Resurrection: Pathologic

But in a weird way, each of Pathologic’s issues adds to the astonishing atmosphere the game thrives upon. The script might not make a whole lot of sense, but its butchered use of language creates a new, intriguing vernacular. The monotonous wandering starts to fall into place when you begin to gaze around you and notice the tiniest of incidental details. In the distance, a gang of thugs chases a helpless woman, before beating her to a bloody pulp. It’s never explained, but it’s there to add a richness to this terrible place. When the quest log breaks, you’re left in a panic, working against the clock to seek out someone who might be able to help you. The atrocious animation looks uncomfortable and alien. The bizarre AI routines mean enemies fearlessly charge at you, forcing you into a backwards sprint while you fire your last three bullets into oblivion. The engine might be low-tech, but it only adds to the eeriness of the world design. The whole thing’s broken beyond belief, but you get the impression that fixing it would only detract from its wonder.

Most importantly, nothing ever gets in the way of Pathologic’s remarkable creativity. Impossible architecture dots the landscape, an unsettling hybrid of rustic and fantastic themes. A stone staircase stretches skyward, but there are no supports to hold it up, and it doesn’t lead anywhere. One character speculates that it could be the way to heaven. One building, a physics-defying skyscaper, stands on a miniscule point. When you begin to climb the ramp that runs around its circumference, you notice it’s constructed from its own paper blueprints. A pair of mysterious figures, the Masks, guard various areas of the village, making sure you play by its unfathomable set of rules. Pathologic’s world is like this for a reason. I can’t even talk about its most inspired piece of design. It’s linked to a crucial plot point that alters the dynamic of the entire game.

But what I will say is: my goodness, Pathologic enjoys shattering that proverbial fourth wall into tiny little fractured pieces. It makes a fascinating distinction between player and player character. At the start of the game, the two Masks explain the rules. Your character thinks they’re being awkward, but you know they’re speaking to you, not him. At the end of each day, the Masks perform a scene in the theatre, depicting your actions in the last 24 hours. By the conclusion, everything’s gone all-out in its meta-commentary, asking you to reflect on the nature of reality, and implicitly of gaming itself.

HISTORY BOOKS
It feels old now. It did at the time, but now, it feels like a lost relic of a gaming age that never fully existed in the first place. Alongside today’s big-budget, high-octane releases, it chugs along in an awkward tedium. I’ve returned to Pathologic three or four times since my first playthrough, but never managed to complete it for a second time. It’s just too unforgiving, too draining and too broken to persevere with again. But I would absolutely love for someone to try making another game like this.

No other game – not even developer Ice-Pick Lodge’s more recent and equally defiant project, The Void – has captured my imagination so absolutely. Not even the most atmospheric titles have exuded the same sense of unease and loneliness. Nothing has matched its ability to weave together such an intricate, intelligent story, even with a script that doesn’t make one iota of sense. Pathologic is ugly on the outside – there’s no doubting that. But on the inside, it’s imbued with more personality and character than most games could even dream of. By Lewis Denby

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