West of Dead
Exploring the Frontiersman’s afterlife in WEST OF DEAD.
I’ve never been so pleased to see a witch. Wearing an antlered skull, and emitting the kind of presence you feel long before you see, “like a storm rolling in” according to Ron Perlman’s tar-thick voiceover, in another game she might be an end-of-level boss. In West of Dead, a roguelike set in a lugubrious wild west underworld, your interactions with her are the only persistent progress you can make.
It always begins in the bar. However deep you get through the crypts, the snowcapped wilds where dogs prowl, the deepest mines of purgatory, death spits you right back here, minus whatever weapons, upgrades and abilities you picked up on your last run. So you dust yourself off and head down into the crypts all over again, picking up a couple of level 1 firearms for company.
It’s only ever a few corners before the gunfire starts. West of Dead’s combat marries twin-stick shooting to a cover system, and throws in a few extra tactical wrinkles like lights in some rooms that stun nearby enemies and loot charms that might, say, halve your reload time or recover some health if you manage to dive into cover soon after taking the hit.
My first two or three runs in the Crypts felt like stumbling disasters, but gradually the pace and nuance of the combat started to sink in. I noticed exactly how many hits it took from my six-shooter to stun guntoting enemies, and how many shots
from them it took to destroy the cover I tended to cower behind. I realised that the zombie-like melee foes tended to follow you back into the previous corridor, where they’re easier to takedown.
West of Dead is brilliant at telegraphing every small detail of combat, from the moment an enemy’s alerted to your presence to the moment they’ve locked their aim on you and only a frame-perfect dodge roll will stop you taking damage if you’re not behind cover. When all the timings permeate, you start to play reflexively, rather than consciously. You’re always in cover, always aware of how many empty chambers are in each gun, always looking for the next safe place to roll into.
Those fundamentals are built upon in each subsequent area as different enemy types – the hounds in the second map can absolutely fuck off, by the way – force you into different strategies, and thanks to that perma-death mechanic each fight feels a bit more meaningful than the last, especially when they involve giant bags of biceps whose butcher blades can kill you in one hit, or huge sacks of pus who sprint at you, ready to explode as soon as they get close enough to really worsen your day.
YOU’RE IN HELL, BOY
If West of Dead’s combat wasn’t sewn so artfully into that enigmatic world, though, it wouldn’t be anything like as easy to hit ‘New Run’ after another heartbreaker down the Mines. The visuals are arresting, and appear to be true cel-shaded, from objects to lighting. Hearing Hellboy’s voice while you’re inhabiting a shadowy underworld of inky black outlines feels very Mike Mignola, and the sombre guitar lines, circling crows, and whiskey-gargling voiceover build a genuine sense of atmosphere.
It’s not just about beating the game, but understanding it. Those twin motivations keep frustration at bay longer than might otherwise happen in game with such unflinching disregard for your sense of progression. But, of course, frustration does eventually arrive. On the rare occasions you can point the finger at the game itself, the camera work and lighting are the culprits. Particularly when backing out of an arena, the zoom and focal point can occasionally go a bit haywire.
Other games have explored the same themes and mechanics as West of Dead, but rarely has it all come together with such cohesion. The fight’s always fair in here, however difficult it may be, and it always feels like you’re enduring it for a reason. The drip-feed of information’s expertly judged, and the haunting Purgatory, Wyoming, backdrop it plays out on has a way of getting under your skin.
Only a frameperfect dodge roll will stop you taking damage.