It's the sheer size of The Pathless that I love. And I mean size in a very specific sense. You can race through this whole adventure and be done in four hours, probably less. But when you're on the ground or in the air the game often feels endless: clear and spacious, slopes and contours and steppes in every direction. Such echoing realms of grass and rock. Such volumes of cold air. It's thrilling.
Yesterday I climbed a blasted cliff of ice and ancient stone to find a small temple at the top, built along a narrow ridge. I went inside and did some video game stuff, but mainly I just enjoyed the fact of where I was, the roof of the world, the wind billowing through tiled windows and the place I'd come from a dizzying sprawl far below me. I would have wandered up here for no reason at all. It was great. And when I emerged again, the red storm that stalks you across these huge maps was waiting right outside, right below me, a boiling angry Jupiter, threads of toxic cloud churning within it. A bright scarlet blot on a cold blue landscape. And inside? You know, the Pathless is alright.
It's simple stuff at heart. The world is in danger and the ancient gods have fallen. Haven't they always? You play a lone archer in this vast wilderness tasked with putting things back together again. You have to purify a bunch of corrupted guardians who take the form of mega-animals, and then tackle the baddy who's behind all this, travelling upwards from one huge stretch of land to the next as you go. Standard video game fare, but The Pathless manages to be sparse and winningly odd all the same.
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