Unfortunately for me, Split Fiction is the type of game you feel utterly compelled to tell your friends about. It's the type of game that will have you setting your controller aside to wipe away tears, both of laughter and raw emotion, as well as to call literally everyone in close proximity to come see whatever dark, hilarious, referential, or mind-blowing thing just happened. As such, I've spent the better part of the past week impatiently waiting for this embargo to drop--for the second I could talk about it with someone other than the close friend I roped into joining me. In short, Split Fiction is one of the most memorable, brilliant, and spectacular games I've ever played. And at long last, I am allowed to tell everyone about it.

With Split Fiction, Hazelight Studios solidifies itself as not only one of the most clever and innovative working studios, but as one eager to grow and utterly devoted to creativity as both an idea and act. Though Hazelight has yet to release anything less than great, it was almost shocking to see how much it had learned from--and improved upon--2021's critical darling It Takes Two. Levels and environments are vast, gorgeous, and varied; our two protagonists, Mio and Zoe, are full of depth, charm, and personality; the game's seemingly endless gimmicks and gameplay mechanics, all of which are introduced at far more rapid pace than It Takes Two, are nearly all so fun, brilliant, and tightly designed that they could stand alone; and its writing, plot beats, and overall structure deliver a remarkable story that rappels from heart wrenching, commentative, darkly humorous, and brimming with joy just as fluidly as our heroines grapple-hook between buildings. Though there is a level of cheesiness that coats the game's overarching story and its primary antagonist, Rader, as a whole Split Fiction is a marvelous game that sets a new benchmark not only for Hazelight, but for co-op experiences as a whole.

Despite its inevitable greatness, Split Fiction kicks off with a humble (if slightly cliched) beginning in which it introduces its protagonists: Mio Hudson and Zoe Foster. Mio and Zoe are nothing alike. Whereas Mio is an angsty, city-slicking, sci-fi enthusiast who'd sooner yank out her own tooth than open up to a stranger, the fantasy-loving Zoe is sunshine incarnate. And yet, the pair does share one thing in common: They are both unpublished writers in dire need of money and a byline.

"I'll remember you, even after I die."

This quote, delivered half-way through Lost Records: Rage and Bloom's first "tape," is perhaps the most concise and poignant way to convey what Don't Nod's latest title is about. Lost Records is a game that revels in the melodrama and contradictory nature of adolescence. It understands the yearning we all once had to be completely unknowable and one-of-a-kind while also being fully-understood, accepted, and loved. Within its eight or so hours, insecurity and conviction walk hand-in-hand while the assumed invincibility of youth is stretched to its breaking point. How can one summer--how can life--feel so everlasting yet utterly fragile? Such is the magic of our teenage years.

Lost Records captures this phenomenon stunningly, yet doesn't settle for being a game merely driven entirely by nostalgia or reminders of what it felt like to be young in the '90s. At its core is an eerie, supernatural mystery that spans nearly three decades and threatens to consume the four women involved in it--one that promises violence and the reemergence of events perhaps better left forgotten. This intense, slow-burning narrative provides an excellent framework for an empathetic exploration into girlhood, friendship, sexuality, individuality, expression, and the transition from youth to middle age. All this combined with dynamic characters, cinematic visuals, beautifully-rendered character models, and keen sense of atmosphere makes Lost Records one of Don't Nod's best games to date.

Last spring, I flew to Thailand to visit the set of Alien: Earth, the upcoming FX and Hulu TV series based on Ridley Scott's beloved series. As a horror fan, it was incredible to place myself in the middle of some iconic imagery from the series. A VR game like Alien: Rogue Incursion offers a similar promise: Immerse yourself in the world of Alien in a way no game has previously allowed--natively anyway, as Alien: Isolation does enjoy some player-made VR mods today. But Rogue Incursion can't quite capture the essence of the series for a multitude of reasons, but chief among them is a starring monster who feels suddenly toothless.

Alien: Rogue Incursion is a VR-only entry in the long history of video games based on Alien. Typically, those titled Alien--singular--look to the slow-paced original for inspiration, while those prefixed with the plural, Aliens, go for a more action-oriented take akin to James Cameron's sequel. That's the first oddity of Rogue Incursion. It's not necessarily beholden to this naming convention, but the game has you spraying-and-praying at so many Xenos that it feels more like an action game than the survival-horror experience you might expect.

This is despite the fact that the developers clearly looked toward Alien: Isolation for inspiration, from the look of the androids--which Creative Assembly had introduced to the mythology back in 2014--to the signature movement scanner that you can now physically pull from your inventory in VR. Isolation protagonist Amanda Ripley is even name-dropped at one moment, so it seems Rogue Incursion wants to harken back to its predecessor... until it doesn't.

I thought I would miss the Wirebug from 2021's Monster Hunter Rise. Not just because of the verticality and fluidity it introduced to traversal, but also because of its vital role in combat--whether you were incorporating Silkbind attacks into combos or using the Wire-dash to avoid certain death by the skin of your teeth. The Wirebug was a fantastic addition, and yet its absence is something I never really felt in Monster Hunter Wilds. Such is the strength of its combat, the seamlessness of its open world, and the impact both of these facets have on a core gameplay loop that remains infinitely compelling. There are a few missteps along the way--of both an artistic and technical variety--but Wilds is another excellent entry in Capcom's beloved series.

For seasoned veterans, that core gameplay loop will be instantly recognizable. You hunt monsters, craft their parts to make better weapons and armor, and then use these upgrades to hunt even more challenging monsters. It's an evergreen formula, although an emphasis on narrative hasn't always been part of the equation. The lone exception is 2018's Monster Hunter World, and in many ways, Wilds feels like a continuation of that game's approach to storytelling. By integrating Guild and Village quests into one cohesive story with multiple characters and a fully voiced protagonist, Capcom clearly intends for the story to be more than the afterthought it has traditionally been.

The game's opening moments see the Hunter's Guild arrive in the Forbidden Lands: an uncharted region believed to be uninhabited for the past thousand-odd years. This misconception changed, however, when a young boy named Nata was discovered near the border. Pensive and frightened, Nata recounts how his village was attacked by a fearsome monster known as the White Wrath, forcing the Hunter's Guild to embark on an expedition to investigate this mysterious creature and potentially save Nata's Indigenous people from annihilation. As a hunter, it's your role to slay a bestiary of monsters and protect the balance of the ecosystem in this dangerous new frontier.

There's so much delightful intrigue to uncover with Cabernet's core message of monsters being hereditary, a concept that initially seems solely meant to draw parallels between the protagonist's vampirism and her father's alcoholism. But Cabernet dares to go deeper with its message, delving into the cyclical nature of humanity's cruelty to each other, especially regarding the treatment of the lower class, and how society's many ills are often the result of the new rich inheriting the evils of the old. It all makes for a deeply compelling consequence-driven story where every choice carries the potential to surprise you with terrifying force. Some late-game glitches mar the game's fantastic conclusion, but even if developer Party for Introverts doesn't address those issues in post-launch updates, the journey to get to Cabernet's final hour is an incredible piece of interactive fiction.

A 2D narrative-driven RPG set in 19th century Eastern Europe, Cabernet begins with protagonist Liza's funeral, as you briefly roleplay as her uncle and give a eulogy that determines the direction of Liza's life and which skills she specializes in. Control then shifts to Liza as you awake in a dungeon. Unsure of how she got there, Liza makes a pact with an unseen and silent presence for freedom, before finding herself at a party filled with vampires. It quickly becomes apparent that she is now a vampire as well, and this new life comes with a ton of rules, like needing to satiate a constant thirst for blood and staying away from sunlight. But there are immense freedoms associated with the transformation as well, as Liza is empowered with supernatural abilities that allow her to go to places she never could before, get away with acts others are often swiftly arrested for, and pursue passions and love most mortals of her station cannot yet readily do.

In this sense, Liza is a stand-in for the middle class, which was emerging during this period in real-life history. Liza cannot relate to the centuries-old Countess who commands all the vampires in the region and lives in a mansion filled with wealth, nor can she completely empathize with the poor farmer girl who dreams of learning music and bettering herself but must toil away in the fields for hours so her family can eat. But Liza can take small steps into both of their worlds to see their respective trials and tribulations, and although she cannot fundamentally change the relationship between the poor and rich, she is one of the few in town who can affect the lives of people in both social spheres. This setup grounds the otherwise supernatural fantasy in real-world politics, implementing considerations into the story that give even the simplest of choices substantial narrative weight.