I’ve always loved claymation visuals, but only now am I taking the time to ponder why. As a kid, I pored over Nintendo Power’s coverage of ClayFighter 63 1/3 (opens in new tab), entranced by the freakishly proportioned, brightly colored maquettes that made up the N64 fighter’s roster. And gazing at them again decades later, I think I’ve nailed down their appeal: texture. Just looking at those clay models instantly conveys a tactile sensation: Taffy’s smooth, shiny candy limbs, The Blob’s goopy, amorphous sliminess, Bad Mr. Frosty’s pockmarked coating replicating the look of densely packed snow. Sadly, the digitized in-game sprites don’t come close to capturing these precise details; also, the game pretty much plays like garbage. But to see these cartoonish pugilists up close in NP’s pages had me captivated, and all these years later, I’m delighted to see higher-resolution test shots of the game (opens in new tab) (like the one you see below) that illustrate just how wild ClayFighter would’ve looked if it was made with the technology we have now.

Besides the palpable textures, I think some inherent imperfection bolsters the charm of claymation. Even beloved, high-budget productions like Chicken Run or ParaNorman don’t move with the perfect smoothness of a CG world; you can practically see the hand-crafted effort that went into constructing and animating the models with every frame. Similarly, the animations and cutscenes of classics like point-and-click adventure The Neverhood and its platformer sequel Skullmonkeys capture that same sense of painstaking authorship. And I think that art style still holds up better than most PS1-era graphics because of a willingness to go with weird, bumpy, carefully assembled sculptures rather than blocky, lifeless polygons.

Claymation graphics have always been a rarity, so I applaud modern games that take a chance on the uncommon aesthetic. Kirby and the Rainbow Curse beautifully imitates the squishiness of clay with its rendered visuals, and part of what makes The Swapper feel so alien yet so lifelike is its desolate space station constructed from clay and real-life refuse. The Dream Machine is a contemporary point-and-click that uses the muddy consistency of claymation to heighten the eeriness of its characters and world. And hey, claymation can even work its way into mainstream gaming on occasion – just look at the models that would go on to become Doom’s demons (opens in new tab), or the inspiration for the original Diablo’s visual design.

Claymation appreciation seems to put me in the minority, if the Nidhogg 2 backlash is any indication. Perhaps I’m just an outlier who watched Pee-wee’s Playhouse more often than most growing up. But then, for every five comments ragging on Nidhogg 2’s new look, you’ll see someone professing their love for the way this sequel boldly embraces such an undervalued art style. And if you’ve read this far, well, maybe I’ve helped another claymation enthusiast not feel so alone in this gaming ecosystem where conventional visuals get all the glory.  

Why I Love encapsulates all the little details of gaming life that sometimes get ignored. It arrives every Friday at 0900 PST / 1700 GMT. Follow @gamesradar on Twitter for updates.

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If, after two decades, you don’t still have the worrying muscle memory to tap in the 24-symbol super password to unlock all levels and reach the Lights Out level immediately, let me explain its beautifully simple concept. Our favourite orange marsupial lands in a long castle corridor in almost darkness. An Aku Aku crate sits close by. Crash spins the crate and, as if by magic, the claustrophobic corridor ahead is flooded with light. Run though, it doesn’t stay that way for long. If you don’t manage to reach another crate in time, darkness falls once more, the light from Aku Aku shrinking to a mere spotlight.  

It’s perfect. The gently menacing music is peppered with whispers and hisses, there are platforms that fall if you stay on them too long and rats with glowing red eyes that scuttle forwards and require a speedy leap to avoid. I would play, eyes glued to the TV, unblinking as I attempted to make it to the next checkpoint where I would bathe in the light before holding my breath and attempting the next section. Looking at it now, this was the beginning of the end for my career in anything other than finding new ways to scare myself silly. Sorry, mum.  

I look at Lights Out now and I see an excellent concept and some good platforming, but back then I could feel the weight of the enormous silent castle around this one lone corridor. Hear the dragging feet in other perhaps identical floors above. I could feel watchful eyes on me in the dark. Nothing actually happened when the lights went off. Nothing grabbed you from the dark. You just had to attempt to fumble your way along to the next section without inevitably falling into a hole, but anything could have been out there. The potential for Crash meeting a previously unseen grisly end was apparently limitless. 

Crash Bandicoot was my first time playing a game where it felt real. A technical marvel at the time because of the way it maximised the power of the original PlayStation, the ‘Sonic’s ass’ game (named because of the view of our hero) is full of fluttering butterflies and beautiful levels. I was enraptured by the idling animation where Crash would throw around Wumpa fruit. This was the first time I’d played as a character who got bored. The subtle difference between his celebratory happy face when he reached the end of a level and the exhausting wipe of the brow if he’d died was like a miracle. I’d gaze for hours at the view of the third island from the side scrolling Sunset Vista level. It didn’t matter that it was just a background to a side-scrolling section, you could see the future levels, just waiting there. 

But this was meant to be about why I love it now and the reason is simple. It’s still all of these things. It’s impossible to disentangle my nostalgia for the franchise from my views of gaming now or at least remove the warm and fuzzies. The joy of riding a pig in Hog Wild two decades ago is still there when I play now. My muscles remember how to collect every box, avoid every hazard and spin every hard to reach box. I don’t even have to think about how to play. It’s still the same. I ploughed through dozens of levels last night and, almost hating myself for just how sucked in I was, I just had even more appreciation for the soundtrack. Not bad for a 20 year old game. Happy birthday, Crash. Lets drink to your remasters. 

Why I Love encapsulates all the little details of gaming life that sometimes get ignored. It arrives every Friday at 0900 PST / 1700 GMT. Follow @gamesradar on Twitter for updates.

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Many years ago, before handhelds, the only games you could take on holiday were made of paper. You probably already know every travel trailer, caravan, and winnebago comes pre-loaded with a selection of dogshit board games, musty from years of disuse, but I ignored these. I chose something different, and dangerous. I chose to choose my own adventure.

I could fill a bag with Fighting Fantasy books – no, Lone Wolf wasn’t better – and swap wet seaside towns for frosted caverns, derelict space hulks, and dungeons full of deadly traps. It filled in the grey moments between trips to the gaming arcades, but it was also a gateway drug. By playing these books – or, more accurately, pretending to play them – I discovered Maelstrom by Alexander Scott. It’s an RPG book I never engaged with properly, but it fascinated me. Unlike the rigid, linear Fighting Fantasy series, you could go anywhere and do anything. The things I really loved, though – and the things I still love in games today – were the herbs.

You heard: herbs. Maelstrom featured a delicately illustrated guide with page after page of herbs and their medicinal uses. That magical glossary was a window into something tangible and enticing. A hero might be cursed by a cocktrice or poisoned by a basilisk, but a trained herbalist could fix them rubbing mugwort, lemon balm, or wolfsbane on their damaged bits. It made a distant fantasy world suddenly feel practical. Real enough to reach out and touch – like supermarket basil, but cheaper, and for druids.

It was a fascination that laid dormant for years, until I discovered my first Elder Scrolls game. Morrowind was like playing Fighting Fantasy or Maelstrom but with a unwearied, dutiful GM making everything run smoothly behind the scenes. I’d never played a video game like it. The freedom was intimidating. But instead of rushing into the wild to fight daedra (or, more honestly, cliff racers), I just gathered herbs. Lots and lots of herbs. All the goddamn herbs.

I couldn’t go 50 meters without stopping to stuff my pockets with comberry, kresh fiber, or wickwheat. I was dangerously addicted to seeking out rare plants, and the satisfying ‘shmoop’ of picking them. I never did anything with them – I just liked seeing my backpack full of buds, seeds and pompons. The mania followed me. Every time I start a new RPG, I tell myself I’ll try something new – ‘perhaps blacksmithing would be nice!’, I lie – then I find myself knee-deep in vegetation: green-fingered, red-faced, utterly ashamed. I’m shrubsessed. 

World of Warcraft? Herbalist. Lord of the Rings Online? Herbalist. Skyrim? Herbalist. The Witcher 3? Obviously, inescapably, herbalist. If Hitman let me collect bladderwrack, I’d do that instead of assassinating war criminals. I’m the only man alive who’s looked at Uncharted and thought it needed more elderflower. Perhaps it’s an infatuation that won’t pass until I actually have my own garden. Or perhaps I just need a herbal remedy. I’ll check Maelstrom and get back to you.

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Paper, however, was everywhere.

Spiral-bound notebooks for school. Homework sheets and textbooks and crisp printer paper with my latest English essay. Post-Its with my dad’s chicken-scratch and recipe cards in my mom’s elegant script. Journals for writing stories about talking cats at one age, and unspeakably bad emo poetry at another. The giant Webster’s dictionary with delicate vellum pages. Mixtape liner notes, origami cranes, and scoresheets from Scrabble matches.

Given all the dead trees my youth incurred, I’m okay with having transitioned to a more digital life. But all the time I spent with paper as a kid means I still have a soft spot for the stuff. And I’ve found myself seeking out games where paper takes the starring role. 

First off, they’re pretty. I have yet to find a paper-centric game that isn’t gorgeous. Second, when done well, they’re marvels of sound engineering. Paper produces a surprising amount of noise. The flip of a book’s pages, parchment against a fingertip, ripping of construction paper; each one is unique, and an audio team that can convincingly recreate them all for a game setting should be getting paid double.

But the third reason is the most important. Paper is about making. A blank piece of paper isn’t really blank; it’s just waiting for an idea. When a game understands that paper is one of the ultimate creative tools, it unlocks the real magic. That’s how it turns from a cool sensory experience into a really amazing game.

Take Tearaway: Unfolded, one of my favorite paper games. It encapsulated that maker mindset and put it into the gameplay. You have to draw and fold. You design and think artistically as you progress through the different papercraft worlds. The game is tactile, not just from its innovative use the PS4 controller, but in how the cursors really felt like extensions of your hands. That’s why I stuck through the entire game, despite its flaws. Every time I picked up the controller, I was excited to how it would inspire me next. And when I put the controller down, I wanted to immediately run to my desk and doodle, to translate that in-game creativity to my actual life.

Lumino City evoked the same feeling. I played it at E3 last year, and it was hard to pull myself away from its intricate paper universe. I wished I had made those dioramas, built a miniature world of such detail and brilliance. Because really, who makes a tiny functioning water wheel out of sticks and string, then turns it into a puzzle for their adventure game? That’s somebody I want to be friends with.

Having grown up from a dorky, creative kid into an adult who’s dorky and creative for a living, I’m grateful to the game designers who looked at a piece of paper and said, “I can make that something really cool.” Their work inspires me to do the same, to return to that child’s world view where there are no judgments, no rules, and no limits to what I can do.

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No, what I’m talking about is the way that Rocksteady handles the tricky matter of the end-game. The point at which you’ve completed the main story, but are not quite done.

Thankfully we’re – mostly – past the point where open-world games used to just bump us back to a pre-completion save point after the final confrontation. They understand that we want to keep playing. They get that we want persistence. But where the likes of Fallout now happily accept that their main story is merely one small part of the game, and allow us to treat it like just another side-quest once complete, the Arkham games do something rather more special. They use their end-game periods to add serious, retroactive meaning to their stories.

But before we get onto that, there’s the mechanical element to consider. The Arkham games have long been praised as Batman simulators, works that so instinctively understand what the character is about that they can effortlessly take us ‘back-stage’ to see how the man constructs the persona without ever disempowering the version that the criminals see. They show us – by practical experience – how hard Batman has to work in order to appear invulnerable, and they turn each and every evasion, attack, and stealthy dismantling of mobs into a knife-edge of tension and thrills. The end-games though, take the idea to a new level.

At this point, we get a real Batman simulator. Not the snapshot, action-movie version, but a feeling of what it’s truly like to be the Bat, out on patrol, unseen and unheard in the darkness of the sky, night after night after night after night. There’s no longer any prescribed narrative drive dictating our actions. No more waypoints to guide us, or any scripted, false urgency trying to push us to the next objective. There’s just the cape, the darkness, the criminal element somewhere far below, and whatever we decide to do next.

And that changes everything. Tonally, we’re no longer playing the same game. Once the drama, and the glory, and the victory are over, it gets lonely up on those rooftops. The plot-relaying radio chatter dies down. The urgent mission music fades. It’s just wind, and the vague murmuring of goons. The spectacle is gone, but the Batman remains, as he must, without thanks or attention. And that’s when you realize. This is what it’s really like.

The games use that brilliantly. Because now that you have time to think, they hammer home the idea that Batman has a lot to think about. Most action games live in the moment. They show you the consequences of your actions no further than the point that the fist or the bullet connects. But the Arkham games are all about consequences, and they love to make you face them.

City does it best, by nature of having that ending to play with. Something fundamental has changed in Batman’s life. A relationship which defined his existence – far more profoundly than he ever liked to admit, has gone – and now he’s more alone than ever. As he navigates the Arkham skies, cleaning up side-quests, solving lower priority mysteries now that the main event is over, and otherwise trying to settle back down into his normal routine, City plays with the loneliness of that freedom to ensure that normality never quite arrives.

The world’s dialogue has changed. Everywhere, the events of the story’s climax preoccupy criminal minds, the city below reflecting Batman’s thoughts, concerns and regrets back up at him. Some goons are happy. Some are genuinely upset. Many more are scared and uncertain of the future. They’re not the only ones. The increasingly empty space in the city – and its quest-list – acts as an echo chamber, as less and less distractions become available. Eventually there’s nothing left but the voices, and the opportunity to pointlessly, temporarily silence them with a clenched fist. This is what it’s really like to be the Batman.

Knight does a good job with this stuff too. After the events of the story’s climax, things have fundamentally changed again. Batman knows that his time is now limited, if indeed he can even be Batman any more. And again, the city reflects this crisis. The gangs below are entirely uncertain as to how things might change for the better or the worse now that the mask has fallen and his power is diminished.

One particularly brilliant line of goon dialogue has the mook in question pondering how he should relate to the Bat now. “What am I supposed to do, shout ‘Look out, it’s Bruce Wayne’?” This lends the final side-quests an amplified poignancy. A few hours ago they were simple mop-up jobs, but now Batman knows they might be the last things he ever gets to do for a city that might soon have to carry on without him.

Many have criticized Arkham Knight – and justifiably so – for its arbitrarily slow unlocking of side-missions, but by the end-game, intentionally or not, this pacing lends them an extra, more meaningful purpose. Rocksteady’s Arkham games – systemically, tonally, and artistically – are fantastic pieces of work, but it’s only at their end that you truly discover just how much more they are than the sum of their already excellent parts.

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A single viewing of the above trailer – though I recommend multiple – should give you a sense of just how cheery, playful, and charming Grow Home’s beanstalk-climbing adventure can be. As the adorable robot BUD (short for Botanical Utility Droid), you’re on an interstellar mission to retrieve a Star Seed, which could be beamed back home for precious terraforming purposes. Easier said than done, as the Star Plant will only bear fruit once it’s sprouted to a stratosphere-kissing height of 2000 meters. But BUD was clearly programmed without a pessimism subroutine, because he simply starts climbing up the giant vine, one claw-like hand at a time, to help the Star Plant’s tendrils find their way to growth-inducing sustenance.

As you continue your ascent up this gargantuan vegetation, you’ll come across bright blue crystals embedded in nearby rock formations (most of which are suspended in mid-air). Snagging one will increase BUD’s battery levels – and though you’re not forced to collect them all, doing so unlocks something magical. Claiming enough crystals will eventually net you a booster backpack, adding some much-needed lift to BUD’s hops so you can more easily bound around the Star Plant’s twisted branches and any floating landmasses. The more crystals you collect, the more efficient your boost becomes. Both of these processes can be augmented with some Uplay-connected unlocks, which are absolutely worth making an account for no matter how silly you think the service is (very, in my case).

Coming to grips with your increasingly powerful thrusters is a joy. BUD moves with a delightful clumsiness – the kind you might expect from a metallic baby who’s just grasped the concept of motor skills. And when he takes to the air, happily chirping all the while, that same awkwardness comes through in your attempts to manage your boost meter so that there’s something to grab onto when you inevitably run out of thrust. Eventually, you’ll encounter giant flowers and leaves that can alter your ascent; the former acts like an air brake, while the latter lets you glide around with the grace of a paper airplane. Whenever you misjudge a boost-jump’s distance and plummet back to Earth, it’s no biggie – BUD simply shatters into pieces, your ship’s computer/guardian M.O.M. warms you to be more careful (or has a chuckle at your expense), and you’re instantly restored back to robotic life.

Tracking down every last crystal requires you to slowly master the art of falling with style, doling out bits of boost to sail through the sky towards whatever climb-assisting anchorpoint you’ve got your eye on. And after a relaxing couple of afternoons spent seeking out all the crystals, I was delighted by the reward: unlimited flight. Yes, it effectively does away with all the airborne acrobatic skills you’ve developed up to that point – but it’s incredibly freeing to swoop around to your heart’s content, soaking in the sense of awe that comes with effortlessly gliding past a gorgeous sunset (made possible by the perfectly tuned day/night cycle).

Even before unlocking infinite boost, I was enchanted by Grow Home’s sensation of sporadic aviation. It brought me back to distant memories of a PS2 demo disc containing a chunk of the mech-battling oddity RAD: Robot Alchemic Drive. In it, you play a Japanese teen holding the controls to a giant robot built to repel legions of Godzilla-sized monsters. But instead of controlling the action from a cockpit, you’re locked to the perspective of your human protagonist as they gaze up at these colossal titans duking it out. To make it so that the camera controls don’t completely debilitate the actual act of playing the game, your character is inexplicably given the power to boost through the air in short bursts. Must be jet-boots or something.

In an effort to extend the demo’s lifespan (which is what you do when you’re a kid with no disposable income to buy games), I found that you could simply ignore your objective and float around forever. By keeping the hero’s date waiting at the train station, I would never trigger the impending monster attack – and that meant the freedom to flit around the rooftops of a peaceful Japanese suburb. Compared to RAD’s typical gameplay, which you can catch a glimpse of above, it was such a tranquil exploration of what flying might actually be like, without the pressures of some impending doom to distract me.

That’s an oddly unique gaming memory I’ve cherished for years. I was reminded of that wispy airborne mobility when playing as the Wing Diver in Earth Defense Force 2025 (opens in new tab), but Grow Home has finally recaptured the sensation that had me so enamored with a 2002 demo disc. BUD’s short but sweet journey is currently free for PS Plus members, though the PC and PS4 versions are both well worth the price of admission. If you’ve ever had a dream about flying, Grow Home is a must-play.

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Platformers are defined by their sense of fully controlling your character’s lateral and vertical movement, but minecart levels typically strip away your D-pad/left joystick agency almost entirely, save for some noggin-saving ducking functionality. On solid ground, you might be accustomed to accelerated running physics with roots tracing back to Super Mario Bros.’ B button, but minecarts usually careen down the rails at a fixed speed. And yet, even with the essence of the control scheme dismantled until nothing but ducking and jumping remain, minecart levels can deliver some of the most delightful platforming challenges possible.

The undisputed champion is, of course, the Donkey Kong Country series, which ranks just under Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom as the best thing that ever happened to minecarts. That’s not to discount other excellent minecart segments, such as the classic Gunstar Heroes or the recent Odallus: The Dark Call – but DKC lays out its minecart levels in a way I can only describe as immaculate (and yes, I’m including the skull-coaster joyrides of DKC 2). So let’s take it back to the level that first sent us down the shafts: Minecart Carnage.

It may not look like it at first glance, but the core principles of smart platformer design are present here. There’s pattern recognition, as you gradually learn to plot out your next move based on the placement of bananas, or mentally map out the (illogically built) rails to prevent from falling down the same pitfalls over and over. Some jumps force you to figure out the exact timing and distance for your leaps of faith, including ones that play off the reduced momentum of an uphill climb. Then – within the same level – there are those bits that break the rules you learned and adapted to mere seconds ago, where jumping at times that defy your survival instincts can result in bonuses like banana bunches or extra lives. Twitch reflexes are tested with enemies barreling towards you, which you can use as stepping stones or simply avoid depending on your comfort level.

Minecart stages also offer two different, equally rewarding sensations depending on player skill. If you’re dextrous enough to ace one on the first try, you experience a rush of adrenaline and a zippy sense of speed that you may come to miss when you’re back on your own two feet. On the other hand, those who find themselves constantly crashing can find satisfaction in recognizing their personal problem areas, gradually memorizing a sequence of responses, and fist-pumping in victorious pride when they can finally execute on their planned path to success.

That’s the kind of gratifying progression that most platformers strive for, but few can condense such a profound skill-developing arc into a minute-and-a-half-long level. So the next time you clownishly careen off course in a minecart level, don’t feel frustrated – appreciate that this is all a learning opportunity for the kind of dexterity and platforming instincts that’ll take you far throughout the rest of the game.

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Generally speaking, cheesing is seen as completing a challenge in an underhanded way that isn’t in the spirit of the game, like leading an ultra-powerful boss off a cliff or shooting from a convenient hidey-hole where no one can reach you. In many circles these techniques are poorly regarded – cheesing is often said in the same breath as glitching or exploits, which are really just technical synonyms for cheating. But I don’t see those things falling into the same category, because cheesing doesn’t alter the basic framework of the game by prodding at frayed code. Cheesing a game comes from studying its many details and eccentricities, and using what you find to confront challenges in unexpected ways.

Take, for example, horror-romance-puzzle game Catherine. In between navigating the throes of romantic entanglement, your job is to rearrange the building blocks of a tower so you can create a path to the top. One boss in the game has the ability to change the blocks ahead of you into traps like spikes and black holes. It’s an aggravating segment that you can fail with an errant twitch, unless you realize that you have the ability to undo your last block-pulling move, which also undoes the boss’s spell. You can then hop to the next level and pull out another block before he makes a move, bypassing his cheap tactic with a cheap tactic of your own.

That gets you to the top on your own terms, and it wasn’t by abusively duplicating items or manipulating some other mix-up in the code. By paying attention to how the ‘undo’ function affects the game in less obvious ways and making creative use of what you learn, you’re able to utilize a mechanic in a way you may never have thought of otherwise. It’s not the same as trying to beat a game out of contempt or superiority (opens in new tab). It’s a battle of the minds against a game you respect and love enough to learn it inside-out.

Of course, you have to be open to the idea of the game cheesing back – I had to bite my tongue when a massive, stampeding pig killed me through the floor in Bloodborne. But in the end that means you’re interacting with the game on an even deeper level, which just makes playing it more personal and fun. So next time you snipe Sekrion from above in Destiny (opens in new tab) or goad Ceaseless Discharge into a bottomless pit in Dark Souls, banish the word ‘cheating’ from your mind. It’s just you and the game, having a Gotcha moment.

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