Pokemon's turn-based combat can be best described as an inch wide and a mile deep. Its rock-paper-scissors style is easy to understand, but below the murky surface lies an entirely different game. Moves that may seem useless at first glance take on a different meaning in a competitive setting, where complicated stat spreads are tweaked ever-so-slightly to maximize a Pokemon's efficiency and a constantly evolving meta-game makes it hard to nail down which strategies are viable and which aren't. Toss in over 1,000 unique monsters that can be trained in hundreds of thousands of different ways, and you're left with arguably the most impenetrable competitive video game scene of all time.

For decades, Pokemon's competitive scene was just that: a near-impenetrable experience that requires hundreds of hours--and hundreds of dollars--to keep up with. Pokemon Champions is The Pokemon Company's attempt to bring white-knuckled, competitive battling to the masses. The financial barrier to entry, at least ostensibly, is low thanks to its free-to-play model, and the snappy stat-training mechanics reduce a lot of friction. However, Pokemon Champions lacks the necessary onboarding to captivate a new audience while also giving clear advantages to players who've invested in Pokemon Home. In its current state, Pokemon Champions falls just short of being the be-all and end-all of competitive play that I hoped for.

Despite Pokemon Champions' lackluster onboarding, there are a lot of tutorials. When you first start up the game, you're introduced to a cast of characters who teach you how to battle, obtain Pokemon, and build a team. Assuming you don't skip any dialogue, it takes roughly 30 minutes before you're set loose. From there, you can battle online, train Pokemon, build teams, or continue with supplementary tutorials. I opted to do the latter.

In one of Esoteric Ebb's chambers lies a chest. Above it, a sign: "Not a mimic." Snell, your goblin companion, deduces the most obvious outcome: The sign is the work of some prankster who's hoping to get one over on whichever unsuspecting rube decides to saunter into this secreted away room, ignore the sign, and loot the chest. Mimics are often "chest-shaped" like this--the game's joke, not mine--and seeing as how they are a trick as old as fantasy itself, it doesn't take a genius to piece together how such an encounter might end.

Esoteric Ebb is a lot like the mimic in this scene. It looks and sounds like things it takes the shape of--some more obvious than others--but delights in playing with expectations one might have of it. Just when you think you might have it figured out, it contentedly throws another wrench in your understanding of its tone and aspirations. It's a fun ride. It does not veer wildly off course in the process, but it is a stylistic and colorful detour that is nonetheless a riot worth your time.

In Esoteric Ebb, you are the Cleric, a bumbling idiot and magical savant sent by the magistrate to investigate the absolute hornet's nest that is an explosion of a tea shop in Norvik. The timing couldn't be any worse, since Norvik's constituency is voting on a referendum. Should it stick by the Urth-worshipping Nationalists who've governed and shepherded the city through its founding decades, consequently hardening the attitudes and beliefs that have called its rule into question at this very moment? Should it instead ally itself with the deep-pocketed Freestriders who are clearly strong-arming their way to a victory? Or should the city consider other policies, like the dwarven-born egalitarian platform of Azgalism?

I audibly gasped. My small community of Pokemon friends had been steadily growing in the first hour or so of Pokemon Pokopia, and now Professor Tangrowth asked me to build a house and mark it as my own. I could even invite another Pokemon to live there with me, he said. You mean I can have a Squirtle roommate?! I built my new house as quickly as I could and invited Squirtle to come live in it, and he happily agreed. Childhood dream fulfilled.

A few days later, Squirtle told me he wanted to move out.

Heartbroken and with nothing to do to change Squirtle's mind, I pressed on. I was determined to learn more, earn more, and do more, so that, one day, Squirtle will come back. Someday I'll make a new house and I'll invite Squirtle to live with me again. Maybe he just wanted his own bedroom? Admittedly, the leaf hut is not a lot of space. Maybe he didn't like my decor at the time--a few items I had arranged slapdash to fulfill the housing requirements.

The Resident Evil series has a long history of struggling to find the right balance of horror and action, sometimes becoming massively successful and influential in either genre, and sometimes completely faceplanting after leaning too far one way. Resident Evil Requiem, the ninth mainline game in the series, sees Capcom dialing in the combination of those elements better than ever, though in a somewhat inelegant way. Rather than try to blend different elements of two different genres into a single experience, it just staples together two distinct experiences that each capture the best parts of Resident Evil--to the point where it is almost two separate games running in parallel.

One game is a slow, frightening, gory haunted house story following an everyday person as its protagonist, hewing close to the horror-first approach of Resident Evil 7: Biohazard. The other is a fast-paced, panic-inducing experience starring an action-hero badass that draws directly from Resident Evil 4. Requiem even lets you set different points of view for the separate protagonists, recommending RE7's first-person approach for horror and RE4's third-person camera for action, though you can use either for both.

Disparate as they may be, though, both halves are extremely compelling. Requiem feels like Resident Evil's developers, for the most part, recognizing what they do well and leaning in all the way. The result is a game that's unwilling to leave the track set by its predecessors, but one that still provides an intense, often exciting ride.