The Isle of Blackreef is a place where lawlessness and debauchery aren't just welcomed but encouraged. It's caught in a time loop, so the events of any given day have no bearing on the next. At the end of every sex, drug, and alcohol binge-fueled evening, the slate is wiped clean so it can happen all over again. Memories are lost and harm--self-inflicted or done to others--is always undone. Blackreef changed me. It made me behave in a way that's not in my nature. Whether it's Metal Gear Solid, Deus Ex, Splinter Cell, or Dishonored, the role I inhabit is that of a ghost, entering a scenario to achieve an objective and leaving with clean hands and conscience. I'm the pebble thrown into water that makes no ripples.
And yet, in Deathloop, I murdered hundreds of Eternalists and I felt good about doing it. I tried to be true to myself--skulking across rooftops, hiding in dark corners, and carefully moving between people, but the allure of Blackreef's daily absolution was difficult to resist. I watched the first Eternalist I killed dissolve into nothingness, and a message written into the air in some ethereal ink assured me he'd return in the next loop, completely oblivious to what happened. Killing became second nature, and with no consequence why wouldn't it?
The rules of Deathloop's world created an intoxicating sense of liberation, but this leads to the game's central question of purpose: When nothing matters, how do you give your actions meaning? That is where developer Arkane Lyon's gameplay design comes into play, and killing with reckless abandon becomes killing for a reason: to break the loop. The mechanics that govern the world and facilitate your quest to upend it are constructed so masterfully that there's a tangible sense of growth both in-game and out of it. You begin your first day in Blackreef dazed, confused, and incredibly hungover, and end your final one as the unstoppable architect of its demise.
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