MORSEL ENEMIES
The original OVERCOOKED is a recipe for disaster
Overcooked is a liar. It wants you to believe it’s all bouncy text and goofy smiles and gently strumming guitars. But beating beneath its starched white apron of falsehood is a shriveled heart, poisoned by malice and condemnation. Friendships don’t just wither here; they’re chopped, boiled, baked, fried, blended, then scraped into the food refuse bin.
You might argue that this is my fault and not the game’s, and that it says more about my ability to work efficiently as part of a team than it does Overcooked’s design. Allow me to throw an onion at your head by way of reply. If reality TV cooking shows have taught me anything, other than the right way to cook scrambled eggs, it’s that someone must be spasming with rage at all times. I am apparently that someone.
Don’t be deceived by the animated raccoon I’ve picked as my avatar: inside I’m channeling hippo-eyed culinary gargoyle Marco Pierre White, a man so frightful he even made Gordon Ramsey cry.
This might make Overcooked sound like it’s no fun, but experience it with someone who isn’t hatred shaped like a man and it’s a co-op delicacy: taut, breathless, funny, and chaotic; a game where serving the final meal in the dying seconds of a round is as triumphant as beating most bosses. Some of the levels detract from the enjoyment of the game but most of the time it all hangs together beautifully. And if it’s OK for the Onion King to encourage me to use his own people as ingredients, it’s fine for me to give my partner PTSD because they served up a burger without the patty.