LIES OF P — A PEDAGOGICAL-NEURAL ANALYSIS
Lies of P is, to me, a particularly interesting case of creative regression occurring within the modern soulslike industry, where a young man looks at Miyazaki’s works, experiences a brief neural short circuit, and says:
“holy shit, this looks cool”
and begins cutting pieces out of Dark Souls, Bloodborne, Sekiro, and Elden Ring like a child cutting pictures out of magazines for an arts-and-crafts assignment.
He then tapes them together, covers the whole thing in an industrial filter, adds Pinocchio, clocks, alcoholism, and approximately 46 kilograms of brass.
Lies of P.
Product finished.
I will not hide the fact that I was initially interested. As a man possessing an IQ of 128 and a reaction time of approximately 154 ms, I am particularly sensitive to all forms of cognitive-motor anomalies occurring during human–enemy–button interaction.
After several hours, however, I began to understand that the game was not designed for a human being to react.
The game was designed for a human being to know the future.
This is a fundamental distinction.
The enemy starts moving his arm.
The movement continues.
He is still moving.
The Earth revolves around the Sun.
A child is born somewhere in Africa.
He is still fucking moving.
Then, when the player decides “alright, surely it’s about to happen,” the enemy finalizes the attack in less than 100 ms and the player receives an educational introduction to the surface of the Earth.
This is not difficulty.
This is pedagogy.
And I recognize pedagogy.
I spent years applying scientifically proven lobotomies and trance, so I know when a game is attempting to educate a human being through suffering.
And Lies of P does this far too often.
THE BOSSES
The boss design is another example of the degradation of contemporary design thought.
In most cases, we have:
a large humanoid.
But, so that it does not become boring:
a large humanoid with a weapon.
And later on:
a large humanoid with a weapon who suddenly does something he did not do before.
This is a design solution I refer to as the “fat man problem.”
It is not about size.
It is about philosophy.
The creator says: “We need a new boss.”
Designer:
“Maybe a human?”
“We already have a human.”
“Make him bigger.”
“We already have a big one.”
“Make him even bigger.”
“We already have a huge one.”
“Give him a second phase.”
“Brilliant.”
AND THIS IS HOW CIVILIZATION IS BUILT.
Some encounters look like a fight between two people, one of whom has a sword and the other has just been informed that tomorrow is Monday.
The telegraphing, meanwhile, is sometimes so peculiar that I begin to suspect the animations were developed by someone who understands the concept of “delay” but not its meaning.
THE LOCATIONS
The locations are average.
Not terrible.
Not exceptional.
They simply exist.
There is a road.
There is a staircase.
There is a door.
The door leads to a corridor.
The corridor leads to an elevator.
The elevator leads to a place that was 38 meters away from you seven hours ago.
Soulslike.
Spatial design reaches a level here at which I begin to suspect that the map was generated by a man throwing a potato at a city plan.
The most fascinating part, however, is that the community often explains these shortcomings with the word “vibe.”
Vibe.
Scientifically speaking, this is a very interesting unit.
It has no dimension.
It has no mass.
It has no measurable value.
It cannot be quantified.
Yet apparently it is sufficient to conclude:
“Lies of P > Sekiro.”
At this point, my 128 IQ begins sweating.
THE MECHANICS
The game has many mechanics.
Very many.
At times I get the impression that the developers were afraid that if they went five seconds without adding a new system, someone would revoke their license to produce video games.
Guard.
Perfect Guard.
Stagger.
Fable.
Legion.
Weapons.
Weapon assembly.
Dodges.
Different damage types.
Different things that do other things when you do yet another thing.
And naturally, all of this is supposed to create depth.
But the quantity of mechanics is not depth.
If I put 700 fish into an aquarium, I do not obtain an ocean.
I obtain a crime against animals.
The same principle applies here.
There are many mechanics, but their interaction sometimes resembles a meeting of the 84movement board of directors after consuming an unidentified substance.
Everyone has an idea.
Nobody knows why.
REUSES
The second half of the game begins to present an entirely new philosophy:
“Have we used this already?”
“Yes.”
“Then use it again.”
“But the player has already seen it.”
“Change the color.”
“Genius.”
There are so many reuses that eventually you stop fighting enemies and start participating in a loyalty program.
“Welcome back.”
“No.”
“Please fight the same enemy again.”
“I already fought him.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“See you in 40 minutes.”
And this is precisely why I consider Lies of P one of the most overrated games in the history of the genre.
Not because it is bad.
That would be too simple.
It is good.
At times, very good.
But the community has inflated it into some kind of revelation, as if Miyazaki himself descended from the heavens, looked upon Pinocchio, and said:
“Yes. This man understands.”
No.
He does not understand.
He has a 154 ms reaction time and still does not know when that fucking guy is going to stop moving his arm.
Lies of P is primarily the product of people who saw several excellent solutions in other games and said:
“let’s take all of them.”
The problem is that game design does not work like a buffet.
You cannot walk up, pile Sekiro, Dark Souls, Bloodborne, Elden Ring, a little Monster Hunter, Pinocchio, clockmaking, and two tablespoons of shitty telegraphing onto a plate and expect a culinary masterpiece.
You get Lies of P.
A good game.
An enjoyable game.
An impressive game.
A game whose community sometimes assigns it a cultural value comparable to the discovery of fire.