Dead Cells

Every few months I cycle back through Dead Cells the way I used to with Super Metroid—convinced the next run will unlock something, find the weapon combo that feels perfect, open a door I’ve been circling. It’s a metroidvania wearing a roguelike’s skin, which sounds like a design document but actually lands. Each run is short enough to feel disposable; the progression—abilities that unlock new paths through the same interconnected world—makes me want another one immediately.

Something about it hits the way Castlevania did when I was learning that hard games didn’t have to be cruel. Dead Cells understands that difference. The world isn’t holding my hand, but it’s not arbitrary either. Multiple paths exist; I pick based on my mood or the weapons I’ve found. That feels like choice instead of luck.

The game borrowed Dark Souls’s skeleton like every game does now—die, lose stuff, memorize patterns—but it did the thing Dark Souls never quite managed: made me want to go again right now instead of three hours from now. The runs are tight. The combat has weight behind it. Secret rooms hide in corners. Passages appear only after I’ve earned the right ability. I’m rewarded for snooping without the game demanding it.

What holds with Dead Cells is that it doesn’t seem to be reaching for anything. It knows what it is: a game about movement and upgrades and finding a passage I didn’t know existed. It’s on every platform by now, which is fine—good games feel the same on any screen.

Putting it alongside the actual classics feels wrong. Those games sit differently. But Dead Cells is the closest anything recent has come to understanding why those games still matter.