![]() There's room enough in there for a shovel, a sword, a couple of cooking pots, a red herring (get it, you see, at the bridge, with the troll, a red herring?), a box of delicious cereal, umpteen bananas, a fantastic idol that could get you killed, if you're a fool (or simply want to see Guybrush dead), and so much more. Monkey Island is full of stuff, stuff that you-as wannabe pirate Guybrush Threepwood, who I'll get onto in just a second-pick up and shove inside your blouson, a shirt with infinite pocket space. IT HAS BRILLIANT PUZZLES THAT MAKE NO SENSE, UNTIL THEY DOĬase in point: the rubber chicken. That's what you need to zip across a cable connecting the starting (chapter one) area of Mêlée Island to the small hideaway of Meathook, the Sea Monkey crew member in waiting. What you're left with is a rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle. (OK, most things.) It's so perfectly streamlined, with every ounce of fat that'd get added to proceedings if it were made today left on the proverbial cutting room floor. Everything you pick up has a vital part to play in the game's progression. You'll finish it in a couple of evenings. The Secret of Monkey Island doesn't do that. But so many games get bloated through pointless distractions, needless collectibles developers swell their products with acres of shit we just don't need. Long-ass games are amazing when their worlds are constantly rewarding- Bloodborne, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, and Fallout 4 all qualify from 2015. ![]() There comes a point in every self-identifying gamer's life when they catch sight of themselves in the mirror and see the hollowness of their eyes, the paleness of their skin, the cracks in their lips, and yellowing of their nails, and conclude: I need to spend less time playing these fucking things. ![]()
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