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A terrible force stalks the wilds of Peregrin, unseen but inescapable, its shadow falling across every beautifully weathered nugget of wasteland art. No, I'm not talking about the demonic Guardians you'll face as you sift through the wreckage of yet another extinguished civilisation. No, I'm not talking about the playable character, Abi - a young woman with a long scarf, a big stick and the ability to possess other creatures, on a mission to appease the gods responsible for the devastation. I'm talking about the script. It just won't leave you alone. To enter an area, approach any striking object, or even just cross the middle of the screen in Peregrin is to risk attracting the attention of either the narrator or a radio contact back home.It's not just that the prose itself is slightly dreary fantasy hokum - I have an inhumanly high tolerance for this kind of thing. It's that the writing actively gets in your way, moment to moment. Sometimes the narration is just utterly redundant, describing things like doors opening or lights changing colour in a manner more befitting of a funeral oration. This grows worse when the narrator has to vocalise certain events repeatedly, like when somebody calls you on your comms unit. A buzzing tone would have done the job just fine, but here we are with such ornamental overtures as "the crackle of an incoming signal pierces the silence".
Worst of all are the moments when the game tries to dictate your emotional responses to the landscapes you traverse, stealing thunder from its own, nicely wintry art direction and languorous orchestral score. "Seeing the twisted metal and torn earth before her sends a shudder down her spine," the narrator observes at one point, as you're trying to take in the view. It's like being on holiday with that one over-eager family member who insists on yelling "isn't this nice?" whenever there's a lull in conversation. OK dad, how about you go get the sandwiches and we'll see you on the other side of the beach?
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