Extremely educational game that teaches the survival fundamentals they *mysteriously* skip in school:

- Any plan lasts exactly 12 seconds, or until someone says “I got this.”
- Teamwork is real, powerful, and immediately replaced by blaming the driver.
- Nature isn’t peaceful—it’s a physics exam you didn’t study for.
- Repairing a vehicle is mostly vibes: if you believe hard enough, the RV becomes “roadworthy-ish.”
- The RV is a paradox: a rugged beast that conquers mountains… until a small rock gently suggests otherwise.

The gameplay loop: Drive → flip → recover → swear it won’t happen again → flip with more confidence. It’s the kind of co-op where success feels like winning a war, and failure feels like slapstick… right up until it happens three times in the same puddle.

Co-op experience: Everybody has a job, and all jobs are “panicking with structure.” One person drives like insurance is a myth, one person tries to rescue the RV with whatever tool the game gives them, and one person runs around “helping” in the way a cat helps you build IKEA furniture.

Best moments: When the squad pulls off a miraculous recovery and you all celebrate like you invented the wheel—seconds before losing the wheel.

Worst moments: When the jank stops being a punchline and starts being the whole set. Chaos is funny. Chaos plus friction is a group project.

Verdict: If you want a co-op comedy where the road is optional and dignity is forbidden, this delivers. Just don’t expect a smooth ride—expect a story you’ll tell later that starts with: “Okay, so we clipped a tree and…”

Every once in a while, a game comes along that doesn’t just entertain—it blows the doors off the genre, throws the rulebook out the window, and duct-tapes chaos to creativity. Schedule I is exactly that game. I loved it. I mean really loved it. The kind of love where you laugh so hard your mic clips and your friends threaten to mute you.

This game is pure, unfiltered, weaponized goofiness. From the moment you load in, you know you’re in for something different. It takes the concept of a first-person multiplayer co-op experience and then says, “What if we made it weird... and better?” The result is a beautifully unhinged experience that somehow manages to feel both like an inside joke and a fever dream.

With friends, Schedule I is absolutely magical. Whether you’re flailing around trying to complete objectives, screaming as plans go sideways, or just vibing in the most absurd scenarios imaginable, it’s the kind of game where the mess is half the fun. You'll fail together, succeed together, and—more often than not—accidentally sabotage each other in the most hilarious ways.

What’s so impressive is how fresh it all feels. Schedule I doesn’t just mimic what other games have done—it reinvents the formula. There’s a clever, chaotic energy behind every mechanic. It manages to balance tense moments with side-splitting comedy, and even when you have no idea what’s going on, you’re still having a blast.

It’s got that rare spark of originality, the kind you only find when developers clearly had a ridiculous idea and went all-in on making it work. The environments are bizarre in the best way, the gameplay is unpredictable, and somehow, in the middle of all the madness, it works. Really, really well.

Sure, it might be rough around the edges sometimes. Sure, you’ll probably ask yourself “what is happening?” more than once per session. But that’s part of the charm. Schedule I is the kind of game that makes memories. You don’t just play it—you tell stories about it after.

If you love creative chaos, unforgettable moments, and laughing until it hurts, Schedule I is the game for you. It’s weird, it’s wild, it’s wonderful—and I already can’t wait to dive back in.

Ready or Not is not your average first-person shooter—it’s a brutal, slow-burning tactical experience that feels more like a high-stress job than a game. And I absolutely loved it.

You play as a SWAT team leader in the fictional (and deeply cursed) city of Los Sueños, responding to some of the most intense scenarios imaginable—hostage crises, active shooters, bomb threats, and downright terrifying cult hideouts. The game pulls no punches: every step, every breach, and every decision can mean life or death, not just for your squad, but for terrified civilians and twitchy suspects who may or may not be concealing a weapon behind their back.

What makes it so compelling is also what makes it so frustrating—in a good way. This is not a game you can breeze through. It demands discipline, communication (especially in co-op), and a serious respect for the rules of engagement. You can’t just shoot on sight. You have to give commands, restrain suspects, and clear every room like it’s hiding the final boss. Sometimes you’ll spend 30 minutes clearing a level only to fail because a suspect pulled a gun while surrendering or a teammate forgot to check behind a door. And you’ll love it anyway.

Visually, it’s dark, gritty, and immersive. The lighting and sound design do a fantastic job at ratcheting up tension, especially in cramped hallways or abandoned homes where shadows seem to move and every creak makes you panic. It's not a horror game, but it might as well be when a suspect bursts out of a closet during a routine sweep.

Is it challenging? Absolutely. Unforgiving? Constantly. But that’s what makes every successful mission feel earned. There’s something incredibly satisfying about clearing a map with zero civilian casualties and perfect teamwork—it’s like winning an Olympic gold medal in stress management.

The AI still needs work, and bugs crop up here and there, but the devs are active, the updates are meaningful, and the game just keeps getting better. Ready or Not is still growing, but what’s here is already a masterclass in tactical FPS design.

If you're looking for a game that respects your intelligence, punishes your mistakes, and makes you feel like a real operator (while also occasionally making you scream in fear or rage), then Ready or Not is absolutely worth the dive. Just don’t forget to mirror under the doors. Always.

Let’s be honest—when I first heard about Prison Architect, I thought, “How fun can it be to design a prison?” But a few hours later, I was laughing, panicking, and yelling things like “Why is the cafeteria on fire again?!” while a naked prisoner tunneled out under the shower block. I liked it. A lot. Possibly too much.

This game lets you live out your inner micro-managing overlord, one tiny room and endless bureaucracy at a time. Want to design a humane, rehabilitative facility? Go for it. Want to create a dystopian punishment fortress with 24/7 lockdowns and guard towers on every corner? That’s totally fine too. No judgment—except from your prisoners.

The gameplay is a beautiful mix of chaos and control. You lay the foundations, build walls, wire in the electricity, hire staff, and then watch the entire system fall apart the second you forget to put in enough toilets. Oh, the riots. The glorious, inevitable riots.

It’s oddly addictive. You tell yourself you’re just going to fix the visitation room layout—and five hours later, you're knee-deep in prison policies, micromanaging meal variety, and placing snitches in protective custody like you're running a mafia witness relocation service.

And don’t even get me started on the escape tunnels. Or the fact that someone always seems to smuggle in a fork, no matter how many metal detectors you install. Security? Optional. Drama? Guaranteed.

But for all its goofiness, Prison Architect is smartly designed. There's a lot of depth under the cartoonish graphics—from prison reform programs and gang control to budget management and political pressure. It’s like if The Sims and a gritty crime doc had a weird, slightly unhinged baby.

In short: it’s funny, frustrating, and fantastic. It’s a game where success is measured not just by how few inmates die in a week, but by whether you remembered to hook up the water pipes to the toilets. Which I didn’t. Multiple times.

Prison Architect proves that even in a place full of criminals, the real menace is probably the player. And I loved every second of it.