NYU Game Cen­ter One thing that makes videogames unique is that their beauty is of­ten in­vis­i­ble and in­ef­fa­ble. A game can have beau­ti­ful parts that we can point at: daz­zling art, a mov­ing sound­track, or a sub­lime story. But it can also have a beauty that you only sense by play­ing it, that you can­not sim­ply show some­one, and that you can’t lo­cate in any of its parts. That’s the sort of beauty that suf­fuses Stephen’s Sausage

Roll. If you haven’t played it, I can’t re­ally con­vey what makes it the best game, ex­cept to say ‘it has good puz­zles’, which doesn’t be­gin to cap­ture what I like about it. But to dance around it a lit­tle more: the best game should have great clar­ity of vi­sion, and not be mud­dled by too many cooks like Mario 64 is. It should have a light touch, do­ing no more than it needs to, and never out­stay­ing its wel­come like Dark Souls does. It should have a wor­thy cli­max, and not peter out like Shadow Of The

Colos­sus does. And the best game should sketch an ex­panse of pos­si­bil­ity much big­ger than its ac­tual bounds, rather than fenc­ing you in like Oca­rina Of

Time. That’s Stephen’s Sausage Roll.

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