Finding Peace With the Impossible.

ScourgeBringer is a platforming action roguelite from 2020 with a stunning pixel art aesthetic that never feels old or overused. After about 15 hours of looping runs, I can confidently say it’s a game built around repetition—your own personal *Groundhog Day* through four punishing floors of misery.

Let’s get this out of the way: I never beat the final boss. I’ve tried. I’ve “gotten gud.” But I also found peace with it. I’m done—and satisfied. Sometimes it’s okay to leave the mountain unclimbed. Not every place needs my banner soaring.

This is not a game for newcomers. If you’re into hard games—if you enjoy suffering, adapting, and coming back swinging—this one’s for you.

But fair warning: ScourgeBringer doesn’t hold your hand. It rips the hand off.

ScourgeBringer deserves far more recognition than it received. Buried deep in a mine of digital libraries, this little uncut gem sits gleaming under the dirt, simply waiting for the right pair of eyes to see its shine.

It’s a damn shame this game didn’t get more traction, because it has serious merit. It’s time to give SB the spotlight it deserves—a forgotten gem that stands toe-to-toe with bigger-named titles.

This game is legitimately hard. Expect to die—a lot, and often. Runs can stretch to 30 minutes, which feels a bit long for the level of precision it demands. Personally, I prefer 15–20-minute runs, but I adapted.

You survive not by brute force but by playing nearly perfect with limited health. Thankfully, once the roguelite elements kick in, things get more manageable. The upgrades feel substantial—massive, even. They meaningfully change how you play and help flatten that brutal difficulty curve.

Movement is the soul of ScourgeBringer. The game’s blistering pace never lets up. Distractions will kill you—literally. A single second of panic can turn your full-health run into a quick death.

Button mashing? Absolutely fatal.

Every move must be deliberate. You’re meant to chain attacks—slash, dash, parry, repeat. It’s smooth and precise, a flowing dance that feels like you’re being rubber-banded across the screen on instinct.

When it works, it’s beautiful chaos. You feel like a futuristic sword-wielding samurai—and who doesn’t want that?

But the second you lose that samurai flow? You’re dead.

Losing momentum—stalling out, falling behind—is the danger zone. One mistake snowballs into three bad rooms, and that’s the end of your run. If you get hit, don’t try to thug it out. Back off. Regroup.

This is a game of attrition, not ego.

The times it feels unfair are when you’re cornered and overwhelmed by a positional misplay. Take the hit, breathe, recover—and you’ll bounce back.

No enemy is safe to leave for later. The quiet one in the corner? The cute one who shoots a single projectile? He’s the enemy.

Everything is dangerous.
Every hit counts.

Losing health early can wreck a promising run 15 minutes later—like a ticking time bomb to a death on a lower floor. Health is your most valuable resource. Every decision—every shortcut or rush—can come back to haunt you.

And yet, I loved the aggressive style. My zoomies made it harder, sure, but I wouldn’t play any other way.

The upgrade tree is excellent. It adds depth, not just stat boosts. These aren’t filler perks—they genuinely impact how you play and open new paths forward. Upgrades like fury combos or blood chains reshape the battlefield and give you meaningful goals.

Keeping your combo meter at 2 becomes a game in itself, earning you more blood points and encouraging fluid, high-level play. These points feed back into the upgrade system, creating a loop of progression and reward that’s incredibly satisfying.

Bosses and Sentinels are a different beast.

These fights are all about finesse—waiting for openings, dodging attacks, and surviving old-school bullet-hell barrages. You’re no longer dashing around. You’re locked in.

And those 1 HP clutch boss fights? Absolutely electric. When the boss is below 20% and it’s a mad dash to finish them off—man, there’s nothing like it. The adrenaline is real.

ScourgeBringer is punishing, fast, and requires serious discipline. It rewards mastery and punishes sloppiness. It’s not for the faint of heart—but for those willing to endure its trials, it offers some of the most fluid and rewarding action in the roguelite genre.

If you’re a fan of high-speed, high-skill roguelites, pick up the sword and prepare for the fight of your life.

You might not conquer every mountain, but the journey itself is worth every brutal, beautiful moment.

For a fleeting few hours I was transported to the front of the grainy tv of my mind sitting with my legs crossed. The responsibilities melted, the bills, the stress, the worries of adulthood all gone. A wave of nostalgia flowing through me as I’m transported back to 2002 with the original release of Ratchet and Clank, they’re back, in all of their childhood glory, but what will change through the lenses of an adult?

this game clings to nostalgia like a a cowboy wrapped around a bull. For all its polish, Rift Apart is terrified of evolution. It wants to honor the past without acknowledging that we, the players, have changed. It plays like a game stuck in amber, faithful, yes, but static. Familiarity is comfortable, but also dangerous.

I’ve been around playing these games, on and off for 20 odd years now. I was expecting something out of the norm for how big of a budget this game had at about $81 million, which is just absurd. Which let’s just face it, Is nowhere to be seen outside of graphic fidelity. All of those funds and they refused to push new gameplay mechanics, such a shame.

This game was a mixed bag to say the least, I have quite some feelings about this series and I’m going to dive right into it.

There’s no denying it, Rift Apart is one of the most visually stunning games I’ve touched. Every texture, particle and explosion got the respect it deserves, its beauty. Hand crafted with love, you can feel how much care went into the fidelity. Environments pulse with color, vibrant skylines with jaw dropping reveals for the first 1/3rd of the game. I wish traversing and navigating around was rewarding as the gorgeous visuals. Lack luster exploring in the equivalent of a vapid parking lot with a beautiful skyline.

I never found enemies to be challenging even on the hardest difficulty. This game is about making fights as cool as possible. The difficulty doesn’t matter at the end of the day when the main appeal is the plethora of weapons which all played relatively different. One thing I wish was different is the fact I wanted level 5 weapons to feel POWERFUL. Sure, they’re upgraded versions but none managed to give me that sense of awe I was desperately fiending for.

The progression system is forgiving and generous. Upgrades come quickly. There’s no forced grind. It’s a design philosophy that says: “You’re here to have fun. Let’s not get in the way.” And I appreciate that. I will add when a weapon does get to level 5 it does feel like a tease instead of a treat.

Ratchet is everything he always was, hopeful, kind, selfless. His relationship with Kit is one of the game’s true high points, its earnest, warm, even touching. There’s something disarming about a protagonist so relentlessly positive. His supportiveness doesn’t just serve the story, it uplifts the player too. You feel better after spending time with him.

Rivet has all the ingredients of a compelling character battle hardened, isolated, shaped by betrayal. You feel the setup for something rich: a hero wrestling with trust, identity, and connection. But that arc never materializes.

Instead, she’s played too safe. Rivet is likable, capable, and emotionally guarded but the game never pushes her. Her past is acknowledged, but not explored. Her scenes with Clank skim the surface, avoiding the vulnerability they’re clearly meant to evoke.

By the end, I realized I didn’t truly know her. She doesn’t challenge the tone, deepen the story, or evolve across the runtime. There’s no real shift. No turning point. Just a steady, cautious character designed not to upset the balance.

Nefarious is deranged as ever. He’s the major stand out. Fantastic comic relief, with really fantastic emotive animations. You can tell a ton of effort went into him. He’s villainous, brash and as always, is very sure of himself. This guy Is ALWAYS plotting and scheming. Any scene nefarious enters is one I am most grateful for. Fantastic voice acting that invokes the hectic and manic essence of an absolute madman.

the performances outside of Nefarious felt a little flat and lacking tone. It didn’t carry the weight it needed. It never came off as serious as I was looking for even during really intense story beats.

Rift Apart builds momentum until it crashes into an invisible wall. It teases freedom with semi open worlds, only to pull you back to rigid, linear structure. There’s no room for experimentation or alternate paths

it’s not bad.

It’s safe.

Painfully safe.

And for a game about interdimensional chaos, it plays remarkably by the numbers.

Worse, the semi open world design suggests a playground rich with secrets and surprises. But too often, you’re just hunting for radium or collectibles in static, underutilized environments. These maps are window dressing. Pretty facades built to be admired, not interacted with.

Rift Apart is both a love letter and a cautionary tale. It’s everything a fan might ask for—until you realize it hasn’t asked anything new of itself. For all the hardware muscle, all the money, all the spectacle, it never reaches beyond the blueprint. It never risks discomfort of growing pains.

It’s a game made by artists working at the height of their craft, constrained by a design philosophy that refuses to grow up. And in doing so, it limits not only itself, but the legacy it’s supposed to carry forward.

I don’t hate this game. In fact, I love what it reminded me of. But I mourn what it could have been. I mourn the chance for Ratchet & Clank to become something greater, something bolder, something worthy of the awe its visuals inspire.

And then it ended. The screen dimmed. The controller felt lighter than it used to. The floor beneath me wasn’t the cold hardwood of my childhood home, it was soft and fuzzy carpet. The way things shift through life and how something cold and harsh could be so comforting. For a few hours, I got to be a kid again, wide-eyed, heart open. But Rift Apart reminded me that while games can revisit the past, we don’t get to stay there. And maybe that’s the hardest part of coming back.