So I wandered around the city for a while – aided, thankfully, by a handy map-based fast travel system – until I got fed up and started clicking Crispin, who doubles as a highly reluctant hint system, for help. “No,” said the gravel-voiced 'bot, “I want something shiny – not something that shines.”įair enough. After a bit of tinkering around in my inventory, I realized I still had an old lamp, which had pretty much ceased to be useful in a place that billed itself as “the city of glass and light,” so I handed it over. For example, one character requested that I bring him “something shiny” to trade for a crucial tool. And so on and so on and so on.įew of them were truly difficult, but Primordia's reluctance to clearly communicate objectives made everything more obtuse than it needed to be. And then there were more puzzles to do yet another thing that didn't involve going to Metropol, because of course there were. What ensued was copious amounts of directionless pixel hunting and random item combining.
Primordia fallen generator#
So building that backup generator required all sorts of parts, and finding each part was a puzzle in itself. But it's like Newton would've said if he got bonked on the noggin by an old-school point-and-click adventure instead of a fruit meteor: for every action, there is an equal and opposite progress-halting puzzle.
Primordia fallen series#
Happily, most events in this Brainolympics made sense within the context of the world's fiction, so it's not like I was leaping through a series of arbitrary hoops or anything. So begins the thrill-deflating puzzle-palooza, and it never really lets up. However, instead of tracking the 'bot behemoth back to Metropol – the legendary city of glass and light and top-hat-clad British robots (sorry, Jim) and intrigue – the duo first opts to cobble together a backup power generator. Here's the basic setup: Horatio and his hovering snark bucket of a best friend Crispin are going about their ordinary desert dystopia business (read: scavenging, wondering why all of humanity's dead, worshiping said dead humans) when a giant bruiser of a machine busts down their door, shoots Horatio, and takes their power core – which they need to stay alive. Unfortunately, Primordia leans more toward the latter – especially where interface and puzzle design are concerned – and that ends up being its brilliant setting's undoing. But there's a difference between learning from gaming history and slavishly clinging to it. Now, as other Wadjet-published games have proven in exceedingly delightful fashion, that doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing.
Primordia's rundown, dust-and-rust-encrusted future hides a point-and-click adventure that's firmly rooted in the past. Granted, it was hardly all Horatio's fault. And even though I found his single-mindedly selfish – sometimes to the point of near-heartlessness – pursuit fascinating, it never managed to build enough steam to hook me. Problem is, when Horatio drags his feet, so does the game. The entire first act of the game is devoted to his quest to stay as close to home as inhumanly possible – home, of course, being a busted-beyond-repair ship in the middle of a lifeless desert wasteland. He just wants to find his damn power core and be done with it, and he despondently grumbles about that fact constantly. I sort of love the fact that Horatio Nullbuilt – the cold, mechanical heart of Primordia's point-and-click adventure – absolutely, positively despises the idea of going on an adventure.
Primordia fallen how to#
But can this partnership between modern point-and-click maestros Wadjet Eye Games and fledgling upstart Wormwood Studios teach my icy, robotic soul how to love? Here's wot I think. Oh, and I suppose a gorgeously retro sci-fi aesthetic also helped to sweeten the deal. I like the former even more when they implicitly worship me, so Primordia seemed right up my alley. Fact: robots and adventure are my two favorite things.
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