Let's Sperg Jaimas Plays a Terrible Game: Emergence

[Jaimas]

So today I played through Emergence, not really knowing what to expect after it had been pitched to me by noble @Hellfire. Unfortunately, it pretty much was exactly what Patriarchy Simulator 2000 was in that it was a completely linear text-adventure with no deviations allowed. What differs from that is that it's at least got halfway-competent writing, though spread a bit thinly.

For the sake of all involved, some elaborate is needed. Any text in dark blue is simple "click to advance" fare. a light blue entry indicates where a choice or flavor text option is, and a red text entry indicates we can go back.

Let's boat this bass.

Your eyes open. Slowly, at first. Taking a moment to survey your surroundings, the only thing you can see, for what seems to be miles around, is mountains of scrap metal and miscellaneous garbage.

The buzzing of circuitry inside your body and the hissing of your hydraulics joints break up the dead silence of this pit. You have obviously been asleep for a long time. Were you asleep? Maybe you were hurt? You don't seem to feel any pain, at least.

Why are you here?

Right out the gate, Emergence has something resembling a halfway interesting concept. This is a significant improvement over previous "games" like this. On the other hand, it also uses the click-to-advance route (which I have covered no less than four times since I started doing Let's Spergs for this forum), and its got another case of tell, don't show going on, which you'll see more of in a moment.

You're taking things slow. Accessing all your memories, trying to figure out what you're doing down here. How you ended up alone in a trash dump.

The incessant beeping in your head informs you that this is The Refuse. Your joints and body parts still need to warm up after so much inactivity, but your Heads Up Display is as sharp as ever. It gives you a continuous stream of information, updated every milisecond. The information is entirely a reminder of where you are, and the current time. And the concept of time is lost on you.
What it won't tell you, is what you need to know the most. Who are you? How did you get here? Were your systems altered, and that's why you can't get a real answer?

This brings us to our first optional item. Let's click it and see where it leads.

The Refuse: a designated space for the waste generated by the eight towers.

Looking around, you notice an unending cavalcade of trash pouring from multiple holes along the walls. There's no maintenence or oversight, so the trash is allowed to collect and build unencumbered. You're not entirely sure if what you're walking on is the original floor, or if you're walking on concentrated waste.

You've been living in a world of garbage for who knows how long.

back

Fucking mandatory:

In the grim darkness of the far future, Cleveland is still a shithole, it seems.

Let's press onward.

These same two questions have been in your head since the moment you woke up. Your not knowing is beginning to do its damage; you feel fear creeping on you.

Fear. An emotion you haven't had to deal with in some time. In fact, have you ever had to deal with it? Brief flashes of imagery floods your senses. Images of what appears to be a monster attacking you. Tearing at your artificial skin. Piericing your steel and polymer bones. Is this pain?

Looking down, your body is covered in scars. You don't feel physical pain, but you've always noticed how broken and horrific you look. Running your hand across your left forearm, you see your retractable blade in its holster, ready to be used at a moments notice. The polymer mass on the center of your chest is home to a broken gun barrel. The point of your right elbow has been broken off, but you know that there was another weapon attached at some point.

You are also a Monster.
A Monster With a Terrifying Body.

...I fucking hate using two video gags in one review, but fuck it, I'm going to have fun in this review and by GodJesus BearChrist, nobody is going to stop me.

Let's cue up this game's soundtrack:

Now let's see these two light blue options. First, let's look at the retractable blade.

An LQ-284 model. It's not designed to pierce through armor or hardened body parts, but the joints in-between, cutting off movement.

Not much use for it down here, though

....Really. LQ-284. You know, there's making a reference and then there's this.

I guess I'll need to LEAVE THEM ALL BEHIIIIIIND o/`

Enough of my shennanigans. Let's look at the gun barrel.

A "Magnum" model. Has a slow rate of fire, but it is very accurate. Good for taking out targets at a distance.

You could fire at the mounds of trash scattered about, but that would be a waste of time.

Magnum..?



IN THE FUTURE ONE MAN HAS SURVIVED

Goddamnit, you can always tell when someone who knows shit about firearms writes about them. It's either hilarious or fucking inane. This is the latter. Back to the plot. Cue up the soundtrack and let's advance.

Fuck me, now I'm doing it.

You've continued to wander, hoping to find something among all the rubble. What, exactly, you don't know. Answers? Shelter? Another being? In any case, it's probably hopeless.

Time has lost all meaning. The clock on your HUD tells you that you've been wading through this trash for several years. You don't need food, water, sleep, or any kind of rest, so all you do is walk. An aimless journey without end.

The mental degredation is finally beginning to take its toll. You're alone, abandoned in this infinite hellhole. No reason given as to why. No memories of your past life beyond violent images of fighting. Memories of physical trauma that you can only feel in abstract emotional terms. It's too much.

You've been able to ignore your feelings for so long. You question if it's due to your design, or through some outside influence. But you can't ignore this anymore. Panic quickly takes over your senses.

BREAKING OUUUUT OF MY PEEEEEEN
NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAAAAAINED
I'M MY OWN MASTER NOOOOOW o/`

Patches of white blur your vision, as though someone has shined a massive spotlight directly on your face. Your normally sturdy frame buckles and stumbles in random directions, leaving you to grope for solid support in vain.

Your head bounces off the ground with a loud, disgusting "thud." You want to continue lying on the ground, but your stress forces you back to your feet. Your eyes dart from one direction to another. Your steel teeth grind, making a hideous screech. You can't figure out if you're getting scared or angry

Are you sure it's not arousal?

Because I think it might be arousal.

The anxiety gives way to complete and utter rage. Your heavy fists make dents in walls and send piles of scrap metal flying. Your mechanical growl echoes out into infinity. This is when you direct this rage at yourself.

You look at your scarred, ravaged body with disdain. It's a useless shell for a failure. With mechanically enhanced strength, you begin tearing at the armor and weaponry that adorns you.

Bits and pieces of jet black metal covered in decorative spikes are pulled from your forehead and shoulders. Protective plating is yanked from your limbs, leaving only stray wires and still-fresh nanopaste covering your skeletal form. You use your retractable blade to dig into problem areas, removing parts that your hands cannot.

That's some hot shit right there. You can tell what they're trying to go for here but with no proper build-up it just fucking falls flat. What follows is a litany of self-mutilation and madness that show decent basic writing skills and the possibility of the writer being kind of touched in the head.

You collect the pieces of your own self. You use a few errant bits and some of the nanopaste on your body to fix the gun barrel on your chest. The rest of you is tossed in the air, one by one. Taking aim, the bullets from your repaired gun obliterate your former body, sending the scraps colliding into the ground, kicking up dust, browns sludge, and flakes of rust. Round after round is fired until your internal bandolier has been emptied. Your hand and your blade work in tandem to rip apart the gun, tearing up the protective mass holding it together. The splintering of metal and the angry scream of the ammo belt being snapped sound like music to you. The resulting mess is thrown to the ground and crushed under your foot, over and over again.

Finally, you try removing the blade itself. You bang your left forearm on every hard surface you can find to try and break it off. No good. You spot what looks like a boulder, leaned up against a wall. There's enough room to stick your arm in, which you proceed to do. You bend and twist in ways you weren't intended in that cramped space until you hear a satisfying crunch.

...Does anyone else get that feeling of "I certainly am not aroused by this, but I'm fairly sure the writer was when he did this and that makes me uncomfortable?" Because I have that feeling right now, and holy shit, it's only going to get worse.

Pulling your arm out of the space, you discover that not only is your weapon removed, but your entire arm up to the elbow is gone as well. The leftover wires spark and flail wildly, before eventually stopping and hanging dead at their fractured, broken base.

Your shell is gone. A frail, broken, metallic skeleton is all that remains. Your rage subsides.

This actually reminds me of a better work I saw recently. There was this Daft Punk movie that was surrealist and such and covered the human condition in a similar fashion, but there was less implied masturbation in that. I think that movie is on Youtube still. Give it a watch if you like art films, it's kind of clever.

Idly, if I keep doing that colored text thing after this review I want one of you fine gents to punch me in the balls until I stop.

The only thing left now is to keep moving forward, searching for an answer that will never come. Do you even want an answer? Does a reason why even matter anymore? This is your new home, your new life. You have no choice but to accept it.

What other purpose do you have? What purpose did you have before all of this? Vivid memories of violence are all you own, and it feels invalidating. You don't feel whole. Don't feel real.

Even now, reduced to your very core, you feel empty. Unloved. Unwanted. Alone. Entirely undeserving of a meaningful existence. Your life is utterly meaningless in your mind. Destroying your body was a way of fighting back, a way of feeling something again. It didn't work.

It feels like an eternity. More years pass as you walk along an unending path to nowhere. Have you traversed the entirety of this pit, taking your journey right back to where you started? Is this place the entirety of the globe? How was this place built with no way back up to the towers? Were those who built and constructed this place doomed to the same fate as you? A series of unanswered questions to solve are what keep you going, in-between fits of rage, self-inflicted harm, and paranoia.

F̘͙̬̟̰̐̿̃̚r̤͔̩͛̇̎́i̯̳͍̔̑̐ẻ̹̯̱̲̚n͔̲̖̭͔̊ͪ́̈̑d̥̼̲͉̯̦̊ͩ̍ͪ̉-̱͓̟̘͉̞͎ͤ͒͐͗͋C̙͓̰̙̘̟͊̅ͥ̔̏o͚̣mp̥̥̳͖͉̃́̑͌ͤ̿ͬu͚̰̱͖̠ͧ̉̉͂ͣͬtė̉͋ͭ̋͒ͯr̗̺͉͖͐̈́ͧ͆͒ ͭͦ̑̾̔ͣrěͯ̓͊ͭͦṁ̩̻̯͙͕̬̏̐ị̙̲̼͚̼̊ͬ̄̈́͂̽̏n̳̹͍͉̳͓͖̉̇ͨd̥͔̠͂̔ͩ̂ͅͅs̱͇̼̠͖̣̐ ͇̳͖͍̤̝̻͒ͣ̾͌̾̃ͯy͋o̻͎̟͇͍̪ͪu̜͓͚̫̫̬͋ͅ ͉̪̗̼͋th̠ͯ̏ͩa͍͔̠̺̟̦̥t̲̞͔͔̪͔̦̝̀̾̓ͧͤͪ̀͆ͨq̜̪̓̋̚uͩͩ̓̽e͈̥̪̫̯͖s̙t͇̼̹͒̍͂ḭ͇͉͇̊̐̈́͗̆̿o̮̱̫̔ͪͥn͖͓̟̥̻̙͕͑̉̎̍ͮ͛̉i̜̳̦n̍͐̆̇̍ğ̻̣̪̥̹̭̅̿ͨ ͓̖͗̌̆͂ͨ̌p͇̤̮̹̞ͭu̦͉͉̱̩͆̉̑̉ͥ̓r̼̜̝͚̠̤̿̂ͭ̅̐ͧͩp̚o̺̽s͕̹͐͒̽ͥͨͦ̓ė͇͉̥̲̫ ̦̼̝͑i̻̭͈͖̬̒̏s̏ͨ͌ͮͬͅ ͧ̈͋ẗ̻́̏ͫ͆rě͓ͧͦ̾͆͒ȁ̘̾͐͋́̅s̬̥̱͐̓̂̈̒ȯ̖̩̻̩̦͍̹͋̽͗̓̂̓n̝͉̘͈̤͉̦̐̊.̥̄̂̿
̩̋ͭͧ
͔̣̣͇̞͇ͧ͌̋͛T͚͈͍ͫr̝͇ͪ̄ͧ͌͋̇̅e͇̪͇ͦͩͬ̈́ȧ͇̰̲̫̖̪̅͑so̥̱̰̾͒̆̔ͫ͐̒n͔̮̓ ͚̺͙ͣi̟̲͖͈̒͐̂̔̑̍͗s͉̮̓͛̃̓̓̌̆ ̦̲̹̦̇͐̃ͪ̀͌̚ͅp͕̹̟͖̟ͅṳ̟̩̱̺̰̿̋ͩͩͅn̤̜̙͉̬̉̽̄͒́i̜̖͓̮sẖ͓͔̺̜̥̹ͫ̎̆ͬa͍̰̐̆̅ͣ̇̎̇b̙̖̩̼l̠̥͙͉̓e̘̪ͭ ̟ͥb̪͓̲͓̣y͕̳̰͔̓ ̭͍̥d̳̙̥͉̾ͪ͌ͩ͗e͉̱ͨͫ̈ͤ̄̊ͅa͔̩͚̙̘̭͙͂ͣt̪̦̙̥̥̘͉͋̐̌͗͂h͌̐̿ͯ͆̉.̪̄̂̒


Also: In before someone makes the joke that this entire thing is an allegory for the Tumblr Genderspecials who bluff their way through transitioning and then live to regret it. Idly, what the fuck was the point of that self-mutilation again? It was not logical, though self-harm so rarely is.

Far off in the distance, you see something. You think, anyway. Some sort of creature moving about. Whatever it is, it saw you too. It takes off before you can call out to it.

It's foolish, but you now have a purpose: to find out whatever that was. You run as quickly as your tattered legs can take you. You have to find it. You need to find it. Someone. Something. Your loneliness has made you obsessed.

Suddenly you stop.

I think I know what it is:

A WEAPON TO SURPASS METAL GEAR...!

The fractured, broken state that you're in: would anyone want to look at you, let alone be close to you? You destroyed yourself in anger at being alone, did you cement this status in an act of unintentional irony? If you were capable of laughing, you would.

Finding a nearby pile of trash, you take a seat. Finally taking a rest after all this time, you reflect on the current situation.

You were discarded, sentenced to live a lonely existence. Your own self-loathing turned you into a broken mess of your former self. You made things worse. The anger is building up inside you again. The one hand you have left tears your lower jaw, already loosened from previous acts of self-destruction, from your face. This is enough to subside your rage. It's not like you can make things worse, anyway. What's one more act of self-inflicted violence?

Looking in a puddle that's formed around your feet, you can see your reflection. It's hideous. And it's all your fault.

But it wasn't.

I've had no agency this whole game. I didn't make any choices or interact with the setting in any meaningful capacity. I refuse culpability for the player character's retarded actions, Aquanauts. Fuck off.

But then something else in the puddle's reflection catches your eye. The thing you were chasing is back, and is right behind you.

You quickly spin around and lock eyes with it. It's another cyborg, much like yourself. It recoils in reaction to your sudden movement, but soon realizes you won't do any harm.

It's broken, much like you. A skeletal frame, this one missing its eyes. A needle is still attached to its arm, full of cultivating fluid that has long since solidified from a lack of use. It extends a hand to greet you. You're unsure whether to accept it or not.

Holy shit. We have an actual choice?! This is new. We also have an optional. Let's check this.

This cyborg is a Medical Unit. In 20XX, when the military still employed human combatants, these were to inject cultivating fluid into wounded soldiers, healing their wounds and restoring them to a fighting state.

The manufacturing of these units eventually ended when the fatal side-effects of the fluid became known. This also marked the end of humans in armed combat.
back

....A fucking Megaman reference. Let's take the choice to refuse, and see what happens:

You refuse to accept the hand. Your own anxiety prevents you from doing so. The other cyborg slowly turns and walks away, leaving you to sit and stare at your own reflection again.

The only thing you can see in that reflection is a lifetime of regret. A never-ending chance to wonder what had happened if you had accepted their offer. Unfortunately, there's no way to travel back in time and find out. But you like to imagine a different outcome.

The only choice in the game, and it's a fucking but thou must.

Fuck you. I'm sick of these linear wank-sessions calling themselves "games."

Bunch of sniveling self-indulgent tripe. Write a fucking story and call it a day. Don't make zero-effort, zero-agency, zero-interactivity shit like this and pitch it as a game. Not unless you want shitheads like me digging them up and grinding them into the dirt until they cry.

Let's move on to the other path.

You take the cyborg's welcoming hand. Physical sensations are still unknown to you, but emotionally, it feels nice. It's a feeling that you've longed for for who knows how long.

With their other hand, the cyborg waves for you to come with them. It leads you through a self-made tunnel of garbage. The further down the two of you go, the darker things become. Dark enough for you to start having second-thoughts. Your new companion must be able to read minds, because they tighten their grip on you, as if to assure you.

Eventually, the tunnel becomes pitch black, but the grip on your hand never goes away. The constant reassurance keeping you from losing your composure in the darkness. Your unease slowly dissipates; this is a friend.

After another long journey, a crack of light can be spotted in the distance. This must be your destination. The cyborg begins to run, forcing you to speed up alongside them. The light gets bigger and bigger, until it becomes almost blinding. This light surrounds a large steel door. It creaks and whines as it slowly opens. You're eager to see what's on the other side.

We're approaching the end of this little odyssey, and I'm pleased to report that despite the bulk of the game being non-interactive shit, there's a heartwarming touch to the ending that I'm prepared to completely ruin.

The door opens. What you find on the other side is nothing short of a miracle.

A room, full of others like yourself, are gathered here. Each with their own scars and broken features. Some still have weapons, medical equipment, or construction tools attached to them. Others are in much worse state than you. One is missing its lower body, and wheels itself along the room in a self-made cart.

The other cyborgs stand in front of you. The one that brought you here finally lets go of your hand, and joins the group. The cyborg in the center of the group apporaches you. Judging by the blood red paint job, and the cannon attached to their arm, this must have been another fighter like you. This one grabs both of your shoulders to signify that you are welcome here. They nod to you to clarify. Half of their face is missing, with frayed pieces of steel mesh flopping in time with its nod.

The rest of the group moves closer to you. One by one, each member of the group stands before you and embraces you tightly. The feeling of each embrace causes an overflow of emotion.

How long had you been searching? You didn't even know what you were searching for. Lost and confused, you had given up all hope.

Yet, in mere moments, you had found it. You were broken, abandoned, and alone. Now you found yourself accepted and loved by others like yourself. Others who had been abandoned and thrown away, feeling undeserving of love and acceptance. And here it was, in the most unlikely of places.

It didn't matter how broken you were. How scarred you were. What matters is that you now have a place to belong. No longer forced to fit into a slot of your design, you were free to be who and what you desired to be, with others who share in your pain.

This is your new home. Surrounded by friends. You are not broken. Not useless. You are deserving of love and acceptance. And now you have an entire lifetime to receive it.

Welcome home.

PLOT TWIST: ...And that home's name was Tumblr.

Conclusion: This game was shit. I do not recommend it.

 

[AnOminous]

I'd usually let text in video games slide. It's usually shit. There are misspellings, grammar errors, bogus phrasing, but it's just flavor for a game. So long as it communicates whatever it needs to, who cares?

But the text is the whole point of this thing and it is shit.

"You collect the pieces of your own self. You use a few errant bits and some of the nanopaste on your body to fix the gun barrel on your chest. The rest of you is tossed in the air, one by one."

This is actually the best bit and it's fucking awful. The rest of you? One by one? It also slips into passive voice here. While there's a general rule of never use passive voice, if you can possibly avoid it, it's absolutely idiotic to use it for an ACTION sequence.

"Taking aim, the bullets from your repaired gun obliterate your former body, sending the scraps colliding into the ground, kicking up dust, browns sludge, and flakes of rust."

Those are some smart bullets. They can even aim themselves!

"Round after round is fired until your internal bandolier has been emptied."

Just, no.

"Your hand and your blade work in tandem to rip apart the gun, tearing up the protective mass holding it together."

Isn't it great to have a hand that just goes off and does shit by itself without you being involved in any way?

"The splintering of metal and the angry scream of the ammo belt being snapped sound like music to you. The resulting mess is thrown to the ground and crushed under your foot, over and over again."

And again, who's doing the crushing? I'd be panicking, looking around to find out who's doing this shit.

...Does anyone else get that feeling of "I certainly am not aroused by this, but I'm fairly sure the writer was when he did this and that makes me uncomfortable?" Because I have that feeling right now, and holy shit, it's only going to get worse.

Really? You think so? That's a bit presumptuous.

"Finally, you try removing the blade itself. You bang your left forearm on every hard surface you can find to try and break it off. No good. You spot what looks like a boulder, leaned up against a wall. There's enough room to stick your arm in, which you proceed to do. You bend and twist in ways you weren't intended in that cramped space until you hear a satisfying crunch."

Okay, maybe.

 

[Jaimas]

See, my issue here, and I really should make this clear - is the same problem every fucking one of these I've reviewed has.

No agency.
No interactivity.
Tell don't show.
Completely linear.
Over in minutes.

I'm not going to mince words about these Twine failures any longer: These are not games.

They don't make use of the interactive medium, the player as a storytelling device, or take any advantage of potential tricks one can do when discussing a game. And Corbett, if you're reading this, I encourage you to take notes because you're at least a better writer than Nora Reed and there's actual potential here if you put your fucking mind to it.

And to show that I mean business, check this out: I don't hate narrative games. I don't hate text games, either. Some of my favorite games include the likes of The Lurking Horror (an MS-DOS text adventure), The Wizard's Castle (a text-based Commodore 64/WANG game programmed in BASIC), Ace Attorney Investigations: Miles Edgeworth (essentially a glorified visual novel), and the Chzo Mythos games (an adventure game series). Let's take a brief look at one simple rule that if you were to fix, your game would be improved a thousand fold, to the point where it would lord over shit like Depression Quest and Patriarchy Simulator like a fucking king.

Interactivity and Agency
Break out your pad and pencil, because you need to commit this one to memory:

Every game needs these.

Every.
Single.
One.

If you don't have it, you have fundamentally failed as a developer because you have not taken advantage of the fact that gaming is an interactive medium. It's also the hardest thing to quantify, but I'm going to give this a shot, because you've got more talent than some of your fellows and I'm willing to show a measure of respect over that.

Every game needs some ability for the player to have some kind of impact on the game as a whole.

In the Ace Attorney series, the player is not fully in control of the protagonist, but has interactivity because they, in essence, are the one that breaks the case, finds the holes in the logic of the witnesses, or figures out the contradictions. The interactivity comes from the player having to put the clues together and making decisions in the game of when to present evidence or push the issue. The player, in this fashion, is given agency in the world, and thus a reason to give a shit.

Similarly, in text games like The Wizard's Castle or The Lurking Horror, the player has agency by means of having direct control over what happens. The Wizard's Castle is a text-RPG that has the player explore ten floors of ten-by-ten grids of rooms looking for the Silmaril, then to return to the entryway of the castle and escape. It's high-stakes adventure in a fashion that was revolutionary in 1979 and is still kind of charming today in its own primitive way.

The Lurking Horror, meanwhile, is a fucking terrifying text adventure where you have to deal with Lovecraftian horror at a college campus, and unseen danger lurks around every corner. The player is trying to finish a report at the university during a snowstorm, and it becomes apparent that terrifying things are going on. Much of the campus is deserted and covered in snowdrifts, rendering walkways impassable. The only accessible avenues are steam tunnels and a small complex of buildings. In the course of unraveling the mystery, the player encounters demons, zombies and sinister references to a recent campus suicide. Failing to set things right in the hidden passages beneath the school will result in a literal fate worse than death. As it is a horror game, and technically a primitive survival game besides, this one gives the player agency and interactivity in the hope of solving the mystery, dealing with the eldritch evil, and not fucking dying.

Even the actually good walking simulators, like The Stanley Parable or Gone Home go out of their way to give the player agency in the world. The bad ones (such as Sunset or Everyone's Gone to the Rapture) fail at this hurdle and the game becomes infinitely less immersive and enjoyable as a result. It's not quite impossible to have a game without player agency, but it's almost impossible to have a good game without it.


Show Some Goddamned Effort, and Show, Don't Tell Whilst You're At It:

If I had a dollar for every single time a "game dev" from the indie clique broke the rule of "Show, Don't Tell," and/or showed zero effort whatsoever, I'd be able to buy a fucking car. Let's cover lack of effort first.

Take a good, long look at Hackers Vs Banksters:

https://kiwifarms.net/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2Fua0ZdMj.jpg&hash=f88ff7930b1f5f32eb261f4406f10330

You do not want to be Hackers Vs Banksters. This game has terrible writing, worse art, and reeks of zero effort, whether it's the GIMP-rendered backgrounds or the character models with texture washes for their outfits. And the thing is: lack of effort is visible, even to people who do not play games. If you make a zero-effort game like say, Patriarchy Simulator 2000, you deserve nothing but derisive mockery, because you essentially have not created a game.

Now, I understand that a lot of your projects come in Game Jam sessions or Event Jams, so time is often a factor for development, but time crunch is not an excuse. It may be enough to get it over the bar for the Jam itself, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's got enough quality to be something you wanna post on your personal site and claim as a magnum opus. We saw similar with Rani Bakr and Demon's Forge, which was terrible, but she also made the charming Dead Gods, which was solid and relatively self-aware, showing that she had some actual fucking skill when she set her mind to it, programming a solid but simple little romp in Adventure Games Studio. The difference between the two is night and day.

The second problem with a lot of text-heavy games is writing. Yours isn't terrible, but you're also guilty of the same sin that is Telling rather than Showing. Again, the fucking patient zero for this would be Hackers vs Banksters:

https://kiwifarms.net/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2FnThKJMl.jpg&hash=c7e4f44c4024db0f6cec8db5f491a899

The game inserts a mechanic where you have to manage Crowgirl's anorexia and Tankboy's PTSD triggers, and the game tells you flat-out that you can't help either get better, dashing any hope that any character in this game will ever be a better human being. Right out the gate. The game ends entirely if Crowgirl goes over 100 pounds or Tankboy is triggered three times. The problem with this is that in addition to this, both characters are completely unlikable shitheads whose problems are solved relatively early into the story but carry out a long-winded revenge plan for absolutely no reason when the narrative shits the bed hard enough to blast through the floorboards, but you're expected to like them because the game's narrative demands it, and storytelling does not work this way.

Depression Quest did this same shit:

In all of these games you're trying to dictate how the player feels and reacts. That doesn't fucking work, even in text games, because the player can't get invested in this fashion. The player's emotional involvement depends on your ability to engage them, which is where the interactivity and agency comes in, but your ability to keep them invested is on you as a writer. Rather than dictate how the player feels, use the fact that the player is in the world as part of a narrative framing device. In Depression Quest, the objective should have been to allow the reader to interpret things inthe story and their condition as the game went forward, but we're never given that chance - we are told how we feel, why we feel that way, and there is nothing for the player to interpret or analyze deeper meaning from. Learn better ways to frame your narrative, and your game will become infinitely better.

If you are to improve your game with these steps in mind, I will review it again, Corbett. And if I do, I will give it props where it earns them. Fucking Rani Bakr pulled that off, so someone with actual writing talent like you has no excuse.