Top Stuff of 2025 – Top 10 Videogames

So, well… that’s 2025. Woohoo? I think few would call it one of their favorite trips around the sun—and yet, if you’re reading this, you’re still here, and I say that counts for a lot. In the meantime, too, some pretty remarkable videogames debuted on our screens! In deciding which to play, and which I then loved, I’ll admit it: I’m no tastemaker. I like what I like, and that typically involves at least one explosion or zombie per hour. Per usual, then, some critical darlings didn’t grab my attention, so you won’t find Citizen Sleeper 2 or Despelote among the annual accolades. Also, sorry, Silksong was way too hard. Still, whether for intellectual engagement or just a madcap free-for-all, ten in particular this year went down as prospective classics!

When Wolfenstein ward MachineGames was tapped to produce a new Indiana Jones, it was the “yeah, makes sense” heard ‘round the world. But unlike that other series about an all-American hero popping paranormal fascists, The Great Circle prioritizes feeling like Indy over being yet another FPS, and it’s one of this generation’s most exciting AAA offerings for it. Intervening imitators like Uncharted haven’t rendered Indy obsolete; there’s bullets to spare, but you’ll more often be cracking whips and quips, donning disguises, wolfing down food, or consulting textbooks to up your odds of surviving the next spike trap. Between Harrison Ford’s era-appropriate likeness and celeb VA Troy Baker’s uncanny imitation, it’s as if Dr. Jones really did gain eternal life upon drinking from the Grail! For a guy whose boyhood was built on flicks like Raiders of the Lost Ark (here recalled as a tutorial)—and with a lot of unpunched Nazis rising in power—this globetrotting thrill ride was just what I needed to kick off 2025. Let’s hear it for one of Tony Todd’s final performances, too!

I grew up in a Nintendo household, which means my current CV includes a part-time position complaining about their new stuff. Imagine my pleasant surprise, then, when—after a mid Paper Mario crossover and a pair of remakes—the Mario & Luigi subseries pulled into port with a fresh bounty of fun. M&L has long been a bastion of weird humor and clever gameplay, and Brothership’s got both in abundance, alternating between captaining the vessel in question and traversing islands full of oddball obstacles. The opening may be slow, but as the ocean expands, the theme of connection—literal and figurative—permeates plot and art design alike, culminating in the eerie/epic climax I’ve come to love from Mario RPGs. For as long as it’s been in their joint moniker, the bond between these plucky plumbers has rarely been explored by their games. As a sibling myself, I was elated to see what makes these bros so super finally honored.

Circa Y2K, a certain template came to be associated with games that were, in the parlance of the period, “very Japanese”: garish, absurd, juvenile, and only occasionally profitable. In hindsight, how Westerners regarded these imports could be… dicey, but through said window of opportunity tumbled Katamari Damacy—and thank the King of All Cosmos for that! Once Upon a Katamari knows its strengths, and they’re the same as two decades ago: charmingly blocky visuals, an exuberant soundtrack, and the perpetual dark comedy of effectively becoming an apocalyptic dung beetle. A time-travel premise keeps environments more varied than ever, though, and a few quality-of-life improvements make navigation a breeze (comparatively; you’re still steering a sphere). From the opening notes to when credits literally roll, it’s a crazy yet cozy joy. What can I say—I had a ball!

It’s one thing to make a game beautiful, it’s another to make it entertaining to play, not just to watch. Many of my favorites (including some to follow) succeed at both, but few have that formula on lock like Giant Squid, whose unions of art director Matt Nava and composer Austin Wintory birth some of the most breathtaking play-centric experiences around. In 2025, they followed up ABZÛ and The Pathless with another game about a lithe loner speedily restoring life to a desolate realm… but this time, you can do sick tricks. “X-Games meets Journey” shouldn’t work; that it does is a testament to the creativity it takes to sculpt what could be just another pensive platformer into something unforgettable.

Skate Story - IGN

Is there an echo in here? Perhaps, but I think this artful, alliterative sports sim is even better than the last. Whereas Sword of the Sea tends to literally coast on its association with spiritual sisters, Skate Story embraces the spooky yet silly flavor for which Devolver Digital is known. Thrust into the Vans of a “demon made of glass and pain,” you just want to sate your hunger but must descend through an urban, bureaucratic Underworld to do so… trusty board in hand. Developer Sam Eng has crafted a katabasis as rebellious as its protagonist, where cutscenes bleed and glimmer into the letterbox, and poetry pours forth alongside ollies and kickflips. This is radical folklore, the “Haunted PS1” ethos applied to another now-nostalgic genre, infectious soundtrack/stunt-centric speedways and all. Take away my Millennial card if you wish, but I never got into Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater—now, I’m counting the minutes until I can grind those hellish curbs once more.

At any game trailers showcase, it’s tempting to say “take a shot every time you’re a guy with a sword,” but I’d hate to encourage binge drinking. Lots of trends have their hooks in mainstream gaming, not all of which welcome stories with different stars or settings. As such, South of Midnight—the rare Xbox semi-exclusive, as Microsoft shuffles off their console-war coil—was a unique delight: a story-driven action game about women of color with lore, looks, and music steeped in the Deep South. You’re still traversing otherworldly environs and slashing baddies to clear up supernatural gunk, sure—certain boxes were always going to be checked for a release this relatively high-profile. From its catfish companion to its compassionate conclusion, however, this remains a gorgeous tale of uncommon empathy and flair.

It was a dark joke for a while how little Konami seemed to value one of its flagship franchises, relegating a pillar of survival horror to skate decks and pachinko parlors. More recently, however, the publisher has thought twice, and after overseeing a laudable SH2 redo, 2025 was the year they pressed F to pay respects. Gone is the American Anytown of preceding entries, replaced with postwar rural Japan and a cast of schoolchildren, and yet—expanded combat and inventory aside—the series has returned to its roots as deeply as the bloody blooms polluting our heroine’s hometown. The mist, the mystery, the nightmarish knowledge that something is very wrong even as you must trudge forward: it’s all here, in service of a dive into the psyche of a teenage girl which makes the title stand out despite that lower case (there’s a reason this isn’t Silent Hill m). As ever, can’t promise I’ll do another run just to get a better ending, but this descent into madness left a deep mark on me all the same.

My thumb hurts. I started thinking that after only a few hours of Doom: The Dark Ages, which was only a few hours from its end (inevitable DLC pending). I still wanted more. This is not a thinking man’s game: at least on “Normal,” enemies telegraph attacks with intersection-sized light shows, and—unlike its predecessor’s resource-slim fracases—a pocket armory means the only thing you’ll see less than an empty magazine is a square inch unsplattered with guts. Ignore the metalhead storytelling if you please, then, but the animal excitement of charging into battle remains, this time across missions which range from medieval to Lovecraftian. Equipped with a buzzsaw shield that’s part Captain America, part Marcus Fenix, the Doomslayer has never been more aptly named, while dragon-riding segments infuse the wide-linear levels with welcome aerial variety. Also, this game contains the coolest image ever depicted, in any visual format: fist-fighting Cthulhu, in a mech, in Hell. God of War may no longer be with us, but in carrying on its gory yet gleeful irreverence, Doom reigns eternal.

Is Bloober Team in their redemption era? Unlike some critics, I never begrudged the studio for honoring their influences, but there’s no denying Bloober got big off the backs of any horror game that wasn’t nailed down. In Cronos, that template is Dead Space with a dash of Control, and yet the result is a trippy, traumatic downward spiral greater than the sum of its goopy parts. Cast as “The Traveler,” your armor may shine, but you’re no knight—what few survivors remain cower at your approach, and the world may not be worth saving. Fights are grueling, checkpoints scarce, but for hearkening back to Aughts shooters in aesthetics as much as tone, the difficulty’s only fitting. More than any satisfying headshot, the curiosity to find out what happened to this ruined alt-80’s Poland and why kept me stomping forth (hint: social distancing remains prudent). It’s alien yet human, grotesque yet enthralling, and rife with the moral quandaries that great sci-fi presents. And if you die, don’t worry… just try again. Such is our calling.

Once you’ve made a game about a canned fetus helping you throw pee grenades at interdimensional ghosts for Guillermo del Toro… how, exactly, do you follow up? For professional geek Hideo Kojima, the answer was—ironically—more of the same. Death Stranding 2 is, by some margin, the safest the rock-star dev’s ever played it: same doomsday DoorDashing, same rush of thumbs-uping holograms as you pop wheelies over rocky terrain, even another subplot about getting sucked into warfare against spooky skeletons and a mysterious man from your past. To say Death Stranding saved my life would only barely be exaggeration, so in truth, DS2 did leave me wanting more—and, in its newfound trigger-happiness, wanting less. Compared to peers, though, even average Kojima is still a top-fiver! The ethereal playlists, the lifelike graphics, Troy Baker (hello again!) chewing enough scenery to injure his jaw, the Yoji Shinkawa art design making it clear this dude really just wants another Metal Gear… it’s a lot, and not all of it works. If you’re out, I get it—but if you’re in, keep on keepin’ on.

In 2010, in ostensible lead-up to that year’s big Wii release, Nintendo announced a pending trademark for “it’s on like Donkey Kong.” Stay classy, guys. Still, the phrase didn’t accrue value out of nowhere—owing to his villainous origins (and existing history of legal action), DK was a uniquely violent mascot before Mario or even Wario started throwing hands. In that spirit, Donkey Kong Bananza sees DK barreling out of hiatus and through the planet itself without missing a (jungle) beat, for a whole new spin on the collectathon. Games have explored terrain deformation before, but how thoroughly Bananza commits to the bit(s) makes every level a literal sandbox of colorful chaos. Punching one’s way through a nod back to King Kong’s Hollow Earth would be a pleasure enough, but—petite Pauline in tow—there’s endearing banter, DJ interludes, and countless side objectives to keep the good vibes going. Joycons equipped, I dare you to spend five minutes in this great ape’s necktie and not walk away with sweaty palms, craving crunchy bananas. The console may have launched with Mario Kart World (meh), but in reminding us what exhilarating wonders The Big N can still muster when they apply themselves, this is the Switch 2’s killer app.

When you leave your twenties, so kids say, you’re washed—cooked, chopped, probably some other state that doubles as a baking verb. It can be good for a laugh, the occasional meme riffing on mortality’s unyielding march. But what if it was true? What if, once you hit 33, you died—not just died, but turned into flowers, becoming a memorial to your own grave never to be dug? Last year, that cap was 34; next year, it’ll be 32. Do you see a pattern?

That’s where Expedition 33 starts. Where it goes is both a showcase of and tribute to every act of creation that makes life worth living: fashion, painting, acting, writing, singing, dancing, and yes, playing games. Teeth cut at Ubisoft, the upstarts of Sandfall Interactive take the stylish turn-based combat of Persona 5 out of high school and into high fantasy, for an epic adventure across lands influenced by French culture yet teeming with engrossing characters and magic all their own. E33 is a spectacle without question, particle effects absolutely going off as you lob spells and frisson-inducing parries at monsters. More than any glossy cinematic, though—and even despite undeniable flaws (some odd HUD omissions, and get outta here with Gestral challenges)—it’s the little things that moved me most. A “we” before the standard “continue” on your post-battle summary. A buff, granted by an ailing boss, that makes you wonder whose side you should be on. The story of a party member’s scar, hidden behind fearless eyes and campfire conversation. A death, sudden and undeserved, with others to follow.

Live long enough, and you’ll face grief. Tragedy. Loss. In those moments, it’s tempting to want to shut down, to retreat into a special place where everything’s okay. As a child, that place was some of the first games I ever played, RPG classics like Dragon Quest and Chrono Trigger. To meet E33 at the titular age was coincidence on my part, but it still feels meaningful, like the medium that raised me coming back to teach new lessons. Heading into 2026, the biggest dream Clair Obscur (and, with luck, more entries under that banner) presents is a society where people care about future generations. But fantasies can educate us, inspire us to make the implausible inevitable. This world isn’t going to save itself—it’s up to us. But not just for us. For those who come after.

Poem of the Week: “Cornell Scraps”

Apologies for the lack of a poem last week! I had finals… and given the topic and scope of this piece, I decided it needed to wait a touch longer anyway.

Ever since high school, I’ve habitually taken notes. On what? Well… everything. Potential story ideas. Interesting quotes, overheard or imagined. Goofy puns or jokes. Rap lyrics. Concepts for inventions, videogames, and experimental art exhibits. 90% of the time, I have no idea what if any writing I’ll use them in. But, given the fleeting fallibility of memory, I’d always rather jot/type something down and never use it than forget it and be hard up for imagery or snappy dialogue later!

When I moved to Ithaca in 2013 for law school, I started a separate dedicated document just called “Life Scraps.” Later, I renamed it “Cornell Scraps.” Now, with graduation mere days away, I decided to really reflect on these random moments and musings for the first time. In so doing, I saw the potential for a substantial poem. And so, out of what I realized had become forty-odd pages of grievances, late-night confessionals, and idiosyncratic one-offs, I selected and abridged or expanded the most striking lines to produce this.

It’s long, disjointed, and may not make much sense, even by the end. But, for better or worse, that was the last three years!

3years

Three years of Ithaca being gorge-ous.

Cornell Scraps

 

I.

 

Outside my dorm window,

something chitters—cicada or sprinkler.

A bird call like a quick firework’s chirp.

An odor—either paint or rotten apples.

The common room, humid, smells of spirits, aflitter with tiny flies—

but at least they got the best Die Hards.

Cutlery comes and goes from the communal kitchen, like artifacts

passing through some high-tuition Bermuda Triangle.

 

At the dean’s home, a broken basketball backboard

heralds our class’s arrival at the drive.

Crickets congregate about white windowed reception tents,

drooping like jeans over hand-me-down dress shoes.

 

I’d moved in with optimistic discontent but,

walking ‘cross the gorge some evening next,

I felt a great emptiness within, as if

my life were a blurry eye, a voice gone hoarse mid-song,

as clouds closed over tentative night like a flowerbud.

And on weekdays, sudden bouts of belonging

fell swift to chronically displaced dissatisfaction.

I can’t stand Greek Row, but maybe I just lament not having a veranda

and roof to climb onto.

 

Mixer time. At the club,

the floor glows crime-scene UV;

it’s an arms race of debauchery,

and our livers are the battleground.

The nightly grind, never to mind by sunrise.

And that’s just the first week.

 

Fall’s descent brings sticky heat.

Thunder stutters, God

dragging a desk across concrete clouds.

Rain wreaks streaks, plasters the parking lots.

Inside sounds nice, but at a cramped laptop

my hopes are notes on a napkin, crumpled in anticipation

until the words blur to abstraction and all I have are withered strips

with no addressee.

 

Now, not saying class bored me, but I once wondered in one

what guy piled all that bread in a truck for the “We Can’t Stop” video.

Because my soundtrack is Skrillex and Joe Hisaishi,

for a romance with Holly Golightly meets the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,

dressed to the nine-point-fives by Hot Topic and Watson-Kennedy.

So I start to love going to sleep, because that’s the only time

I don’t dream. Rest unassured,

this head is not a pleasant place to be:

strung out on caffeine, blind ambition, and unrequited love,

my brain needs icing down.

I want to live life at the speed of verse—because of course

I would never kill myself. Not when this world still has synthpop,

Emma Watson, POG juice, butterflies,

and the tone it makes when you strike a tuning fork.

But with bedhead that’s passed “restless cop”

and “wacky high school sidekick” straight to “Goku,”

the rock-fountain trickle of my Brita refilling is a bit Sisyphean.

Life’s path feels like a backward shirt: it fits, but something’s off.

 

Winter waxes,

broken pie-crust tire treads in the snow,

and icicles dangle like fangs from parked cars.

Chinese takeout splays across the sidewalk like collapsed partygoers,

disgorging frozen neon pips.

Green signs glare down the halls: “QUIET: EXAMS IN PROGRESS.”

Still, I get to know a gal at the post office

through the letters I send and tees I test.

Granted, it didn’t last—like a bad twist ending,

she was out before a month.

But don’t worry, hon. Some day you will be in New York

and everything will be awesome.

 

Nevertheless, anger breaks in waves—a planned impulse

—and from the crest I see the smooth sailing of adolescence

giving way to rougher waters of adulthood.

Predator or prey, adaption matters, and this ecosystem is more concerned

with cardigans, judicial interns, and Friday night shots

than Spider-Man, postmodernism, and riffing on Xbox One.

And if the girls don’t have their nose up in the air, it’s down in a book.

Resistant, I might’ve cried my vice is beauty, but

after a brief reflection that turned into a soul-search,

contemplating complimenting the strikeouts with Your free time is a lucky guy,

I put passion on a pedestal so high I couldn’t even see it.

Like standing with my back to a chasm, I know

some comfort awaits, biding time in a peripheral vision,

but if I don’t turn and look then it can’t entrance me.

 

But now that backwards shirt is just outgrown,

because setting my own standards isn’t productive—

it’s a tarred-feather coat of doubtful guilt.

An apologist’s résumé: I may have a 3.49 GPA,

but I clean out the sink after I drain the pasta.

Planning exodus from the land of milk and honey

to the land of wine and awkward small talk.

Sometimes I say things just so they’ll die from exposure to air.

With every new social circle drawn, I promise

I won’t be the neurotic guy again,

but finals week makes liars of us all.

 

Body of a jock, brain of a geek, soul of a goth,

schedule of a preppie, dreams of a hippie—I got this.

In NYC, there’s a leaky halal truck towed ‘round the corner,

plastered with an ad for the Heathers musical,

and washed-out, outdated tabloids stock the sides of sidewalk kiosks.

Of my Manhattan Madame I’ve said enough, except that

I don’t mind putting things on the back burner

as long as they weren’t smoking hot.

Sharing sleep and little else, I think of stupid things

to untremble my muscles.

I think of running out of bed

and lying against the wall of the ground-floor grocery store in my boxers.

I think of punching a brick wall.

I think of riding a bike into a fence, rolling over, and playing dead.

It’s like attraction is a garage door opener: enough distance,

and the signal just stops working.

So I can’t wait to go back;

there’s nothing left for me here but one-way sexual tension and dog barks.

 

II.

 

A leaf drags down the street, as if pulled by invisible string from a car ahead.

Flow but no focus:

I still haven’t seen The Muppets Movie, I think

from the back of a reproductive rights panel.

Got a formal text tonight—better put on my dress grammar.

But first, I have to drain complacency like a wound.

All my flights of fancy are in a holding pattern, or grounded outright.

At least, I’ve lost the ability to tell

how much intimacy between my peers is tongue-in-cheek.

I tell myself I won’t live as a dependent clause,

but irony is gonna play hell on archaeologists.

I worry the Internet turns the world into a circle of paranoid, passive potheads

dreaming in dark rooms.

We are hot dog culture: gross and ground-up, but easy to digest.

I’ve got this game I play where I try to see

how many people on Facebook won’t talk to me.

It’s up in the dozens, and I feel like

earlier in life was the film, and now’s just weathering credits

‘til the reel runs out.

 

Going back to sleeping alone is like reverting to DVD from Blu-Ray.

My heart is an open offer

but my grudges have half-lives, and

there’s nothing less interesting than beautiful people complaining.

So it’s fun wondering what I’ll look back on as so simple about this,

especially when true love is like a UFO: you don’t hear about it as much

now that everyone’s got smartphones.

If only I, Inception-like, could just spontaneously be talking to someone.

Until then, I identify as Straight But Not Applying It.

 

All of my takes are double-takes;

I think I’m developing smirk lines

from parties (or, “going friend-fishing”).

I’d say I felt like an empty seat, but people sit by those.

 

Snow floats in whips and whirls, confetti in a quiet blender.

A girl argues with a guy on a porch overlooking a shore of Solo cups—

well-lit, dramatic,

a Disneyland dark-ride of campus life.

Me, moving on is Indy trying to swipe the idol: I gotta really think it over,

and if the replacement’s not the same weight, then bring on the emotional boulder.

So no, Buzzfeed, don’t tell me what my new favorite video is.

Don’t tell me who to hate.

Don’t tell me to nod politely at X times Y celebrity was more interesting than me.

This godlike technology is for education, entertainment—not building new wings

in my inferiority complex.

 

No, I want love like TV seasons.

Maybe it’s The Simpsons: on for decades, haters be damned.

Maybe it’s Firefly: a brilliant idea snuffed out in its prime.

Let’s make it a competition to see who can miss the other the most.

And hey, who do you think buys all those nightmares their daydream dresses?

At the least, someone in this subway, statistically, has to have nudes online.

 

Topside, sirens blurp like the Lord flicking water

beneath the trapezes of power lines.

I could admit I’m not confident, and you won’t mind

out loud—but the thought will still seep in, like a leaky pipe under an abandoned flat,

and I’m recycling-bound like To Current Resident.

If talk is cheap, then revenge fantasies are seashells and bottle caps,

so while I can’t act, I’m quite comfortable shouting in crowded rooms.

Trying to find the right song to unfriend old crushes to

while I move through Zeno’s Breakup:

Music for revoking any fucks previously given,

in tune with the phases of the mood.

Earbud cord peeks between my jeans and shirt like a spiritual insulin kit.

Balance doesn’t always mean staying in the middle;

it depends how heavy each side is.

 

Electric beats thumping out of a juice bar,

people staring at supercomputers,

glass skyscrapers soaring into the clouds…

Ever finally feel you’re living in the future?

Only this era, we’re building the meteor and bringing it down ourselves.

Everyone in my News Feed is closing deals, posing with koalas,

or bungee golfing in Antarctica, and I’m just taking a stroll, thinking

about how weird it is that Scooby-Doo had a laugh track.

 

My patience is the Earth’s crust: it’s thick, but crack it

and there’s nothing but ten thousand miles of fire.

I want to be a monitor, not a processor, never mind that

I once tried to avoid eye contact with a cardboard cutout.

Fluent in fantasy, my brain is a perpetual motion machine

that runs like The Hobbit: fast and distracting, but only ‘cause it’s closer to reality.

And yet my unfinished business as a ghost would probably just be watching

all the videos I bookmarked in undergrad and forgot about.

 

III.

 

The blood moon eclipse.

An aged penny if good,

a molding peach if bad.

Not even the cosmos gets me decisive.

I decided to make all the things I say worth saying

slowly, but I’m still making my goal a worst-case scenario.

 

Something went wrong, somewhere, in the past,

but it wasn’t just me.

Part me, part world, part my reaction to both.

Like short sheets trying to fit a frayed mattress:

pushing, pulling, coming off

at one corner for want of fitting another, never realizing

until I felt for its opposite and found it bare.

Or waking up to tatters beneath me, thinking it so secure the night before.

 

The rain was light yet thick, like falling mist,

suffusing streetlights with amber halos.

Another bar tab not bothered with.

They’re not even interesting assholes, they’re just boring assholes.

 

I lied when I said I’d rather die than do the same job forever,

I think. It just felt good to sound determined by choice for once,

because I need to make things—with my hands,

not my mouth and wallet.

And whether it’s an international bestseller

or the popsicle stick castle that went to shit in fourth grade,

it exists.

Substance.

Fighting back against entropy.

 

So what can you create today

that wasn’t there yesterday,

and that you’ll be proud of tomorrow?

Savoring the world is priceless like a funeral.

Good memory, bad memory—it’s still just a memory.

Not made but replayed,

and in three years,

I’ve repeated enough for a lifetime.