THE WAILING OF THE LONESOME
Starwhal doesn’t quite belong to that era. It’s too high-resolution, too smoothly animated. Still, it carries some of the same spirit, for better or worse. The visuals echo an EGA/CGA-style color palette, and the sound effects feel like the noises we used to imagine when our old Sound Blaster cards failed us.
In theory, Starwhal could be something to nostalgize over. In practice, it feels oddly incomplete. It’s too modern to function as a throwback, yet too barebones to stand on its own as a contemporary commercial game. Like its title—always feeling one letter short—it never quite feels finished. The heavy focus on multiplayer leaves very little for the solitary player, and what’s there is over almost as soon as it begins.
You control a stylized narwhal floating through space, complete with a big heart on its chest and a long, pointy horn. Cosmetic customization is generous: angel wings, afros, the works.
The game originated as a 48-hour game jam project called Just the Tip, and the core idea remains unchanged. In multiplayer, you score points by ramming your horn into other whales’ hearts. Several game modes and arenas are available, featuring environmental hazards and obstacles. The more players, the better—at least in theory.
This commercial release supports up to four-player local multiplayer. There is no online component. I’ve played a handful of matches over the years—mostly against my brother, recently against bots. A short single-player challenge mode has since been added, which I completed in under an hour. I never felt compelled to push for high scores; the game didn’t earn that kind of commitment.
Starwhal’s defining mechanic is its ragdoll physics. The whales overreact wildly to even the smallest input. You can rotate clockwise or counterclockwise and move forward—nothing else. Gravity constantly pulls you downward, making precise movement frustrating rather than amusing.
Games like this often succeed because they’re fun to watch, even when played badly. Here, that joy never materializes. The ragdoll physics aren’t funny, the deaths aren’t entertaining, and the animations don’t sell the chaos. The whales simply drift around awkwardly, as if they were ordinary sea creatures misplaced into space.
The game feels tailor-made for a small circle of hyper-enthusiastic streamers. The assumption seems to be that their laughter will carry the experience for everyone else. It doesn’t. Outside of those early videos, enthusiasm for Starwhal appears to have evaporated quickly.
As a two-player competitive game, it’s painfully dull. You circle each other endlessly, hoping for a clean hit. When you get close, the game slows down to help reaction time, which only highlights how shallow the encounters are.
The single-player fares no better. My first—and only—match against the AI in capture-the-flag mode ended like this: I stole the flag, lay flat on the ground, and let the AI repeatedly ram into my back for thirty seconds until the timer ran out. They never adapted. I won without moving.
The challenge mode is more structured, offering thirty short levels across two modes and three difficulties. One has you navigating mazes; the other focuses on collecting hearts. Hazards like lava, acid, wind, and moving platforms add friction, but the generous time limits make it hard to fail. I settled for bronze rankings across the board.
The problem is that the controls never feel learnable in a meaningful way. They’re too loose, too ragdoll-heavy to inspire mastery. Clearing everything took less than an hour, and left no lasting impression—no frustration, no satisfaction, not even irritation.
And that’s that.
Starwhal sits well outside my personal sphere of interest. I can cautiously recommend it as a last-resort party game, if Mario Party or Rock Paper Scissors somehow fail you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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