Games With Grey

Dust: An Elysian Tail’s art direction and world building are brimming with creativity and originality; the game is set apart visually and atmospherically. Though fantastical in nature, it does not neatly adhere to the conventional fantastical mold, rejecting the influences and contributions of such great men as Tolkien, whose presence is still fiercely felt today. Orcs, elves, and the like have grown ubiquitous in the genre; Dust features no such races. In the stead of orcs and elves, Dust emphasizes whimsical, anthropomorphic animal creatures, bizarre (if charming, charm being the game’s defining attribute) admixtures of beast and man. Such fusions are potentially ghastly, of course – creative types can exploit such fusions to monstrous ends. But such fusions are potentially endearing, too, and Dust expertly captures and maintains a sense of childlike wonder in its character design and indeed in almost all aspects of its aesthetics. Departures from Tolkien must be reiterated. Not only are the races he promotes and imagines entirely missing, but the general despairing darkness he (and his great adapter and popularizer, Peter Jackson) fixates on is also absent. Here is no gruesomeness; here instead is lightheartedness. This abundance of gaiety is paradoxical. On the one hand, the world and characters, their design, are reassuring and unchallenging. But the world as we know it, life as we live it, is by nature challenging and brutal, and works which interrogate those challenges are typically far more fulfilling than works which neglect them. Still: superficial or no, Dust satisfies the greatest demand placed upon monumental works of stirring fantasy: the escapist function.   

Reflecting narrative ambition – or more accurately, a zealous desire for uniqueness, which seemed the animating impulse for team lead Dean Dodrill, who developed much of the project single handedly – Dust features three protagonists, though one is set apart and playable: the titular Dust, visage concealed by an oversized hat, its concealing effects contributing to the character’s mystery and intrigue, inciting the player’s curiosity. My personal curiosity, directed towards Dust himself and towards the broader narrative too, never flagged as the story winded ever onwards for some twelve hours. Indeed, that curiosity saw natural expansion; I was never bored by the narrative, even if Dust’s character is generic in considerable ways. Genericness is not directed towards his backstory – far from it. The writers wove together a clever tale, positioning Dust as a vessel, a host for two distinct souls, one of an entirely benevolent heart, the other possessing a black and grimy heart, seized and consumed by corruption. These truer, deeper insights into Dust’s being are only revealed in the concluding hours, which admittedly devolve into exposition dumps. A more gradual, steady pacing would benefit the narrative greatly. Conversely, the revelation’s suddenness – and unexpectedness – increases its effectiveness and ultimately its resonance. But his genericness cannot be ignored. For Dust is an amnesiac, totally wiped of his memories at the narrative’s opening. Amnesia as a device is prevalent because it has long proven effective; cliched as it is, amnesia fosters mysteriousness, engrossing the consumer of any given media by forcing said consumer to raise questions just as the amnesiac simultaneously questions the very nature of existence, the past and the future. In this regard, I absolutely understand why Dean Dodrill embraced forgotten memories. Still: this understanding does not totally dissipate my frustration, my frustration with this great manifestation of unoriginality and the general fear of rebuking tropes and devices.  

And then, the narrative surprises – consider again the trio of protagonists, an unconventional – and certainly deliberate – design decision. During his journeys, Dust is accompanied both by Fidget, a bizarre creature known as a Nimbat, foxlike in appearance though supported by a pair of constantly-fluttering wings (the sky is Fidget’s domain), and by Ahrah, a speaking, sentient, sword, calculated and determined, bound to Dust and respectful to Dust, though still showing some reservations and hesitancies. The developers repeatedly reinforce the thought that, alone, Dust is powerless and incapable of achieving his ultimate objectives. But with Ahrah in hand and Fidget ever overhead, Dust, already a capable individual and soldier, is empowered indeed. And the empowered Dust’s objectives are twofold. Obviously, he shows especial interest in identity reclamation: all persons strive to understand the self, and Dust is no different. Being an amnesiac only exacerbates that desire’s intensity. But the secondary motivation is arguably stronger. For Dust – and Ahrah, and Fidget – must topple a literal tyrant, one General Gaius, a corrupt figure who impregnates the lands with darkness, a darkness only partially offset by the blazing infernos he and his subordinates leave in their destructive wake. The player is explicit witness to these darknesses and infernos, early visiting a village General Gaius puts to the torch, a village home to innocent citizens primarily living an unthreatening and peaceable existence. General Gaius directly orchestrates all villainous deeds committed in the narrative’s entirety, and fortunately his presence is tangible rather than implied. The player does not simply see the fires raging, the people impacted, but the player is afforded a glimpse into General Gaius the man. It is not a flattering glimpse; the periodic cutaways devoted to Gaius, which grow more and more frequent as the narrative intensifies and approaches its conclusion, reinforce his villainy and his tyranny – and oddly enhance his likability. For General Gaius is a singularly composed individual, calm almost to a fault. This stable demeanor likely explains his successes, and the casualness with which he commands his troops to commit reprehensible deeds; here is a heartless man indeed, a man who outwardly resembles a lion, traditionally reflecting courage. Courage when employed wisely and responsibly can be a uniquely powerful attribute. But when it is wielded irresponsibly, courage, so frequently valorized, can cause wanton destruction. General Gaius, then, must be stopped. Dust, Ahrah, and Fidget, realizing this, act and unite.     

The narrative does unfold and conclude in a predictable fashion – General Gaius is eventually combatted (after a massive quantity of his soldier-cohorts are cut down) and silenced permanently; fewer infernos shall be kindled; the land has entered relative peace. I say relative because the conclusion is very open-ended; opportunities for a sequel are abundant, just as questions are abundant. This is a positive: the existence of questions illustrates player engagement. Who was General Gaius subservient to? He was simply a general, afterall. A commanding general, to be sure, though in most instances such men are mere tools, working for some larger leader. Is this world the domain of some monarch, some ruler of absolute power? If so, this ruler was possibly a feeble ruler – consider how easily he was exploited by General Gaius. Conversely, perhaps this ruler (does such a person even exist?) was supportive of Gaius’s barbarities, supplying him with men, or with additional men beyond those who certainly pledged their unyielding loyalty to Gaius (for capable generals often have some bizarre and intimate relationships with their soldiers). The especially cynical could interpret these questions’ existence as indicative of plot holes, though I prefer to believe that Dean Dodrill and his team instead willingly embraced ambiguities for the player’s ultimate benefit. Supplying the player with all of the answers all of the time diminishes the air of mystery that the game clearly seems intent on fostering – consider Dust’s amnesia – while it can also be insulting to the player; heavy handedness and explicitness in narratives typically suggest that developers have little faith in their playerbases and their interpretative capabilities. In this regard, I very much admire Dean Dodrill and the development studio at Humble Hearts, their decision to include ambiguities. This decision reflects a certain maturity which is absolutely lacking in the playful aesthetics and which is absent in much of the narrative, which for the most part ignores darkness, or more accurately presents that darkness in a very palatable, very digestible and unchallenging manner. The game’s narrative is totally dependent upon the originality of the world and the characters which inhabit it, the novelness of the three protagonists set up, and upon General Gaius’s palpable evil for all its successes. Outside of these strengths and the truly masterful lore, frustrating narrative conventionalism abounds; total originality, coveted, is absent. 

Dust’s gameplay, meanwhile, is steeped in derivativeness, almost indicative of developer uncertainty – and excessive reverence and respect for other intellectual properties belonging to the traditional Metroidvania genre. Acting in a cautious fashion, the studio strove for simple entertainment rather than marked innovation. At its heart, the game is a conventional 2D hack-and-slash title, injecting rather robust platforming and role-playing elements into the formula, all in efforts to stave off the tedium of repetition. These ambitions for diversification are fruitful; while the gameplay is never novel, Dust is frequently a blast to play, and boredom never settled in, even in the opening hours before more marked narrative revelations are advanced and the player develops genuine interest in toppling General Gaius and purging the lands of his stifling pestilence. In combat, opportunities for self-expression are slight, no matter player inventiveness; executable combos are scant numerically, and while Dust wields Ahrah with grace and ease, and while his motions clearly indicate he is a capable swordsman, a strange disconnect exists – the player does not feel like a capable swordsman, and the game heavily favors style over substance. With combat specifically, the studio committed one particularly grave mistake: the impressive progression systems in place elsewhere do not extend here, and Dust wields Ahrah in precisely the same fashion from beginning to end. Unlockable combos and the like would foster cerebralness and self-expression, direly needed to compensate for the mindlessness which sometimes runs rampant as the player spams attack, attack, attack. In ambitious efforts to counter this staticness, the studio decided to empower Fidget. At predetermined narrative intervals, chiefly when defeating a prominent boss, Fidget attains mastery of a new element, first commanding wind, then eventually fire, and finally electricity. Or, more accurately, Fidget attains relative mastery of those elements; her powers are paltry when not bolstered by Dust and Ahrah. For that creature of two souls, Dust, can spin his blade companion about wildly, and upon doing so intensify those elements’ lethality dramatically. Puny tongues of fire morph into spiraling pillars of magma when subjected to Dust and Ahrah’s combined influence, while one ball of wind multiplies innumerably when similarly subjected, filling the screen, damaging all foes upon contact. These powers are – expectantly – very stylish, though really they are simple, unneeded supplements – Ahrah is the player’s primary method of attack. Ahrah’s centrality, then, only exacerbates the frustrations accompanying the limited combos and stunted upgradeability.   

Beyond being a swordsman, Dust is also an acrobat, and constant motion becomes second nature; locomotion is integral to the experience, expectantly employed in exploration, though also vital in combat. Here, the Metroidvania elements emerge in full force, and with time’s passage the player gains access to numerous new maneuvers – and consequently access to numerous new areas formerly barred the player. And so Dust can eventually double jump, an advantageous ability which streamlines the platforming by diminishing its potentially punishing attributes – it becomes nigh impossible to fail a platforming sequence with the added flexibilities the double jump affords. In the occasional instance where the player does fail, reassuming a previously held position is easily done; little progress is lost; game design favors accessibility. Reflecting this, this focus on accessibility, it is entirely possible to neglect the Metroidvania elements, to squander the true potentialities instilled in the unlockable traversal skills, which go far beyond a simple, tired double jump, seen in countless other platformers. And so Dust learns to climb vines, further expanding the level design’s verticality. And so Dust masters a deft slide, which enables him to securely pass through gaps in certain obstacles, vaguely reminiscent of the morph ball feature in the Metroid games. And so Dust gains limited domain of the winds, able to ride air currents, effectively exploiting their forces to blast upwards at fair haste; verticality again increases. Learning these skills – seeing Dust grow – is satisfying indeed, and in this regard, the game certainly satisfies the Metroidvania itch. Motion, motion, motion – that is Dust, a game which is frenetic and energetic, though never overwhelming.  

While the button-mashy nature of the combat does suggest shallowness, tactics do have their place. Many foes are fodder, absolutely, and can be effortlessly struck down with one or two swings of Ahrah’s gleaming blade. These enemies pose no menace, only serving to illustrate the combined might of our trio of characters. But enemy types are numerous and diverse, and will accordingly be approached – and ultimately vanquished – in differing fashions. Consider for instance a robed, wizard-like enemy, capable of summoning an unending army of troops to assault the player. Logic and the sense of self-preservation morph this wizard into highest priority whenever it spawns. Fair enough. But cleverly (and frustratingly at first) this sole enemy type is completely immune to Ahrah and all physical strikes – only Fidget’s elements, sustained by Dust and his whirling blade companion, can damage the wizard. This one enemy’s introduction fundamentally altered how I approached combat. Encountered in a sprawling, eerie map at roughly the narrative’s midway point, the wizard encouraged me to upgrade Fidget’s capabilities and actually use her elements, which I had beforehand almost entirely neglected. Now, I was forced to use them, and continued to use them throughout the remaining play time. Again, though: the elements are merely supplementary, no matter how heavily Fidget is developed. Ahrah dominates, and, recognizing this dependence upon Ahrah and the general essentialness of variety, the developers also included other enemy types, which in turn require different tactics to overcome. Amongst the most creative are shielded enemies, like hulking troll-like creatures which wield massive slabs of rock for protection. Having access to and mastery of such an aegis, these enemies are also impervious to Ahrah – at least initially. To get around their defenses, the player must execute the parry feature. Here, the player waits for the enemy to strike, then counterattacks. If the timing is satisfactory – and the window is quite forgiving – the enemy is dazed and defenseless, finally made vulnerable. From here, their dispatch is trivial – they, too, become fodder, effortlessly succumbing to Ahrah’s sheen and sharpness. This swelling enemy variety is quite an achievement, and this occasional need to vary martial tactics from foe to foe enlivens the experience by staving off mindlessness in combat.

Whether the player is dodging enemies, playing methodically and parrying their strikes, exploiting Fidget and her elements, or simply swinging Ahrah with reckless abandon, player growth is constant, as all vanquished enemies award experience points. Once sufficient points are accumulated, the player levels up, receiving an expendable skill gem in the process. This formula is ubiquitous, underpinning a litany of role-playing games and games which tentatively embrace role-playing elements. This ubiquitousness is easily understood – in seeing constant accumulation of points, the constant expansion of a level meter, players are subject to gratification, can better identify with the characters they control because, on a mechanical level, those characters grow just as they themselves grow. Essentially, however, in its progression systems this game is an RPG-lite, offering player choice though on a very limited scale. Rather than emphasizing a vast assortment of upgradeable attributes or skills, the player can expend their skill gems in only four distinct fields: HP, attack, defense, and Fidget, with the skills allocated towards the Nimbat enhancing her proficiency with the trio of commandable elements. The depth of, say, Fallout’s S.P.E.C.I.A.L. system is absent, and the developers engaged in ample streamlining, wisely heightening intuitiveness to be sure, though simultaneously diminishing complexity and opportunities for self-expression. It is very difficult to craft “builds” as one might do in a more conventional RPG, and any given player’s Dust is functionally identical to any other given player’s Dust, barring a few minor alterations. But it is natural to always strive for self-expression, and accordingly I sought it, choosing early on to emphasize defense and attack, realizing their practical value – in many games, high HP is useless if defensive statistics are meager. Similarly, with a paltry attack stat, players oftentimes make little or laborious progress. But instead of prioritizing attack and defense at all costs, I was actively forced to spend skill gems on my HP and upon Fidget. For a strange system is in place: the highest attribute cannot exceed the lowest attribute by more than three skill gems. This makes it impossible to min / max a character, to, say, totally neglect Fidget and lavish all points in physical attack before reaching its cap and then throwing points in HP or defense. While this design is frustrating and suggests the developers had little faith in their players’ capability to craft an enduring and proficient character, the choice is ultimately sound, as it does preserve balance. If I had encountered that Wizard enemy with absolutely no gems invested in Fidget, it might have taken half an hour to defeat that one enemy type – and that foe is fought probably thirty times as its domain is explored. This barrier would prompt grinding, which would stall the pacing dramatically. Still: the Dust I played as was not truly my Dust; self expression is stifled.  

Ample opportunities for self-expression are present in the rather robust equipment systems, however. Dust can simultaneously equip an augment for Ahrah, an armor set, a pendant worn about the neck, and a pair of rings. For much of the game, choice of equipment is entirely determined by statistics, the player selecting the object which offers the greatest gains and stat bonuses. One early weapon augment might increase the attack stat by five. An additional augment acquired later might enhance it by ten, and the stat gains increase exponentially as the narrative progresses, with some late game augments increasing that same statistic by hundreds of points. Disappointingly, these augments – and indeed all equipable objects – have no tangible aesthetic impact; Dust’s character model is completely static. Here is a major missed opportunity – Dean Dodrill is clearly a talented and creative artist, and armor sets and other cosmetics could have served as a canvas for his abundant imagination. Instead, that canvas is missing, and players will base their choice of equipment entirely on potential stat gains, mostly deprived the opportunity to engage the complex decision making process present in so many role-playing games, where the player must sometimes choose between an aesthetically striking character and a character with very high attributes and probabilities of success in combat.

I say “mostly” deprived because these systems do increase in complexity as the narrative progresses, as more and more equipment options are introduced which include unique permutations, offering more imaginative buffs than the dull and standard attack gains or defense gains. Consider rings as an obvious example. In the late game, the player will still select rings based upon how they bolster Dust’s core attributes, though the player must also consider whether, say, a bonus to XP yield or earned gold is more valuable. These objects greatly increase player flexibility – and significantly empower the player. If, for instance, the player yearned for a protracted grinding session, then wisdom suggests XP-increasing items should be equipped. For equipping such items greatly expedites the grinding process (a process which was never required – I never found myself struggling and underleveled, and never felt compelled to break the game and grow excessively overleveled, a state which would completely trivialize the enemies and damage the overall playing experience) and minimizes the investment of time. Similarly, if a coveted, highly powerful augment or armor set is made purchasable and the player is woefully short of funds, then the player might have Dust equip objects which cause slain foes to drop additional gold, making the path to that coveted object smoother, less labored and more efficient. These systems are excellent, and their inclusion directly fosters cerebralness, countering the hack-and-slash combat’s monotony. They foster a much-needed slowness, too; in regularly consulting menus and inventory screens, the player is afforded a reprieve from the frenetic swordplay and cinematic platforming. Integral to the experience, it is nigh impossible to succeed in combat while totally neglecting these systems; the stat gains are simply too massive. Accordingly, I was constantly in the menus, though the intuitive U.I. and snappy navigation eradicate any potential tedium here, and make the process seamless and enjoyable. Addictiveness arises, as I constantly pined for better and better equipment, better and better statistics.  

The involved crafting systems expand this addictiveness further – they are a true triumph. Essentially every enemy type encountered has a chance of dropping a resource upon defeat, the drops corresponding to the enemy itself. Numbering exactly 42 in total, these resources are used to construct new equipment items, some mundane, others exciting, particularly in the late game. It is not sufficient to merely possess the required number of resources, however: the player also needs access to a recipe, which (similarly to the resources) randomly drops from enemies, and which can also be discovered in locked golden treasure chests. This heavy emphasis upon drops introduces a heavy RNG component into the experience, a component appealing to many players. This widespread appeal directly contributes to the success of games like the Borderlands series or isometric titles like Diablo and Titan Quest. Indeed, drops and randomization are integral components of the entire ARPG genre, engrossing in a unique fashion; the constant thirst for and promise of improved gear is enticing indeed, easily explaining how players can spend hours farming raid bosses, slaughtering them over and over again, all in pursuit of that one cherished object, which can make a build truly viable. The complexity of Dust’s randomization doesn’t match that seen in those games, but these crafting systems, the constant search for drops and recipes, serves an elevating function. They greatly incentivize exploration, too, and make chest discovery – and the consequent unlocking of said chests – a cathartic affair indeed. 

And then, the developers slightly undercut these successes through their mercantile systems, how they relate to crafting. When a new resource type is sold to a vendor, that vendor catalogs the resource and proceeds to stock it permanently. Once the resource is stocked in this fashion, with time’s natural passage the vendor’s stock will organically expand, greatly increasing access to said resource. The rate of expansion is rapid, and these vendors have no inventory cap, meaning their stores increase infinitely. This one design decision reduces the excitement accompanying enemy drops, slightling devaluing enemy presence in the world. Simultaneously, however, this choice further minimizes the impulse for and necessity of grinding, as the player can simply purchase what they would be forced to grind for in other video games. Dust never stalls – pacing is consistent, as the player is never required to farm for resources. This is a divisive decision. Accessibility expands dramatically, and many questions about general game design are raised. One class of player despises grinding, and in some grind-heavy games those players would be placed at a marked disadvantage if they rejected the process, or would be forced to endure unenjoyable play sessions merely to compete, to match enemy levels or attain access to vital gear which makes their character threatening, a match for the opposition. Another class of player derives intrinsic delight from grinding, its potentially escapist functions. These players farm raid bosses not so much for the gear said bosses potentially drop upon defeat (though this is certainly a draw), but they farm them simply because the act of farming is pleasurable and cathartic. They see grinding as a constructive and ultimately fruitful method of passing the time. These players will be alienated by the choice to have merchants infinitely stock resources, the choice to make resources so readily at hand. It is theoretically possible to approach Dust like any other RNG-heavy game, only relying upon enemy drops for crafting purposes. But to do so would be anathema to the developers’ vision. And they do have a vision, absolutely. For Dean Dodrill and his team favor accessibility and approachability above all else – consider again this clever fusion of crafting systems and mercantile systems, a true innovation which obliterates grinding’s presence. Here, the player’s time is never wasted. Time is a precious commodity, and in fairly doling out resources, making their attainment trivial, the studio shows their respect for players. 

Magical describes Dust in its entirety. The fantastical world is boldly original, and the pervasive playfulness, only occasionally tempered by maturity and darkness, results in a very broad appeal, an appeal which swells further still by the game’s chosen genre, its approach to genre. Metroidvanias generally can be intimidating, owing to their labyrinthian-like nature and approach to level design – see obviously the masterful Super Metroid, which I certainly admire and respect, though which I personally did not enjoy to a massive degree. Here, the developers preserve the core Metroidvania formula – the consistent unlocking of new abilities or objects which in turn open up new areas and new avenues for exploration – while rejecting confusing and disorienting level design. Simultaneously, Dust incorporates traditionally complex role-playing systems, though not before diluting them considerably, not necessarily trivializing them entirely, though making them wonderfully digestible. Excessively complex games are frequently very rewarding games – see a city builder, many strategy games and certain subsets of RPGs. But excessively complex games oftentimes have niche audiences and are not for everyone. Dust realizes this fact, absolutely, and the developers let this realization guide them, using the insight to craft a world and mechanics ever subservient to approachability. And yet, it would be inaccurate to describe Dean Dodrill and his team as simply chasing trends. This is a passion project, and the overwhelming heart on full and repeated display is admirable indeed, as is the clarity of vision, the calculatedness. The world’s vibrancy – the imaginativeness of the characters which inhabit it – marks a major triumph, too, though this masterful art direction is complemented by a logical structure which illustrates the advantages of level-based game design. In an industry which increasingly valorizes the open world, Dust boldly pushes back, with its world map and loading screens, which do not automatically suggest archaicness, but which instead suggest deliberateness, cleverness. 

This level-based approach allows the developers to craft wildly different environments, clashing atmospherically and aesthetically (though ever linked by that dazzling, ubiquitous vibrancy, the art direction’s defining attribute). Regions explored early on do emphasize rather expected color palettes, featuring rather expected design elements – trees, flowers, forests all have their place, and while these objects’ presentation and brightness are undeniably beautiful, total uniqueness is lacking. Here, greens and blues are prominent. But greens and blues, trees and flowers, are in time masterfully displaced, unconventional and occasionally eerie environments arising in their stead. One environment – home to that damning, conjuring wizard – is populated by dead and crooked trees, completely deprived of the verdancy flourishing elsewhere. Their inherent gloominess is only complemented by decaying tombstones and dilapidated manors, home to a ghastly spirit completely immune to damage, an entity with a dark and tragic past who plays a crucial role in the narrative, furthering Dust’s backstory. These manors’ darkness, meanwhile, is very reminiscent of the environments in a conventional Castlevania title, and in prominently featuring this labyrinthian map, the developers are almost paying homage to that series and its influences. Diversity and imagination overflow, and in time the player explores a snowy vastness, with blustery winds and turbulent, unpredictable avalanches, which considerably damage the player, if their full brunt is sustained. In this environment, beautiful snowflakes fall with fair regularity, sometimes descending in sheets, just as other environments feature violent torrents of rain – the weather effects are impressive indeed, greatly contributing to atmosphere. The narrative even concludes in a literal volcano, with seas of magma, damaging just as the avalanches were damaging, heightening the player’s vulnerabilities and communicating the hostilities of nature, its untamable state. The rush of excitement accompanying a new environment’s discovery is unparalleled, owing to the developer’s creativity and inventiveness – what will they throw at us next? Immersiveness abounds, with each environment claiming and maintaining its own distinct identity; environmental repetition is totally absent in Dust, and this absence only amplifies the joys of exploration, so central to the Metroidvania experience. A dull world is never fun to explore. Fortunately, this world is never dull but is brimming with personality and variety. 

If any game is deserving of a sequel, it is Dust: An Elysian Tail. The feats of imagination and visual design achieved here are unparalleled. But this unparalleled status places the game in a unique and difficult position. Dust is Dean Dodrill. It would be unfair to the game’s other contributors to make such a statement – consider the litany of voice actors, who all do a surprisingly capable job – as game design is certainly a collaborative effort. But this statement is applicable here, with Dodrill handling all aspects of design and programming. Herein lies the strangeness. While I would absolutely clamor for a sequel, Dodrill must play an active role in its development. For another studio to take the property, the world and characters and then build upon them – it would be a bastardization, I feel, even if said studio had a proven track record, was capable in developing Metroidvania games. Dean Dodrill’s exertions raise many poignant questions about the industry and about game development. Developers like the very respected, cinema-inspired Hideo Kojima or the renowned, indie popularizer Jonathan Blow have attained a celebrity status, occupying an almost revered space. Death Stranding or The Witness could have been completely meritless constructions, flawed in every conceivable fashion, but because the projects were spearheaded by great, acclaimed individuals with singular visions and styles, they were bound to ship ample units; such is an inevitably. Hideo Kojima, Jonathan Blow – their presence almost overshadows their work, and their role of dominance thus situates them alongside auteur filmmakers like Orson Welles or Stanley Kubrick. I feel as though, with Dust, Dean Dodrill shows himself as being like these other creative types; he is not too far removed from a Jonathan Blow, and Dust and its development is indeed analogous to indie darling Braid. Dodrill’s achievements here are massive; even if the gameplay is primarily derivative, the art direction alone compensates for this derivativeness, the aesthetics making Dust a must-play experience. So much potential exists here, and it is on Dean Dodrill’s shoulders to realize that potential. But it has been twelve years since original release; prospects are bleak. Even if no sequel is released (as seems increasingly likely) Dodrill can rest assured that he has achieved the immortality and the validation that we all subconsciously seek; that cannot ever be stripped of him.