Every game, honestly rated.

Hand-drawn, brutally atmospheric, and enormous for its price. It respects your intelligence and punishes your impatience. I bounced off it twice before it clicked — then it swallowed 40 hours.

Every run tells you more story, and the writing is good enough that losing feels like progress. The combat is the tightest in the genre. This is the one I hand to people who "don't like roguelikes."

It looks like a spreadsheet and plays like a slot machine designed by a genius. One more run turns into four hours with alarming ease. Made by one person. Genuinely dangerous.

The tightest controls in any platformer, wrapped around a story about anxiety that lands harder than it has any right to. Assist mode means anyone can finish it. The B-sides broke me.

One developer, one decade, endless free updates. It's the game I reinstall every time life gets loud. Not much happens, and that's exactly the point.

You barely press buttons and somehow can't stop playing. A dopamine slot machine that spawned a hundred imitators. I got my money's worth ten times over, then walked away satisfied.

By day you spearfish, by night you run a sushi bar. It should be a mess, and instead it's one of the most charming loops of the last few years. Currently mid-run and thoroughly hooked.

Looks like cute top-down Zelda, actually a dense puzzle box where the in-game instruction manual is the real game. When it clicks, it's one of the best 'aha' moments in years.

Frantic, gross, gorgeous fake-90s cartoon energy. Movement so fast it took me a level to stop panicking. On the backlog because I need to be in exactly the right mood for this much chaos.

A 22-minute time loop and a solar system full of secrets. The whole game is knowledge — once you know a thing, you know it forever. On the backlog and I'm guarding it from spoilers with my life.