With its release of Soul Calibur V, Namco Bandai has made a bold move, but whether or not it sticks with that decision won’t be known for a few years. Admittedly, the Soul Calibur brand had begun to feel somewhat stale, and the changes made in Soul Calibur V aren’t the ones I’d hoped to see.

Up to this point, Soul Calibur always maintained a sense of strategy and it never became overly technical. There was a balance between technique and skill, even as far back as Soul Blade (Soul Edge in Japan), the grandfather of the entire series. Back then, the characters’ weapons would break if the player blocked too much, encouraging a certain amount of aggressiveness. The player couldn’t just try to guard every attack and remain reactionary, or else they’d be left to deal without a weapon. That aspect was cut once Soul Calibur was released, but it serves as an example of the strategy encouraged by the developer from the very beginning.

Soul Calibur V is less about the struggle for positioning and more about who can land the first hit. In fact, that has nearly everything to do with what I dislike about this installment. It’s as if Project Soul decided to answer the question no one asked: what if Soul Calibur were more like Street Fighter? And I can honestly say that I don’t like the answer.

This game is all about speed and combos. One wrong move and the player falls victim to an endless string of attacks, which can neither be blocked nor evaded. In fact, in matches against Patroklos (a newcomer), Siegfried and Nightmare, the incessant barrage of start-to-finish combo attacks is beyond maddening. A match can begin and end without the player ever having the opportunity to make a move of their own.

Then I jumped back into Soul Calibur II and IV, arguably the two best titles in the franchise. A number of my suspicions were confirmed, as I felt much more at-home with these two games. The pacing was much smoother. Additionally, attacks, blocks and parries were more balanced.

One aspect of the series that’s never been addressed has to do with the move lists. Why in the hell, after six games and 15 years, do I still have to translate letters and symbols to match the corresponding buttons on the controller?

Soul Calibur V also makes some tweaks in storytelling, however minimal they may be. There’s the occasional cutscene, but it’s mostly a back-and-forth of text conversations, which is still an improvement over the “text-box-on-top-of-the-world-map” style the series had been known for.

The arcade, multiplayer (both online and off) and character creation modes have all returned without any major changes. A handful of classic characters have also returned, all mainstays of the series, with the expected few newcomers in tow. Many of the new characters are spiritual successors to previous ones, maintaining the same fighting/weapon styles, but with a new coat of paint. It makes for a superficial sense of change, though I’d prefer some of the older characters over the new. Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed series lends its main character, Ezio Auditore, to the game. Out of all the guest characters the series has seen, Ezio fits as seamlessly as any.

The music in Soul Calibur V doesn’t live up to its reputation. Nothing’s bad, but nothing stands out. Soul Calibur II had, in my opinion, the best music in the series, but the other installments’ soundtracks were almost as notable. This is the first time I’ll refrain from purchasing the soundtrack for a game in the series. The musical pieces in previous games felt triumphant and majestic. It was truly a pillar of the series. Now, it just feels grand without direction. The music is loud and blaring, but it doesn’t evoke any real sense of emotion.

Another step back in Soul Calibur V pertains to the stage design. Again, like the music, nothing is particularly bad, but when compared to Soul Calibur IV, most stages appear uninspired and less dynamic. Of course, the game is gorgeous in every level, but it’s the style and presentation of the stages that are bland.

This appears to be Namco Bandai’s crossroad. When the next console cycle rolls around and Project Soul is working on the next game in the franchise, I hope Soul Calibur V remains a litmus test instead of a sign of style to come.

I clutch the quarters in my pocket with one hand, my father’s outstretched arm with the other. We’re going to find a game to play together, the two of us. It’s my favorite part of being down the shore, and I know I’m going to be on top of the world.

I look around, not sure which to pick, but then my father points out a blue cabinet, The Simpsons Arcade, centering on a cartoon family that he (and eventually I) would grow to love. He asks me, “how about that one?” and I nod excitedly. There’s definitely room for both of us on this machine, so we shall play together!

He puts his quarter into Homer’s slot, and I into Bart’s, making sure the game mimics our real-life relationship. I press start, and the game begins. Smithers bombs the jewelry store, Homer bumps into him, Maggie is taken, and the rest is history.

Five-year-old me is having an absolute blast. The world in the screen is a vibrant place, filled with bright color and playing the sounds of a thousand childhoods. The game is simple enough to play, as most beat-em-ups of the time are: move the character with the joystick, attack with one button, jump with the other. Enemies come from all sides of Downtown Springfield, mostly slender men in purple suits but also a few variants, and we mow through them with relative ease. Suddenly we arrive at an overpass, a giant man in a suit comes down from the top of the screen, and the first boss fight is on.

There are seven more stages just like this one. We’ll take on many more enemies, including zombies, men in rabbit suits, a grizzly bear, and even a giant living bowling ball. We will lose a lot of lives, and subsequently a lot of quarters, trying to conquer this beast of a game. We’ll eventually discover that by standing next to each other, we can initiate a tandem attack where I would move and he would dish out some father/son pain. We’ll eventually be joined by two strangers, one controlling Marge and the other Lisa, and the four of us would embark on this journey to save a helpless baby girl.

This was the arcade experience personified, standard fare in five-year-old Jason’s world, and even though my father and I ran out of quarters before we could stand victorious, we still basked in the glow of an evening spent together, mashing buttons and enjoying life as if there was nothing more important than the game that stood before us.

This is the pinnacle of life to a five-year-old, a boy not yet expected to carry the weight of the world. This boy shared his favorite hobby with his old man, and the memory would stick with him for the rest of his life.

I am a 25-year-old man. The weight of the world no longer waits to force itself upon me. Marriage, home-owning, working, and everything else life throws at a young adult is hitting me like a ton of bricks. I have maintained my favorite hobby, but the arcade experience I used to revel in is all but gone, replaced by technological advances no five-year-old can wrap his head around. I can now simply turn on a console and connect to any of my fellow gamers without us having to congregate in a room filled with flashing monoliths. We need only our own televisions, our own consoles, and our own connections to the behemoth that is The Internet.

I have heard tell of a classic game from my youth returning to form on the online marketplace. I immediately rush to it, pay the online currency, and instantly I am downloading a game to my console that I thought I would never own. A game that I previously had to travel to a local mall or convenience store or a vacation spot just to play, and even then I’d have to make sure to bring a pocketful of quarters with me. I would now have that same game at my fingertips whenever I want it. Technology is grand and all, but one question remained: would The Simpsons Arcade stand the test of time? Would this game that I adored, that created a memory as cherished as the one above, still maintain the level of enjoyment I received from it twenty years prior?

After I finished downloading this game, I went to my game library, found it, pressed play…

… and I am five years old again. For this brief time, the warmth and joy I had felt some twenty years before rushes back to me as if it had never left.  I hear the sounds of my childhood, I see the same colors that awed me on that day. I even think my dad is standing next to me, mashing the buttons and laughing just as we did back then. There are extras thrown into this modernized edition, mostly rewards for finishing the game, but I don’t even notice. The troubles of the real world mean nothing; I am beating up gangsters with Bart’s skateboard.

Some time later, I call upon my brother and a friend to play The Simpsons Arcade together, to see if the integrity of the cooperative experience will hold as well as the single-player. The three of us laugh and yell, just as my father and I had all those years ago. This was FUN, a type of fun that sometimes is lost on us today as we continue to demand realism and authenticity in our games. Every once in a while, there’s nothing wrong with the mindless mayhem of yesteryear, something The Simpsons Arcade brings back with a vengeance.

Nostalgia is a powerful thing. It can bring joy, it can bring sadness. It can remind us of things past, and it can even mislead us into thinking the successes of before can carry into the present. The Simpsons Arcade is everything good about gaming nostalgia wrapped into one 1.8 MB file. It is an avatar of times gone by, when the place to be was crammed in front of an arcade cabinet waiting for your turn. Times when cries of “I GOT NEXT” were heard in every location imaginable. Times when crowds would form to watch a particularly gifted player put his abilities on display.

Most importantly, times when a five-year-old boy and his father would traverse a virtual world together, undaunted by that which stood in their way.

“Understanding existence and physical form as an interpretation of light energy through the physical eyes will open up greater potential to explore the energetic boundaries of color, form and light that are perceived as immediate reality.”

The Kinect can be a study of the player’s body when it isn’t a struggle with the peripheral’s detection hardware. You are the controller, as the Kudo goes. Yoga, then, must be a natural extension of this technology; a focusing of the physical self to improve the spiritual self. Deepak Chopra’s Leela taps into that potential, gently guiding players to “Play” and “Reflect.” The balance of activity and rest are admirable. The intention fails to achieve full realization.

Short of Nirvana, Leela accomplishes most of its stated goals. Play intrigues, then blossoms, then frustrates. Players twist at the hips to sculpt the earth in the Origin movement, representative of the root chakra, Muladhara. Once sculpted, the process repeats with added barriers and opportunity, like mountains or moonlight. This happens seven times for each movement, similar in control but varied in presentation and purpose.

Shoot space rocks with hadouken imitations, guide a love energy ball across floating bubbles with a good lean and stretch. None respond to movements without flaw; Kinect users will find the infrequent frustrations of their body-controller similar to other those of other Kinect titles. In this way, Play is contemplative and stressful. The themes are clear, coherent, and promote inward examination. The mechanics do not.

Reflect is an instructional yoga video nesting in a game. Listen to Chopra’s low hum of a voice guide meditative thoughts, or set the silent meditation timer to infinity, which is actually an option. Learn to breathe deeply – belly, core, and chest – and receive form feedback from the Kinect, which doesn’t work, thankfully. If Microsoft can sense our breathing, can it also smell fear?

To pass judgment on the success of the gaming portion of Leela is to misrepresent its value. A committed practitioner, green or veteran, would find the half-hour breathing practice enriching. A casual participant will not, which is the quandary of Leela.

The purpose of any game built to focus on play – Angry Birds, Skyrim, Madden - is presumably enjoyment. The purpose of health and wellness games – Wii Fit, EA Sports Active, My Fitness Coach – is to improve the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual state of the player. These are only successful when they’re able to motivate the player to participate in order to achieve the personal benefits.

I submit that to criticize such a game for failing to achieve the pure mental fulfillment of a traditional video game is misguided. However, Leela occupies space in multiple genres, only completely beholden to the laws of wellness games during guided meditation (for which motivation must originate outside the game). During its Play segments, movement assumes the trappings of self-exploration and gentle exercise, but the challenge of obstacle-oriented gameplay. By intentional design or not, Leela is so uncomfortably noncommittal that it mirrors the struggle of the human experience to find joy in rest and in action – a confused, existential search for happiness.

For the yoga devotee, Leela is a natural, in-home extension of a healthy habit. To the Chopra-curious, Leela is an unassuming, private introduction to fumbling controls, Hindu-inspired aesthetics, and the practice of meditation. It’s wonderfully unique and refreshing in its commitment to principle, but a bloated moose of ideals unrefined for gaming.

After a few tutorial levels, players are tasked with jumping into the puzzle-making foray head-first. Though the tutorials detail basic controls and tool use, much of what players make will involve a healthy dose of trial and error… and plenty of frustration.

One would expect I Heart Geeks to distinguish itself from other puzzle games via the creation of its puzzles. This creation aspect, which allows players to place objects themselves, rather than simply manipulate existing ones, turns out to be more akin to a nearly-finished jigsaw than an open canvas. Eschewing the promised creative freedom, the game falls short, again.

At one point, a fellow protagonist says, “The balloon is bothering me, please pop it.” I can’t help but wonder how that is going to further the group of nerds’ cause, especially when there are jocks to mess with and a girl to impress? Who knows? Reluctantly, I carry on. To pop the balloon, I have to cut it free from the weight it’s strung to, letting it float into a needle. I place a diagonal platform and a mini trampoline in the only spots they can logically go to get a ball to hit the scissors and cut the string. Rather than create a puzzle, I simply finish one that already exists. Further, the mess of a puzzle is without meaning or any measure of fun.

Some puzzles manage to provide that brief, satisfying “Aha!” moment. Using lasers, trampolines, water spouts, steam engines, balloons, scissors, and a general knowledge of physics to accomplish even the most meaningless tasks manages to be enjoyable, just not often enough.

I Heart Geeks doesn’t deliver on what it promises. Its meaningless puzzles and lack of depth make the charming narrative feel unimportant and ignored. Puzzle “creation” feels uninspiring and all too simple. Even for the simple puzzle game that it is, where I Heart Geeks shows promise, it falls very short.

Despite what Dead Island would lead you to believe, Colonel White is an honorable man with good, if misguided, intentions. His wife has the virus. He finds her in a condition that no man would EVER want to find his beloved. He spends the rest of his life (literally) looking for a way to cure her. While he is guilty of some of the actions that made us angry with him before, we learn that White was not acting alone, but was instead being pushed down this path by another.

The ability to change a character from selfish to selfless is where the “Ryder White” DLC excels, skewing the entire story of Dead Island while dropping a huge cliffhanger for future games. The additions to the narrative are nothing short of superb; however, the story is the only thing that gets a boost here. Play remains exactly the same, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I would have preferred SOME new ways to interact with such an immersive world.

Ryder himself is, for lack of a better term, a brick sh*thouse. The man is more proficient with firearms and ordnance than any other character in the game (as you’d expect, he is a colonel after all). His Fury move is essentially Bullet Time with a ridiculously powerful pistol and infinite ammo. One-on-one, zombies don’t stand a chance against this man, but there are times when their numbers are just overwhelming, adding a bit of difficulty to the DLC. Not only that, but because Ryder is acting alone, there’s no one for any drop-in/drop-out co-op players to control, so that feature is out. You’ll be alone the entire time, so be ready for some really frustrating areas.

Co-op isn’t the only component missing from “Ryder White” either; some of Dead Island‘s best features have been removed. A few of the RPG elements, such as leveling up and the skill tree, are gone, and the open world of Banoi is no longer accessible. Instead, the DLC follows a linear path through the town of Moresby and the prison. Even the weapon crafting – my favorite part of Dead Island - is severely limited, as White only finds a few blueprints lying around (though I will admit, the Stun Gun blueprint is very powerful).  All of these things were taken out to promote a more linear, action-oriented experience, and “Ryder White” is exactly that, but I’d prefer that the glitches that plagued the original release were removed sooner than these core components of play.

Aside from what’s been removed, playing “Ryder White” is exactly the same as playing Dead Island. You’ll control Ryder the same way, you’ll battle the undead the same way, and you’ll complete the story the same way. Nothing was added to the core functionality of the game – only taken away. Normally, this would be a type of digital crime against the player, but Dead Island didn’t play all that bad to begin with, and the story of this DLC is truly incredible, so I’m more than willing to forgive the lack of new content.

DLC is an interesting beast, as it gives developers new ways to expand on the universes they’ve created in their core content. Most DLC can be considered arbitrary, like extra costumes or *shudder* horse armor. There is an opportunity, however, for DLC to really change the way we think about a game. Some have gotten close to this, such as Mass Effect 2‘s “Arrival,” which serves as a bridge between two games in a series, or Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood‘s “Da Vinci Disappearance,” which offers a major clue to the future of the franchise that isn’t expanded upon until the end of the next game. Never before has a developer decided to rewrite the entire freakin’ narrative of its game, though. That’s exactly what “Ryder White” does.

The antagonist is no longer the antagonist. A man who is a friend at the end of Dead Island is actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Most importantly, one character thought to be a beacon of hope is now, as the game puts it, “a ticking time bomb.” If this is the future of DLC, sign me up. If more DLC likes this sees release, the medium will seem much more viable and “fair” to gamers than it does now, finally arresting the, “they just do it for money; why don’t they put the content on disc?” sentiment once and for all.

The Dead Island “Ryder White” DLC completely morphs the storyline of a game from an open ending with many possible directions into one with established, undeniable narrative direction. Any lingering questions about the future of Dead Island are answered by the time “Ryder White” ends.  While the game’s mechanics and design don’t get the same expansion, I’d argue that “Ryder White” has more impact on its franchise than any other piece of DLC before it. If you liked Dead Island and you’re interested to see where this story is going, play “Ryder White” right now. Just be ready to be shocked.

Genre pioneer Canabalt told players, “press X to start your daring escape,” and then tallied scores based on distance covered. This minimalism served the game’s purposes: motive laid the foundation while interface and interactivity carried the game the rest of the way.

Curio is nebulous in its initial instruction and explanation. “Start running, Ron” from an anonymous voice is little encouragement to even begin the arduous task at hand. Dangling carrots exist in the shape of floating pills and comic nightmare creatures act as punishment for poorly timed screen-tap leaps. But everything blurs. The process is a chore. The player knows nothing. There’s no reason to run.

“Curio is a game that will continue to evolve,” says the game’s About screen. “Stick around to find out where we take it,” it implores, suggesting there is a reason to keep running… but play doesn’t change. Evolution exists only in the game’s Bonus section, where in-game progress unlocks new narrated chapters and art that reveal the hero’s history and psyche. The playable portion of Curio – tedium, training – becomes a means only to develop its non-playable parts – novelty, reward. Play in itself doesn’t evolve, but the meaning behind it does.

Games of skill and score like Curio transform relatively rather than absolutely, subjectively rather than objectively, via player metamorphosis. Honed skills improve the interactive experience, and only with proper motivation do such games afford players the opportunity to reach those new plateaus before novelty wears away. Curio walks a thin line between hooking and losing its audience, with no intrinsic joy in running and an unfulfilled narrative acting as the only thread of motivation to persevere through unremarkable play.

There’s barely a reason to run at all.

From the foursome, Thor and the X-Men are the most recognizable. They’re also the dullest, like playing Pong in slow motion. With little to interact with on either table, it feels as though I’m playing an uninspired game of racquetball for one. Even when building tension and releasing the plunger, ball release is unsatisfying. There’s little energy in these tables, which virtually kills the experience. Perhaps I’m ruined by my time with Ms. Splosion Man Pinball, which erupted with action and energy, but I expected more.

Ghost Rider and Moon Knight fared better, though neither jolted me with merriment. I’m not saying this pack of pinball tables is bad. In fact, I’m likely a tad overcritical because of my high expectations. All four tables are visually pleasing, but none pack a punch. Apart from that, Zen Studios offers great fan service with all licensed pinball tables. Unfortunately, that can’t make up for the severe lack of inspiration in table design in Marvel Pinball: Vengeance and Virtue.

A game like Scarygirl, therefore, was a surprisingly unforgiving yet endearing experience:

A little girl clambers down hazed scenery. The environments are cartoonish but hintingly adult, like something from Genndy Tartakovsky. Faces crack the sides of mountain tops behind a school of geometrically conscious trees. The little girl is no Alice. She’s a cross between Jack Skellington and Coraline. She’s adorable, of course, but much like the intricate art around her, she’s not so harmless. A spaghetti-limp arm stretches on her right, tipped with a malicious hook that acts as both a tool and a weapon.

The idea of Scarygirl is a fantastic thought at the outset, as artist Nathan Jurevicus’ work with the Scarygirl flash game and graphic novel conjured a stunning use of color, creature design, and malevolent presences. It seemed ripe for a downloadable. However, something is lost in the translation.

The further down the rabbit hole we go, the less engaging the game becomes. As an art concept, Scarygirl is about an abandoned ugly duckling battling her way through a breathing, staggering world. As a game, it struggles to unveil the twisted Oz-like land without marring it. Control and design deflate in frustrating fashion, leaving our heroine doing her best impression of the aforementioned Kong cousin without the same level of polish or accuracy; a helicopter ponytail is more effective than a helicopter arm.

Still, I found myself rooting for this bizarre, eye-patched shrimp despite her wonky maneuverability and imposing surroundings. She may not be Dixie or have the same fluid nature, but Scarygirl has a charm all her own. So much so that even youngin’ Greg would have given the game a shot.

Can one aspect of a game carry the entire experience? Can accepted design principles be eschewed in an effort to expand on that one aspect? These are the kinds of key questions to consider when playing at To the Moon with a critical eye. The answers may vary depending on each individual, but my personal experience with this game leads me to say “yes” without hesitation. Like Heavy Rain nearly two years ago, To the Moon places a strong emphasis on storytelling, albeit on a significantly smaller scale. And just like that game, To the Moon may spark discussions about what actually constitutes a video game. But no matter what label you put on this downloadable title, To the Moon presents an emotionally resonating narrative not often encountered in the videogame medium.

Working as an inverse to the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, To the Moon is a story about creating memories and preserving one’s dreams and aspirations. Dr. Rosalene and Dr. Watts are tasked with entering the minds of individuals in an effort to grant their last dying wishes. Johnny, their latest patient, wishes to go to the moon. The reasoning for such an obscure and lofty goal escapes Johnny, so it’s the job of both doctors to enter the mind of this elderly man in order to piece together a complex puzzle that spans an entire lifetime.

A plot revolving around time travel and accessing another person’s memories may sound a bit far-fetched initially, but To the Moon‘s success rests on realism. That’s a word most readily used when talking about military shooters or standout visuals, but To the Moon‘s realism comes from a narrative perspective. More specifically, the characters in this game display relatable human emotions. When Johnny first meets his wife, River, he’s struck by her unique personality. In an effort to distinguish himself among the sea of people in the world, he pursues her. This selfish reason eventually consumes Johnny with guilt as he becomes more attached to River, and her quiet and strange transformation upon hearing the news is authentic.

That narrative credibility extends to various moments throughout the game. Perhaps the best example of this is the way Johnny deals with the impending death of his wife. River’s medical bills create an immense financial burden, especially after the couple have just built a brand new home. River refuses care in order to keep the home, despite his vocal reservations. It essentially boils down to honoring River’s wishes because he loves her, just as Johnny’s friends point out prior to her passing. This theme of obligation is established multiple times, including the big reveal regarding Johnny’s desire to go to the moon. That moment in particular is incredibly touching – I’ll even admit I teared up a bit at that point. It’s really a testament to the game that it’s able to evoke those kind of emotions.

The praise-worthy story in To the Moon is what makes the game such an exceptional experience. From a mechanical perspective it could be compared to an adventure game, but there is no inventory to speak of and the few puzzles in the game are as simple as they come. Despite these valid criticisms there’s just something about seeing such an affecting piece of storytelling depicted with sprites on a brightly lit screen that speaks to me.

Video games are often touted as a reliable escape from reality. That’s why it’s so refreshing to see a game like To the Moon that relies on the reality of its characters and how that plays into gamers’ emotions. Furthering that approach are themes that tackle intricate issues such as love, loss, and commitment, all things that we encounter at some point in our lives. It falls short in the most interactive moments when collecting items and solving puzzles, but somehow that ends up being less of a detriment than it should be. Call it what you will, but To the Moon is something that deserves to be experienced.

Upon completing the tutorial mission of Ace Combat: Assault Horizon Legacy, my first impression was simple: what’s going on here? Being a game about fighter jets and dogfighting, I expected intense aerial combat over a vast cityscape with blaring rock music accompanying it. I got the intense aerial combat… but it was instead paired with a symphony orchestra and took place over a single land mass known as Twinkle Island.

Wait, what?!

Unfortunately, some gamers may only get that far, put the 3DS down, and say, “Forget this, I’m going back to Super Mario 3D Land.” By doing so, they fall victim to a rare false first impression. Ace Combat: Assault Horizon Legacy is quite enjoyable, provided that you can get over the aspects that don’t quite mesh.

There is one glaring thing about this Ace Combat game that makes my head hurt: the soundtrack. This track is a perfect example of my issue: this type of music just doesn’t fit with an aerial dogfight. I love the melody, and I can see where Project Aces was going with it, but nothing about this song got me pumped to dogfight, and game music, if nothing else, should set the mood. Later tracks, like “Cocoon Squadron,” get it right, but the entire symphony-style approach just doesn’t fit for me.

This is the first true Ace Combat game on a Nintendo system, and fortunately for fans it does the series well. The controls are confusing at first, as there’s a lot to learn and a short time to learn it in, but once familiarity sets in you’ll be flying like Maverick. My biggest issue, for instance, was switching between normal and long-range missiles, but the learning curve was short.

Despite my lack of musical enthusiasm for the game, the rest sounds superb. The voice acting is impressive, especially for a handheld. The men and women coming through the speakers will offer tips on how to fly (or curse your name if it’s the enemy) and words of encouragement during battle. All of the necessary ambient sound is spot-on, from the fighter planes breaking G-forces to the missile-on-plane explosions. Considering this is a handheld device, that’s pretty darn cool.

Perhaps the coolest part of this game is the Action Maneuver system. As the battle rages, a meter will fill on your screen. Once it’s full, tap Y to activate a visually stunning display of airborne bravado. Your pilot will twist and turn and soar through the clouds like nothing you’ve seen before, conveniently coming to a stop right behind the intended target for an easy missile lock. These moves are marvelous coupled with the already-excellent 3D graphics, and a successful Action Maneuver will make you feel like a certified ace pilot.

Ace Combat: Assault Horizon Legacy can best be described in one way: a pleasant surprise. I had little to no expectations for this game when it reached me, and definitely no expectations after the tutorial. Once the game got into its groove, however, I could not help but enjoy myself. Ace Combat fans will not be disappointed, and 3DS fans will learn to love the idea of fighting intense dogfights in 3D. I know I did.