Building worlds one commit at a time

Four veteran heroes share a single turn meter and a battlefield that never stops filling. You swap between all four in real time, because every enemy answers to a different hand: arrows for the flyers, a hammer for the heavies, magic for the things nothing else will touch. Choosing wrong isn't death. It's lost time you can't spare. And the crisis swallowing the world? You started it. Now fight your way back through it.

The old creatures are fading because the stories that held them are going quiet. You're brought into a small world stitched together from half-remembered myth, and your work is simple to say and hard to do: keep them alive by keeping them known. Wander its moors, forests, and fog-bound coasts, raise the creatures you find, and let them change in ways you won't fully see coming.

A point-and-click horror about one man, his grief, and a faith that has never been tested like this. There are rooms to search and puzzles to solve, but the real navigation is inward, through depression, doubt, and the things he can't stop praying about. Your choices shape where he ends up, and some of those paths are hard to carry. It wants you to stop and weigh what you're doing, and who it touches.

You don't pick a class. You find one, and then you hand it to someone else. The powers waiting at the shrine are objects: a helm, a pair of gloves, a cap, and whoever puts one on becomes that. Between fights you can strip the whole party down and build a different one. The bandits burning your village are the small problem. The four elemental sites you get sent to afterwards are the large one, and you can take them in any order you like.

You are the last living thing, and you know it. The world has run down to its last quiet, the light is going out of it, and there is still something out there moving. You're certain of that too. So there's ground to cover, shelter to find, and a hunt to finish before the end arrives. The end is in no hurry. It isn't chasing you and it doesn't want anything from you. It's simply coming, and it does not care what you do about it.

A smallholding in the Pennine foothills, and more work in a day than one person can finish. The land comes with rules. Nobody hands them to you: they're in the almanac, the herd book, the marks cut into the beams, and you find them in whatever order the work takes you. Keeping to them costs time you haven't got. Breaking one saves you an hour. That's the whole trap, and the days are getting shorter.

You don't carry a weapon. You carry a kit. Every bit of offense you have, the fire, the bombs, the things you throw, you brew yourself from whatever you can scavenge on the way down. The deeper you push into a dead, geothermal wasteland, the rarer the ingredients and the less forgiving the ground. Every run can be your last, and the recipe that saves you might be one you haven't found yet.

A 1930s the history books skip past. People caught underneath events far bigger than they are, doing what they can at ground level. A grounded action game told from below the headlines, where the stakes are human-sized and the story stays close to the dirt.

A century after the winter that broke Britain, the country is six fractured pieces and nobody's drawing a clear line between them. You move through a ruined open world on foot and by whatever you can get running, across a landscape that's stopped pretending anyone's in charge. There's no front to hold and no safe direction. Survival is just the next problem after the last one.

Death doesn't end things here. You come back, somewhere in a sealed facility, with no memory of how the last attempt went. What carries over is everything the last attempt left behind: the wreckage, the records, the evidence piling up a little more each time. The real question isn't how you get out. It's what this place was built to do, and why nobody is left to answer for it.

You're alone on a dead tanker far out at sea, sharing it with a stone army that only moves when you're not looking. Hold your eyes on them and they freeze. Look away and they close the distance. You won't see it happen; you'll hear it: ceramic dragging over steel, then silence, and the silence is worse. Five points of health, no second chances, and nowhere on the ship left to run to.

There's no faster-than-light out here. Every voyage is a long, deliberate haul across real distance, and the challenge is keeping a ship, its systems, and its crew running far from any help. What a long enough journey does to the people aboard is the real subject: how rank holds or slips, how routine wears thin, how a crew copes with being this far from anywhere. It's exploration measured in patience, and in what the distance asks of everyone making the trip.

Little Bunny's friends didn't show up for school, so Little Bunny sets off to find them. What follows is a bright, bouncy platformer of running, hopping, and puzzle-solving across one level after another, each one a step closer to working out where everybody went.