Grim Baccaris
return to home, by dott. Piergiorgio
take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die, by Naarel
The Butterfly Dreams, by Ave Q Production
The Deluge, by Lionstooth
The Moon’s Knight, by 30x30
The Sword of Voldiir, by Bottlecap Rabbit Games
Thousand Lives, by Wojtek Borowicz

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Resurrection Gate, by Grim Baccaris (THON)

For a couple years in the mid-90s, one of the best things in life was the monthly PC Gamer CD. You see, in those long-vanished days, most video games had demos, but it had historically been hard to get them. Reliable internet bandwidth was nowhere close to a thing, so occasionally a publisher would throw a promo for one of their other games in when you bought one, but other than that your main option was shelling out a couple of bucks for one of the questionably-legal floppies loaded with shareware or demos software stores would put in a rack by the checkout counter.

But then CDs made storage cheap, and the magazines all figured out they could collect demos from all the publishers and distributors they had connections to, pack them onto a CD, and get the hoi polloi to pay a couple extra bucks for their subscriptions. In retrospect it was all crass commerce, but at the time it was a revelation: for a game-starved teenager, getting a couple dozen demos every single month for functionally-zero marginal cost was amazing. Sure, most of them were usually stinkers, but there were typically at least a handful that even in their incomplete state were lots of fun – and in an age where there were many fewer games, and fewer still that I could afford on my allowance, that feeling of excess, of more free games than you knew what to do with, was a rare treat.

The magazine CD of course didn’t survive the rise of the internet, as the publications all shifted online and broadband meant anyone could pick and choose the demos they wanted to try rather than getting a collection pushed to them each month. And beyond that, demos fell out of favor through the aughts and teens, as I understand it because the big publishers realized making a special miniature version of the game and giving it away for free cost them money, which they’d rather be spending on licensing butt-rock songs for poorly-edited trailers and tie-in energy drink promos. But then the worm turned, as indie developers realized they couldn’t compete with the advertising budgets of the big companies, but they could give prospective players a taste of their game, no strings attached.

The return of the demo is objectively great, but speaking personally, the context of my gaming has changed so much since then that I often find I like them more in theory than in practice: there are now 12 billion games released every femtosecond, my leisure time is way more of a limiting factor than money (especially since most IF is free), and I’m already sitting on a backlog that conservatively would last me to the heat death of the universe. Instead of a cornucopia to fill my game-starved hours, demos now can feel like an imposition, like a free perfume sample aggressively spritzed on you when you’re just trying to sneak into the department-store bathroom. The question isn’t just “is this demo good enough to sell me on the full experience?” but “does this demo, standing on its own, justify the time I spent on it instead of just waiting for the actual thing?” Which I’ll acknowledge is a high, probably even unfair, bar to set.

So yeah, Resurrection Gate is a demo, and I have some feelings.

(For those of you who haven’t read my reviews before, since it’s been a year-ish since I’ve been on the grind: hi! I’m Mike! And yeah, that was 500 words whose relevance to the game I’m ostensibly talking about is tangential at best, that’s just how we roll in these parts).

What we’ve got here is a fifteen-minute slice of what looks like it’ll be a lavishly-produced high fantasy IF/RPG hybrid. There are multiple playable characters, who boast a handful of stats, a couple bespoke and flavorful traits, and limited customization (you can make Yasha, a battle-scarred veteran, an introvert or a horse person, for example. I decided to lean into role-playing and picked the latter). Richly-colored pixel graphics illustrate the key characters and backdrops, and there’s a lot of incident packed in: the demo starts in media res, on the run from an army that just beat your own and killed your liege, hoping to make it to an allied city offering shelter; then an action-horror sequence as undead attack and drag off a camp-follower, and you enter the belly of the beast to save them. There’s a last-minute rescue, sexily mysterious characters entering stage left and dropping lore and plot hooks, and then a perspective-shift to a more politically-connected character that sets up some higher-order conflict before the inevitable cliffhanger.

It’s all kinetic enough, while the fantasy setting has some steampunk and body-horror grace notes that keep it from feeling too generic – and the aesthetics really are great, too. I’ll confess that this style of epic, all portent and proper nouns, isn’t my favorite these days, but it’s very hard to complain about execution this lush. As a teaser, I think it works – I have questions, and unused skills on my character sheet, so yeah I’d keep playing to see what comes next.

As a complete experience, though, I’m not quite so convinced. Partially that’s because the demo feels so desperate to get the game’s key elements on screen that it sometimes runs out of breath. Like, the opening sequence had me focused on the danger of being caught by scouts from the pursuing army – but the attack came from previously-unmentioned undead, and I’d hardly wrapped my head around that shift before the aforementioned bishy GMPC suggested that actually there were other powers at play far beyond my comprehension. Everything is a pretty standard fantasy trope so it’s not like things were moving too fast for me to keep up – but the velocity meant I didn’t have enough time to get too invested in any given conflict. Similarly, the RPG elements weren’t given enough space to get their hooks in; the one time I could choose to use a stat (one I was allegedly very good at!) it just injured Yasha without having any visible impact on the plot.

The intentionally-obfuscated prose style also doesn’t work as well in a shortform piece, I think. An orotund style can be a good fit for fantasy, but there’s some clunky verbiage, and descriptions of often tilt ambiguous (especially in a few cases where a character’s singular they/them pronouns aren’t clearly delineated from standard plural they/thems referring to different folks). There are some strong images peeking through the cruft, don’t get me wrong:

The ostentatious design and the hardy sleekness of the mount would suggest a rider of some distinction, a high-ranking cavalry. But there had been no sign of the rider, save for perhaps the dried blood in the mount’s mane, the blackened stain frozen in the same pattern it sluiced down the horse’s withers.

But while in a longer piece, I would have eventually figured out who was who and gotten more on the author’s wavelength over time, in the demo context the spikiness felt more, well, spiky.

I’m having a hard time resolving Resurrection Gate’s contradictions because ultimately that hinges on evaluating its success as a marketing strategy – like, I don’t think this demo is a great piece of IF, but it could be that it’s a teaser for one. Based on what I’ve experienced so far, I’d play the full game, sure, so I guess that means it worked! But I also suspect I’d enjoy the complete piece more if I hadn’t played this teaser – which is a sad comment on how far I’ve come from the excited 14-year old shoving the new PC Gamer disc into the CD drive, intent on devouring its contents no matter their quality or my pre-existing interest. I’m sure Yasha would agree: you just can’t go home again.

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Witchever, by Charles Moore, Jr. (ParserComp)

Remakes! I dunno, man. They’re everywhere and of course mostly awful (my wife and I were talking about this and the only worthwhile ones we could come up with off the top of our heads were Sabrina – romcom, not witch, though that would be more relevant to the review I suppose – and The Thing), and an obvious sign of the entertainment industry’s creative bankruptcy. Yet, while as far as I can tell, these are the universally-agreed-upon views of everyone who voices their opinions, these remakes keep coming because people watch and play and like them. And if it’s true that ideas mostly don’t really matter, it’s all about execution – which I think is right – what’s the matter with dusting off an old concept, for its name recognition or its unrealized potential, and just trying to do it different or at least better? What if remakes are just… fine?

These heady thoughts brought to you by Witchever, a game that coyly acknowledges that it’s a remake of the author’s 2023 Comp entry The Witch. I remember The Witch! It had a fun opening, where you’re a Keebler-ish elf who wakes up in a tree, sporting a vicious mead hangover (but I repeat myself), and has to save his village from an attack by the eponymous enchantress. I dug the setup, but the game itself situated itself too far on the wrong side of 1990 for me to enjoy – I remember annoying inventory limits, an always-ticking-down timer, and some buggy business with a badger, which meant I let my playthrough peter out halfway rather than power through to the end.

Witchever recycles the opening, which is a savvy call, and likewise retains the dry whimsy of the original:

The bark is utterly smooth and white and seems to shimmer in the sunlight. Oddly, the entire tree rotates clockwise at regular intervals (you’ve heard that magic trees rotate counter-clockwise in the southern hemisphere), the canopy overhead rustling with every turn.

There are some set-pieces in common – I remember solving a version of the puzzles around this turning-tree in my first go-round, and the chair lift pinged my memory – and I think the final way to defeat the witch is the same, but otherwise this is a pretty thorough reworking (no badger in sight – which this time is great, unlike in the earlier game where its failure to appear locked me an unwinnable state). Some of these changes are cosmetic and don’t amount to much, like the way that instead of saving your own village, you get dragooned into visiting the next town over to save them before the witch gets to you. But there are substantial new areas, like a gnome burrow, a maze, and a giant-pumpkin patch.

Look, this is still an old-school game where you’re not given much direction or motivation – and the maze has a gimmick but it’s still a maze, and that pumpkin patch will instantly lock you into a game-losing trap unless you happen to have brought a couple items that you’d have no reason to expect you’d need. But the proceedings are notably less buggy, and the gameplay’s smoother too. There’s menu-based conversation, and better clueing throughout – I had to hit the hints a couple times, but I was often able to get past sticking points by stopping to think about what I needed to do, having a logical idea, and seeing it work once I tried it, with some genuinely clever puzzles I haven’t seen before (I really liked the way you figure out the path through the colored doors, for example). And the wit often did leave me chuckling:

“I have great… well, some confidence that you will be able to defeat the witch as well. If I can provide you with any assistance…” his voice trails off and he starts to dig around in his pockets. Finally, he pulls something out of each one and hands it to you.

This is the king of the elves speaking; he gives you two somewhat-dinged-up pieces of candy. And there’s an unexpected two-factor authentication gag that merits a mention too.

There are still places where the implementation could have been tighter – I was stymied for a while because ON and ONTO aren’t synonyms, for example – and the plot is notably light even by puzzle-fest standards (it wasn’t really clear to me what the witch was doing to make the elves so upset). And there are a few clunkers remaining in the puzzle list, like one involving a paperweight. But Witchever is a solid time on its own merits, and because I was playing it while haunted by the memory of its earlier, more hostile incarnation, I found myself perpetually relieved when the lows weren’t as bad as I’d remembered, while the highs were much higher indeed. I guess that’s what they call the soft bigotry of low expectations, but at least in this case, it kinda worked for me – bring on the remakes!

witchever mr.txt (285.3 KB)

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the original game was my oh-so-naive first IF attempt and i was hoping nobody would remember that cringe-fest. oh, well.

thanks for the review. ‘on’ and ‘onto’ are now best of buddies.

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Machina Caerulea, by Manonamora (THON)

In the early aughts, a documentary called The Aristocrats got a bit of buzz by digging into an inside-baseball joke structure widely used by comedians doing a set in front of other comics, but much more rarely presented to the general public (this was the middle-ish days of the web, so inside baseball as a concept still had a couple more years to go). I won’t go into detail on what, exactly, the joke is, since the whole point is that it’s extraordinarily filthy and changes every time, but the important part is that it’s a sort of shaggy-dog story with a set beginning, end, and punchline, which isn’t actually very funny. But there’s an extraordinary amount of craft that can go into filling in the middle part; because so much of the joke is already determined, it’s a stress-test of the comic’s pacing, delivery, and other technical skills.

There are some jam concepts that can be similarly restrictive, and Machina Caerulea clocks two of them – as a Neo Twiny jam entry, it’s got to operate under the absurdly stringent ceiling of 500 words, and since it was also in the Bluebeard jam, you pretty much know how the plot is going to go from the jump (the game was actually quadruple-listed, also qualifying for the Love/Violence and Anti-Romance jams, but those are much more spacious concepts in comparison). But while it doesn’t boast much in the way of surprises, it winds up as a really well-done example of intelligent implementation of a narrow brief.

Given the limited word-count, it’s smart that the setup is so archetypal: you wake up, amnesiac, in a sci-fi laboratory, get a couple choices to get your bearings, before the Bluebeard figure wakes you up, drops some exposition, and gives you the don’t-go-through-that-door warning. It’s not something that needs to be belabored, and the prose style leans into parsimony as a result:

Arms interlocked. Cold floor. Faint smile. Sad eyes.

“Breathe in deeply.”

It’s effective in its own right, while leaving space for an exploration sequence with reasonably robust detail, and a climactic choice leading to three different endings – each of these pieces are short and focused, as they have to be, but they deliver just enough texture to work. The game also has some nice visual bells and whistles – a blue-shaded interface, cool-looking buttons, text that sometimes fills in from the middle of the screen instead of just the bottom – that sell the alienated sci-fi vibe without running down the scarce word-count.

It’s true, the endings do go pretty quick, and on the Bluebeard disturb-o-meter Machina Caerulea rates pretty low (admittedly, that scale goes quite high) – when I decided to desperately struggle to kill the husband character, it was more because it felt like the thing to do than because what he’d done seemed all that beyond the pale. But as with the Aristocrats joke, the punchline isn’t the point: as a demonstration of how to do a lot with a little, and fill out a familiar premise with verve and concision, this is an impressive piece of work.

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Heaven Alive, by Grim Baccaris (THON)

Playing and reviewing Heaven Alive immediately after Machina Caerulae makes for a study in contrasts. They’re similar enough that those contrasts are interesting – they’re both New-Twiny games with a 500-word limit, they both have cool visuals and custom interfaces to reinforce the vibe, and they’re both two-handers centering on an abusive relationship where you play the weaker figure, so we’re not comparing Nord and Bert and SPY INTRIGUE here or anything. But where Machina employed a stripped-down prose style and only branched at the very, very end, Heaven Alive takes a more conventional approach – each conversation option spins out into a unique bit of dialogue, which, while terse, are rendered in full sentences. It just about works, but the effort of cramming a more traditional choice-based IF structure into the brutal wordcount cap is too-often visible.

This isn’t to say the game doesn’t know how to communicate with economy: the game is a conversation between your character, a sort of cybernetic major-domo, and your master, an amoral interstellar caudillo, and so the interface presents all the text in two windows, one for him and one for you. The fact that his is bigger, and labelled “EXECUTOR”, and yours is smaller and labelled “WRETCHED”, is all you need to know (there’s also a cool barcode visual that goes with the names; the collage backdrop is cool too). Similarly, while the details of the inciting incident are a bit vague – there’s a ship in need of rescue, but it seems like it’s going to take more effort than Mr. EXECUTOR wants to expend – the power dynamics are clearly at the forefront, with the sci-fi technobabble more or less irrelevant. Again, the interface does a good job of making this visible, with a tracker labeled “approval” always visible in the upper-left corner (with that said, the interface might be slightly over-baroque – it took me a while to realize that the arrows under “approval” were in fact the passage forward/passage back buttons).

But where Heaven Alive starts to sprawl, it runs into difficulties. There are two different nodes, with three choices apiece, before you reach the binary endgame choice, which is an impressive breadth of options, but the consequence is that things can seem to escalate extremely quickly. Like, my first playthrough involved me calling the boss by his first name in an attempt to establish rapport, which he clearly didn’t like, so I apologized. He seemed to be mollified (and the approval meter, after swerving to -1, went back into more-or-less safely neutral territory), but then I had to choose whether or not to “subjugate myself.” Unsure of what that meant, I decided to stay the course, at which point I ripped a cyber-doohickey out of my own neck – I think it was somehow controlling me? – snarling that he was nothing without me. With a little more room to breathe, this ramp-up might have been dramatic and compelling, but as it was it felt too abrupt to land.

After some repeat plays, I found that there were some variations that didn’t come off quite as intense (in particular, if your approval is positive, defiance just leads to punishment rather than a definitive rupture). But regardless, I found the details of the relationship were too fuzzy, and race to the finish line too quick, to establish effective stakes for the final submission/defiance choice; to me the WRETCHED and the EXECUTOR came off as plot contrivances rather than people. Now, this might partially be due to the fact that I never explored the first set of options – real talk, I live in LA and Trump’s currently got the military deployed in our streets, I am not in a headspace where I can click “subjugate myself” to a tin-pot dictator – so perhaps those branches lead to more satisfying outcomes, with pathos arising from the main character’s attempts to rationalize making accommodation with brutality. Still, if, in a project of 500 words, half the endings don’t fully click, that’s probably an indication you’ve got too many of them.

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Swap Wand User, by Sarah Willson [ParserComp]

One of the canonical justifications for text-only interactive fiction goes back to an old Infocom magazine ad: no graphics can compare to the visuals the human imagination can conjure when prompted by evocatively-written text! It’s never resonated very strongly for me, though. There’s an air of flop-sweat and defensiveness to the claim, sure, and it’s maybe slightly less true now than it was in 1984, but the reason I shrug at the argument is simpler: I don’t tend to visualize stuff I read unless I’m specifically prompted. While in theory I suppose I could use my imagination to create a spectacular setting ever based on my interpretation of the words West of House, in practice I’m just getting the words. But! That’s no bad thing, because words offer aesthetic pleasures all their own (like, I really enjoy chalcedony, 90% because of the sound and rhythm of the word but only 10% because of what it looks like), and there are a whole host of experiences that can only be imperfectly captured in visual media – that, to my mind, is where IF’s competitive advantage truly lies.

Swap Wand User is a case in point. It’s a wordplay game, already a genre that plays to the medium’s strength, but unlike, say, Counterfeit Monkey, where you can kind of picture what a movie version would look like (albeit it’d be kind of terrible and people would have to say stuff like “to be clear, this stick is actually a twig!” three times a scene), this one plays out entirely on the page. It’s a series of self-contained puzzles, each presenting an excerpt from a different document that’s been scrambled up; you’ve got a wand that enables you to transpose one word with another, and so you’ve got to undo the scrambling to recover their meaning.

That’s a simple mechanic to describe, but the puzzle design here is very, very finely judged. There’s a clear progression as early puzzles ease the player into the basics, for example helping you to notice that capitalization and punctuation don’t change as you move words around, so you can use them as anchor points to figure out which words lead off sentences. New constraints get layered in as you go, notably a requirement that swapped words have more or less the same character length, which restrict your freedom but also provide additional clues by ruling out possibilities as the passages increase in size. Repeated words are also kept to a minimum, eliminating disambiguation issues – which is easy enough to say, but just you try writing a hundred words with at most two of them being “the”. Heck, in a just-showing-off touch, even the title is the solution to the first challenge!

As for the content of all those documents, the story they tell isn’t nearly as novel as the game mechanics, but they work well enough. Between technical manuals, newspaper stories, and police reports, they tell a predictable yet effective story of scientific innovation and corporate greed. The structure requires that most of the narrative be left to implication – getting into too much detail would make for laborious puzzles – so relying on standard plot-beats is a smart choice, and there’s room for a bit of character-driven pathos along the way. There’s even a late-game shift into a more stream-of-conscious narrative voice, accompanied by a radical reduction of difficulty, allowing the player to barrel downhill through the final set of revelations (which boast a SWAP WRONG (for) RIGHT command that’s incredibly predictable and on the nose but also awesome). All of which to say the pacing feels exactly right, and the artful semantic disarray leads to moments of clearly-intentional poetry:

in a lucid moment, kathleen addled me to liberate her from that begged mind.

There are some weak spots to Swap Wand User, but I think they’re intrinsic to its approach. I made a lot of typos when trying to swap longer words, which is kind of inevitable, but I still sometimes wondered whether a mouse-driven drag and drop interface would have worked better (heresy since this is a ParserComp entry, but there you are). I also am frankly stymied when I try to think about how, diegetically, the word-swapping wand is supposed to work. Like, the game makes clear that this is a technology that’s been invented and being used in the game’s story, and some of the switches seem to have impactful real-world implications, like the possibility of changing one person for another – but when I swap “an” and “of” in a document, what exactly is supposed to be happening, and why is this tech any more impactful than a bottle of white-out?

But this is where that no-graphics limitation of IF becomes a superpower: I don’t actually need to be able to picture what’s happening, since this is a story told entirely in words – everything else is secondary. In other media, that wouldn’t be enough to be successful, but a reason I love IF so much is that here, it really really is.

swu mr.txt (52.2 KB)

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The Moon’s Knight, by 30x30 [THON]

Is there a pun in English more groan-inducing than knight/night? That obvious, superficially rich but in reality kind of banal equation is understandably catnip for wannabe poets[1], as well as the Marvel comics writers responsible for the character whose name makes me do a double-take when reading this game’s title. But the thing is, a person in armor, and feudal relationship with a liege, really bears very little resemblance to the dark time of day, even though each of those things is awesome on its own – the pun is just wordplay, it’s not really saying anything.

What the Moon’s Knight presupposes is, maybe it is? This Neo-Twiny Jam entry makes one of the cannier moves for dealing with the 500-word limit by leaning hard into poetry, personifying the moon and mythologizing the knight so that the two can fit in the same frame. They’re not on the same level, though: that possessive clearly indicates that the moon is the one wielding gravitational influence over her knight. The knight is the more relatable figure (the game’s one choice focuses on them) and the conflict they face is with a terrestrial army, but that outer combat is only a pale echo of the angst they experience from daring to be the moon’s lover.

The plot is heavily bottom-lined, in order to spend scarce word-count on evocative imagery – there’s an implication that the knight seeks out battle because when arrows blot out the sun, that darkness might bring out the moon even during the day, which is both more romantic and more bad-ass than the line from Herodotus that inspired it. The prose throughout cleaves to this lyrical, heavy-metal vibe:

Morning - Death - lies beyond the ridge-border. Atop it, the Moon caresses your cheek longingly.

For all that the setup, conflict, choice, and payoff are necessarily condensed, there’s still room
for specificity in the details – I especially liked the ampoule of starlight the knight wears at their throat. And it’s hard not to feel invested in a doomed love that’s bound to end in tragedy no matter what, either the knight or the moon inevitably weeping over their misfortune at the finish. While I’m not sure the game fully sold me on how the corporeal battle that’s the subject of the plot relates to the emotional tug-of-war between the two main characters, I can’t deny the drama and poetry here on display: the moon is awesome, knights are awesome, both together are awesome.

[1] This is a digression so long and discursive that even I couldn’t figure out how to cram it into the intro, but since this is a relatively short review I’ll allow myself a footnote to explicate it: the secret origin of my dislike of the knight/night pun goes back to Jewel, a notably successful singer-songwriter of the mid-90s Alternative scene. She was a great performer with a bunch of songs I enjoy to this day, but her lyrics, standing on their own, were enough to make you contemplate the inevitable heat-death of the universe with barely-repressed yearning. I’m spoiled for choice, but “You’ll be Henry Miller/and I’ll be Anais Nin/but this time it’ll be even better/we’ll stay together in the end” was a standout, because 1) I guess toxic narcissists deserve each other, but good Lord, in what universe would that be “better”? and 2) the meter, oh, oh, the meter. Anyway she released a book of poetry alongside her second album, it was called “A Night Without Armor”, I can still remember perusing it out of morbid curiosity in a Long Island Barnes and Noble and almost swooning.

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Ataraxia, by Lauren O’Donoghue (THON)

Rarely has a theory been as tempting, and as wrong, as the Whig view of history – which is to say, history that views the past through the lens of the present, imposing a progressive, if not teleological, interpretation on all that’s come before. It’s an easy habit of mind for us moderns to slip into, because so much of our experience does tend to fit this frame (it’s no coincidence that this approach gained ascendency in 19th-Century Britain, when evolution, technological development, and the shrugging off of the vestiges of feudal oppression really did make it seem as though it was an iron law that previous developments would lead to an ever-better future). But of course it’s not true: things happen for their own reasons, on their own terms, and the chains that connect them to their consequences are often nebulous, contingent, and far easier to see in retrospect than they ever were at the time. As for the idea that all forward motion is upward-striving progress – well, at least the 21st century has mostly disabused us of that notion.

Sadly, identifying the trap is a far different thing from evading the trap, so while I know it’d be a far better critical practice to view Ataraxia as a player first engaging with it in 2022 would have, I can’t help seeing it as a spiritual ancestor to Eikas, the author’s two-years-later cook-for-a-community-kitchen Comp entry. This isn’t pure error on my part, since the games have quite a lot in common – they’re both farming/crafting sim-ish Twine games with a long runtime, and a handful of appealingly-drawn NPCs to woo or just hang out with, set in an isolated, vaguely-British area of rural splendor. The central gameplay loop is often quite similar, too, with the day starting by popping out to your garden to harvest some produce, then a trip to town to sell your goods and pick up a few bits and bobs for your crafting projects, before wandering in the woods and perhaps visiting the lighthouse-keeper or innkeeper for tea and some light flirting.

This is all grand, let me be clear! I love that one of the main engines of progress is buying new books, since they teach you recipes or help you learn more about the island where you’ve arrived to settle (I dig how grounded the history is, literally in the case of the discussion of the economics of coal-mining). Meanwhile, being able to buy a pet helps make your home that much homier, and the ability to play the field with the four NPCs is lovely since they’re all a great, cozy hang (albeit perhaps not the most passion-inspiring partners), and it’s nice that very few interactions with them are gated behind the romance Y/N toggle. And the writing richly evokes an Atlantic idyll that I just want to snuggle into, even when it’s a bit forbidding:

The sky hasn’t made its mind up about what colour it wishes to be, and the pale vastness of it is mottled in slate-grey, cobalt, lilac. Gulls wheel in the briny air, squawking impatiently at one another. The wind is cooler than you are used to.

There’s a painterly eye for detail, and a naturalist’s for the evocative use of names:

The island is at its most pastoral here; grass speckled with cowslips and gentian, black-tailed sheep grazing on the distant slopes, light reflecting off the surface of the water. As you round a bend you see an old red-painted windmill, its sails unmoving.

While the nature of Ataraxia’s gameplay does mean that there’s a lot of repeated text as you once again comb the beach for seaglass or visit the bookseller for one more fix for your reading habit, this lovely prose meant I was always alert to any new words I might get to enjoy. There are also a few – well, I was going to call them “quests” or “adventures”, but that gives too intense of a vibe; let’s go with “diversions”, maybe? – that nicely break up your quotidian routine. Some of these are one-offs, like the island’s regular series of festivals where you can observe some local customs, catch up with one of your neighbors, and maybe do some gambling. Others kick off longer investigations, where a mutilated sheep or distant shipwreck will prompt you to poke your nose into other people’s business, learn more of the island’s history, and choose how much you want to drag the past into the present.

So Ataraxia is grand, and I had a lot of fun! …but here lurk the Whigs, because I also couldn’t help seeing at as step along the way towards Eikas. Crafting here can sometimes either feel pointless or overdetermined: at first you’re building things just to make money, but there are more efficient ways to do that, and later, you’ll need to build specific things to complete events, but you know the exact recipe so it’s just a matter of spamming the gather-ingredients task in the appropriate place until you get what you need. There’s also not much sense of time pressure, which also means there’s not any need to prioritize or focus your actions; as a result, I wound up bouncing around between different plot threads. Eikas’ cooking-focused structure resolves a lot of these issues; planning a meal means you’re looking for synergies between different recipes, and the wide variety of ingredients means the crafting system has more constraints, and more room for improvisation and creativity. Meanwhile, the regular schedule of feasts adds shape to the days, and gives you lots of short-term goals to work towards.

Some of the systems here can also feel slightly underbaked by comparison with the later game. Money stops being useful about a third of the way in, since you can’t buy most ingredients, until suddenly you need to spend a bunch of money to unlock the endgame. Taking an idle stroll around the island’s biomes is also separated from ingredient-gathering, where they were linked in Eikas – which means I almost never took in the scenery except when I had a task that specifically prompted me to do so.

And then there are a few notes that seem slightly out of place with the general vibe. Why are the achievements named for tarot cards when nothing else in the game does much with that imagery? What’s with the somewhat-thin four-humours-based personality system, which doesn’t seem to do much except gray out the occasional dialogue option? Since the game’s title comes from a philosophy of equanimity in Stoicism or Epicurianism, maybe you’re supposed to keep them balanced, but I never figured out how that would be possible, as it seems to shunt you two a couple main ones and then doesn’t let you revisit those choices (for that matter, the title and concept don’t feel like they’ve got a strong connection to the game’s themes as a whole – unlike Eikas, an also-Epicurean community celebration).

This comparison with Eikas is deeply unfair, since as I said, Ataraxia is a great game that’s easy to recommend to anyone who’s remotely interested by the pitch; prose that conjures up a real sense of place, engaging characters, gameplay that throws up just enough friction to be enjoyable, but not enough to stall things out. And having the later game in mind did make me appreciate the places where the earlier one does something different – in particular, there’s a vein of folk-horror that runs through much of the story, lending some welcome spikiness to proceedings (the forest-spirits sequence has some genuinely unsettling imagery!) even though it never wholly undermines the island’s appeal. So if you’ve played Eikas, stuff your inner Whig into a closet and you’ll have a grand old time. And if you haven’t, well, you’re even luckier since now you’ve got two things to look forward to.

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Thank you for the review Mike! It’s really interesting to hear the perspective of someone playing Ataraxia after Eikas, it’s cool that you can see the development from one to the other

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Habeas Corpus, by G.C. Baccaris (THON)

Between last year’s THON and this one, I’ve played a bunch of super-short games, which has been a novel experience for me – since I mostly just play things I’m going to review, I don’t typically seek out jam entries as my sense is the typical entrant isn’t necessarily looking for a nitpicky review longer than their game was. It’s been illuminating to see different theories about craft play out – or fail – on the unforgiving stage of a game whose text could fit on one or two pages, and Habeas Corpus is no different. This 1,000 word Twine game has cool visual design reminiscent of the early 90s, all pixelated fonts and chunky buttons, and some parser-like gameplay elements allowing you to visit different areas and solve a (simple) inventory puzzle. It’s also got some individual moments of arresting imagery. But the lesson it teaches is the importance of focus: without a strong central spine around which these pieces can cohere, I was left feeling like the game is less than the sum of its (each quite cool) parts.

Start with the title: the great writ of habeas corpus is one of the foundational legal protections against tyranny, as allows the sovereign to be brought to court to confirm whether it’s detaining someone, and if so, what authority justifies their incarceration and where they can be found – the Latin literally means “you have the body”. It’s a title pregnant with possibility, but any relation to the game is hard to suss out: rather than a crusading lawyer, you play a (amnesiac?) cipher exploring a mostly-deserted base. One ending allows you to rescue a harpy-phoenix whose torment seems to provide power to the facility, so I suppose there’s kind of a thematic link there if you squint, but the other ending sees you go to sleep forever in a bunk next to a dying man, which feels farther afield. Meanwhile, the blurb reveals that the theme for the jam that produced this game was “ENVIRONMENT”, so I guess the harpy is actually a fossil-fuels allegory? And who knows what this has to do with the 90s, or the subtitle of “abandoned spaces, perpetual motion.”

A really strong prose style could do a lot to knit things together, but while there are some individually memorable phrases, there’s frequently an indeterminacy to the writing that’s frustrating in a piece that’s in need of nailing down. Like, here’s a line from the opening:

The room around you feels still as a held breath despite the ceaseless motion of the structure itself.

That’s an interesting idea, but it’s sure self-contradictory, and the implications of what it says about the PC or the situation aren’t explored. There are similar oppositions embedded in this description of the facility’s doors:

The remaining doors each bear plaques beaten from dark, glittering alloys. Light seems to drip from their deeply engraved words.

The puzzle, meanwhile, is about as stripped-down as it can be (there’s exactly one takeable object in the game, and exactly one situation in which you’re prompted to use it), and of the five room you can visit, one seems to exist just to hold the aforementioned object, while enough doesn’t even have that much going on. Thin gameplay in a short game is no big deal, of course, but in the absence of compelling characters or a dramatic plot or electric writing, it’s one more opportunity to provide a strong central element that the game passes up.

The counterargument here would be to argue that sometimes heterogeneity has a charm all its own – some acknowledged IF classics are more or less pieces of bricolage, going back to the crazy-quilt that is Zork. And that can work, I agree, but even in those cases I think there’s typically some unifying vibe structuring the experience, and, crucially, enough time for the player to settle in while they consider which elements resonate for them. In a short game, the need to grab the player is commensurately higher – my main complaint about Habeas Corpus is that it ended before I had a chance to decide what I think it’s about, which isn’t an issue I’ve run into even with Neo-Twiny Jam entries that have half the word-count. Maybe 1,000 words is just a tough length to work from, since it’s too much for a sharp spike of a punk song, but too short for a prog epic; still, I can’t help feel that a catchier hook could have made the disparate pieces of this game sing.

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The 13th Quest, by Older Timer (ParserComp)

So, generative AI in IF, there’s a topic I’m sure we’re all super excited to get into! Three years on from when ChatGPT was unleashed upon the world – and the same day that Elon Musk’s Grok chatbot went on an antisemitic spree before they hastily pulled it offline – the only thing I find more enervating than the discourse is leaden LLM prose. And yet, here I am talking about it, because the ABOUT text for 13th Quest reveals that the author used ChatGPT “to improve some of the text descriptions and responses” – and those “improvements” mark a noticeable departure from the author’s previously workmanlike oeuvre, while also calling into question what exactly we want to get out of an old-school puzzler.

We can get through the non-LLM stuff pretty quickly, since 13th Quest is of a piece with the author’s other dozen games, at least from the ones I’ve played: it’s written in a robust custom system with one or two quirks that have long since become second nature (you can’t interact with things in containers until you take them, is the big one); there’s a big book you get at the beginning that intersperses some key puzzle clues between a bunch of lore; there’s a magic teleporter that whisks you between self-contained areas; and you have a host of medium dry-goods puzzles of consistently-solid quality that are clearly more the point of the exercise than the MacGuffin quest that provides the notional story.

Speaking of the narrative, this time out there’s a Celtic theme that emerges about a third of the way through – after somewhat-bewildering trip to Damascus – that provides some nice faerie flavor, as well as a well-implemented leprechaun NPC who wants you to perform a half-dozen fetch quests. This makes for an engaging middle of the game with relatively clear goals, and some neat set pieces as you venture through such classic fantasy settings as a brambly forest maze or a sweating-hot volcanic mine. On the down side, despite some stirring words in the ending gesturing towards the quest being more than a simple treasure hunt, the opening dumps you into the game with a shrug, saddling you with amnesia and a letter that mumbles its way through some empty verbiage about pacts and bloodlines and threshold without establishing what you’re meant to be doing and why it matters.

And here’s where the LLM question comes in, because, annoyingly, in 2025 I can’t read vague fantasy nonsense in a game that says it used ChatGPT without wondering whether that vagueness is an intentional choice, or at least an honest mistake of craft, or just a symptom of a bullshit machine trying to run out the clock. Thankfully, the game’s prose isn’t completely affected with AI-speak – as I mentioned, there’s some evocative fairy-tale stuff like the location in the ice-realm labelled as “the Hoarfane” – but every so often I’d come across a phrase that would set my teeth on edge twice over, once for being kinda bad and a second time because now I had to think about whether it was human-bad or not:

The material [of the letter] is thin and brittle, edges both frayed and curling, like it’s waited years for unfamiliar hands.

You see no windows but adequate light coming from an unknown source illuminates the location quite adequately.

The silence is both heavy and profound.

Even the heavy grimoire, which is always a highlight in these games, seems saggier this time out; it tells one of its stories twice over, which could be a way of showing how fairy tales twist in the telling, or could be an LLM losing track of things. And it’s not just the prose – there are some undescribed exits and unimplemented bits scenery that could be an indication of AI use impacting the gameplay.

Again, I don’t like grumping out about this stuff – I’d much rather be spending time talking about the leprechaun, say, whose role in the plot is never explicated but who’s got surprisingly detailed things to say about just about any random inventory item you show him. But since IF is made of words, I tend to pay a lot of attention to them! And beyond that, nostalgia-bait treasure hunts are one of the IF subgenres least robust against the question “wait, is this just filler?” Of course, part of what’s fun about the old school is that a good puzzle can just be a good puzzle, without needing to be part of a clever unified gameplay system, or provide important a thematic counterbalance to the events of the narrative. But a risk of the style is that it all the combination-guessing and keycard-fiddling can feel arbitrary, just there because players expect a certain density of Extruded Adventuring Product before they collect their last plot coupon.

I don’t think 13th Quest does badly on this score, to be clear – there are lots of recognizably human touches, and despite a few overly-obscure clues or slight frustration with the parser, the puzzles are entertaining enough to work through. But this is a bad line of inquiry to put the player onto regardless, all the more so because from my viewpoint the addition of ChatGPT-authored prose feels like a net negative even on its own terms. The game would do fine standing entirely on its own feet, and I hope the 14th and 15th and 16th quests go back to the old way of doing things, so I can too, instead of having to come up with yet more ways of writing “god, I’m tired of writing about LLMs.”

13th Quest MR.txt (313.6 KB)

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take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die, by Naarel (THON)

The art of naming fictional places is a tricky one (and one I’ve never had much facility with), so kudos to take me to the lakes… for nailing it. Lake Dioscuri invokes the twins Castor and Pollux – one a demigod, the other fully human, due to Greek-mythological shenanigans one shouldn’t inquire too closely into – which is a more than apt reference for the game’s themes of reflected identities. But to my ear, in combination with the title it also calls to mind Villa Diodati, where Mary Shelley told the story that became Frankenstein to an audience of poets: if there’s a monster in take me to the lakes…, it’s one whose misdeeds can’t be meaningfully separated from its creator’s.

Presentation-wise, this is a Decker kinetic novel – so while the only interactivity is clicking to advance to the next bit of story, the electronic presentation makes perfect sense; Decker’s moody monochrome art is a perfect complement to the text, painted in glistening grayscale stipple-effects like someone put a film noir classic on a mid-80s Mac. Of course this is something you’d play on the computer!

The noir vibe is completely on point given that things open with the trenchcoat-clad protagonist monologuing about a body being found in the lake. We never get outside that subjective POV, even as the story takes some twists and turns, making meaning – much less truth – a slippery thing. The pas de deux (or… pas de une?) between the narrator and Elizabeth, a poet who is the object of their obsession, is well realized, with abstract considerations of identity, inspiration, and jealousy grounded in a blunt corporeality:

You knew the way it breathed, the way it sighed… and it’s all gone now. All gone with her.

(The “it” is Elizabeth’s body).

My one small kick against the writing is that it occasionally undermines its effectiveness with repetition; “all [Elizabeth’s] poems were about one of two things: love and drowning” is a great line, making the unnecessary follow-up (“Elizabeth was obsessed with the vision of sliding down into the lake and disappearing without a trace”) seem limp by comparison. And the ending likewise has a couple sentences that feel like they’re going over already-plowed ground.

But these are minor nits to pick, and the climactic move of the game (revealing that the poet wished to be a muse instead) is a unique and satisfying way to bring things to a close. Meanwhile, I’ve got no critique at all of the visuals – I don’t usually spend a lot of time on graphics in IF, but my notes are filled with oohing and aahing at the pictures (there’s one of a hand reaching out from the waves that I especially liked). That great place-name is just one of the well-chosen details that make take me to the lakes… a unified and engaging aesthetic experience.

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Lewd Mod: Noir, by HHRichards (THON)

Last year’s THON was my introduction to the Lewd Mod extended universe – as of this writing, IFDB lists 13 different games, demos, and excerpts, the relationship and interconnections between which are obscure to unpack. They appear to all share some curious idiosyncrasies, though. The most obvious is that they’re pornographic games that present images pandering to an exceedingly specific demographic: people turned on by naked ladies drawn with MS-Paint-style graphics and no eyes. The fact that they have no eyes is never diegetically commented on, to my knowledge (in fact, Noir, which will get to in a moment, has two separate times when a character draws attention to eyes, one mentioning her “angry glare” in one picture or another drawing attention to a character’s “shifty eyes”. This feels like some kind of lampshading, but I don’t get it).

The structure is also fundamentally the same: the interface looks like a phone, you chat with a sexy lady, choosing dialogue options to move the conversation along in between the sexy pics. And they all seem to act as free teasers for full, paid games (the author’s Patreon is prominently mentioned) where, presumably, the really hot stuff lies.

Noir changes things up in adding an additional layer of gameplay. Here, you’ve been recruited by a spy agency to help them catch whoever’s surveilling their agents; you do this by reviewing a bunch of photos and flagging whichever depict one of their spies. How, you might ask, are you to identify these mistresses of the unknown? Well, these are special spies who always wear red hats. So if there’s a red hat in the picture you push the right-hand button, otherwise you push the one on the left (how finding the red-hat people, and not the people spying on the red-hat people, is supposed to help, is not explained).

While this does serve to break up the dialogue, everything about this is incredibly dumb, and as with the eyes, the game insists on drawing attention to itself – your main interlocutor this time is named Agent Scarlett, and you can ask her where these photos are coming from, and she has some hand-wave about social media feeds, hacked red-light cameras, and so on. But like, there are pictures of random ladies alone in their showers, I’m pretty sure the red-light cameras aren’t looking at that! Meanwhile, if you ask about the name of the agency you’re working for, you get this deathless prose:

It’s the hats, OK?

We wear Red Hats.

So we call ourselves the Red Hats.

Satisfied?

Anyway, it is easy to make fun of how unrealistic this is, and of course this is not exactly feminist-friendly porn that respect’s women’s bodies and identities; a major plot element is that Agent Scarlett treats you with barely-disguised contempt because her former partner was also her lover, but he slept around on her because her boobs were too small (I’m no expert on bra sizes, but from the nude pics you of course eventually get of her, Scarlett is rocking at least a C cup).

But playing two Lewd Mod games last year clued me in on the secret interpretation that makes these games a lot of fun: you just assume that these people are married thirty-somethings trying out some sexy roleplaying on the one night a month they’ve got babysitting, so while they’re extremely horny they’re also extremely bad at all this. Like, clearly they thought up this spy theme, and thought the red fedora thing seemed sexy (possibly they got spies confused with private detectives) so they Google image-searched “red hats porn” and ran with it, yes-anding the first ideas that popped into their heads and talking like hormone-poisoned teenagers whose tongues are way, way ahead of their brains (when Scarlett – not a girl’s girl – runs down her ex-partners’ paramours, she says they were “full of tits and easy with them.” Meanwhile, the less said about the PC’s dialogue choices, the better).

And so it’s no surprise how my playthrough ended: after a sexy striptease involving Scarlett pouring liquor all over her body – which would have been hotter if she, y’know, had eyes, like a significant majority of the human race – she suddenly realizes this might not have been the best idea:

Look, I gotta go.

I’m suddenly out of booze??

And kind of need a shower.

Godspeed, Agent Scarlett. Better tip the babysitter so you can try again next month.

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Lazarrien: A Love Story, by DemonApologist (THON)

There’s something recursive about the Single Choice Jam: because the jam’s constraint requires the player to have only a single moment when they can make a choice, the author’s choice of where that choice should go likewise takes on disproportionate weight. The obvious way to play things is to put it right at the end, so that the player is confronted with a dramatic climax after a comparatively longer build-up, but while this orthodox answer is hard to argue with, it’s also a little bit conventional. So I admit to feeling a bit underwhelmed when I realized that’s probably where Lazarrien: A Love Story was heading – the more so because the central dilemma the game was clearly setting up (try to end the curse on the Dark-Souls-esque fantasy land, or turn away from my quest in favor of the sexy demon with whom the main character has an immediate if underdeveloped rapport) also seemed like one I’d seen before. Happily, though, that meant that I was not at all expecting the way things actually played out, with a late-story twist that reconfigures everything that’s come before while sneakily getting an extra choice into the game while still obeying all the rules.

Admittedly, Lazarrien doesn’t put its best foot forward: stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but an amnesiac knight wakes up in an abandoned crypt, only to find the world is a blasted hellscape and the few survivors tell him he needs to climb to the castle on top of the mountain to set things to rights? Meanwhile, the adjective-heavy prose in the opening section sets a mood, but with visible effort:

He traced the contours of the dusty shrine, taking in details that seemed familiar in a way he couldn’t place. A painting of a storm-battered mountain. A vase of withered flowers. A blackened ring set with a raw, gnarled garnet. Across the room, a strange statue stood on a plinth. Carved with uncanny precision from dark stone, a fearsome horned man reaching, his claws outstretched.

As he approached, the music grew louder, richer. He peered around the doorway. In the middle of the cobbled road stood a short woman dressed in an impossibly vibrant array of quilted patchwork, frayed paisley that defied the bleakness of its sky.

Happily, things quickly settle down. The game is structured around a series of encounters with four characters – as well as the aforementioned sexy demon, who’s pursuing you as you climb – and all of them have distinctive voices that nicely break up the more portentous narrative voice. And as the landscape gets more outre, the writing doesn’t feel like it needs to do quite so much work to get its point across – this bit is much more understated, and the more effective for it.

The city gave way to a field of bramble, scorched rose vines that wove a thicket higher than three men. Thorns scraped against his armor and flesh alike as he rushed past. Crisp gray blossoms crumbled to ash in his wake.

Meanwhile, as the confrontations along the way get away from exposition and more into action, I likewise found the story more compelling. Lazarrien has big-time daddy issues that are familiar in broad strokes, but having a candle-wax effigy of his father shout his disapproval at his fleeing son is an effective way to make them more engaging, and while the inevitable sex scene with the demon may feel like it cuts to the chase oddly quickly, there’s an in-story reason for that.

So as I said, my opinion was trending positive when I hit the decision-point and the twist that immediately follows it. I won’t spoil that, but I’ll just say that if you think you’ve played a version of this game before, think again – it’s definitely worth following this journey to its destination at least once. More spoilery thoughts – largely gushing – are in the blurry-text below.

So having the big choice of whether to be a loser and kill Agramith, or spare him and try to escape the curse some other way, wind up completely irrelevant to the actual nature of the trial is inspired – it made me literally cackle aloud, and I adored the fast-talking demoness who rolls her eyes at how dense you’ve been on this, your umpteenth time failing the challenge. Admittedly, I’m not sure this late turn into comedy fits completely smoothly with what comes before (in retrospect, it makes Agramith’s slide into the abyss feel even more slapstick – and also, Lazarrien, buddy, if you get told you need to bring the demon, your sword, and a ring to the castle, and you’ve screwed up a million times before, and there’s a giant pile of swords but not a single ring to be found, maybe put the ring first on the list of stuff you’re trying to remember, not last???) There’s still some pathos in Lazarrien’s plight, however, especially since the twist of course made me curious to replay and see how things differ when you encounter the characters in a different order – or see if there’s an invisible link that allows you to actually take the ring when you find it. Going through the same steps time after time, always hoping to find a better ending but always returning to the same place, put me in the shoes of the protagonist in a way a lot of eternal-recurrence stories struggle to achieve. The timed text does make replays a little slower than I’d like, but there is a satisfying level of variation, making the choice of whether to start over as, if not more, significant than whether you kill Agramith or allow him to fall to his doom, which is a clever subversion of the Jam’s constraints.

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Thank you so much for taking the time and care to review Lazarrien: A Love Story! :purple_heart:

When I read through a few of the (2023) Single Choice Jam entries to figure out how to approach it, what I noticed is that I developed a jam-specific reading practice. I would read through the narrative slowly/normally at first, make the choice I wanted. Then, on replay, with the text being identical, I’d quickly click through the text as fast as possible to get back to the choice and make the other decision. Lazarrien was built on the idea of that reading practice: (1) How do you give the reader reasons to find the second (or later) read-through leading up to the decision point interesting, rather than skipping through it? (2) How do you surprise or emotionally affect the reader in the “pre-choice second readthrough” because of the new context that they’ve realized? (3) How do you take a linear premise (one decision) and transform it into something structurally nonlinear, and draw attention to the changes so that readers notice what is happening?

(Not passing judgment on whether I succeeded on those fronts, just, those were a few of the things that I was thinking about.)

This year’s SCJ event, Single Choice Jam 2025 has just started! I hope people have fun with this event because there are really a lot of cool/weird things you can make working with/against all the factors that arise from this constraint. I think this is a very approachable event for writers new to IF precisely because of the limited scope (even if I did end up making something overly ambitious for the amount of time I had to write it lol).

But personally, I’m really glad I did it. It’s now been almost a year, and I get to be involved in this interesting creative community as the direct result of writing this project.

Take care,
DemonApologist

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Hi hi! Thank you a lot for the review (especially for the praise for visuals, it’s not a thing my work gets praised for often). As always, I’m here to add some minor context because I enjoy doing that a lot.

This comes from two things. One is that I was running out of time (as …the lakes… were made in around 20 hours during a 36 hour jam) and simply didn’t have time to go over the text to check it. Second is that Velox jams are themed (with Velox Formido 2, which was the jam …the lakes… were made for having “you’re not them” as the theme) and there’s an award for Theme Incorporation which is one of the awards I want to get the most in every Velox iteration. That leads me to wildly overcorrecting in order to make sure the theme goes across and can’t be missed, so that’s where that came from.
…the lakes… won the Theme Incorporation category, actually, together with my dear friend Dreamty’s Let’s Meet Tomorrow so maybe it works… but I’ll try to not overcorrect that hard next time.

One of my favorite bits of trivia is that it’s a traced picture of my own left hand, which is the second time my left hand somehow features visually in my work. The first one being, of course, do not let your left hand know. Ironic.

Anyway, once again, thank you for your review and I hope the rest of your ParserTHON goes well!

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