IT DRAGS ME DOWN
Is it worth sacrificing visual clarity for beauty? It depends on the game, of course, but in the case of Ori and the Blind Forest my answer is a resounding no. Moon Studios’ debut takes place in a lush, Studio Ghibli–inspired natural world where trees, flowers and foliage all pulse with bioluminescent magic. Ori himself glows. Projectiles glow. Fireflies glow. Even the background seems to shimmer as celestial bodies loom over the landscape. On top of all that, the bloom effect appears cranked to its absolute limit.
The problem is that the game often feels overdesigned to the point of distraction. Layers of parallax scrolling smother the screen in cluttered beauty. The aesthetics directly interfere with the 2D platforming and action-puzzle gameplay, obscuring or outright concealing important visual cues. Foreground details occasionally hide hazards or even Ori himself during combat. Glowing enemy projectiles are difficult to distinguish from glowing pickups as Ori pulls them toward him. When your own character starts resembling a floating light bulb, it becomes hard to tell where you are, what’s dangerous, and where you should be moving to stay alive.
Not every area suffers equally from this issue, but enough of them do to meaningfully hurt the experience. The fairytale presentation would better suit a slow, meditative story exploration game, where mechanical precision is secondary. Instead, Ori and the Blind Forest plays more like Celeste or Super Meat Boy—a demanding puzzle-platformer where death is frequent and mastery depends on split-second reactions.
Here, you’re expected to perform death-defying acrobatics with speed and precision. As your moveset steadily expands, you must dodge spikes, energy beams and enemy fire, climb walls, glide through the air and make rapid decisions on the fly. The challenge design assumes clarity and control—two things the visuals frequently undermine.
Narratively, the game keeps things minimal. Ori, a creature of light, is separated from the Tree of Life during a storm and taken in by Naru, an unmistakably Ghibli-esque guardian. When darkness consumes the land and food grows scarce, Naru dies of starvation, leaving Ori alone to restore balance while being hunted by a massive black owl. It’s a story built on contrasts: life and death, light and shadow, tenderness and cruelty.
Unfortunately, the emotional beats didn’t land for me. The presentation is so emphatic—so drenched in swelling music and visual excess—that it feels heavy-handed. The tragedy arrives before there’s time to meaningfully connect with Naru, making Ori’s grief feel more instructed than shared. The intent is clear, but the execution left me emotionally unmoved.
Mechanically, Ori and the Blind Forest is more successful. After the opening act, the game unfolds as a metroidvania, with Ori growing stronger through upgrades to health and energy. That energy is used to create custom save points—a genuinely excellent idea that more games should steal. The world itself is a maze of gauntlets, but exploration often feels unrewarding. Secrets rarely justify the effort required to reach them, offering meager experience gains or minor upgrades that don’t meaningfully alter play.
New movement abilities are introduced regularly, each followed by sections designed to test them. These range from exhilarating to maddening. The air dash, in particular, is inventive, allowing Ori to bounce off enemies and projectiles to stay airborne. At its best, this creates thrilling sequences where you juggle yourself across deadly spike fields.
At its worst, these sections fall apart due to unreliable enemy placement. Some areas rely on too few enemies that pop in and out of the environment unpredictably, making it impossible to maintain airtime. Other abilities—double jumps, wall climbing, gliding—are more conventional but still welcome additions as your traversal options expand.
Hazards are everywhere and deal significant damage, yet the game makes little effort to visually distinguish them from the environment. Instead of learning through observation, you’re often forced to die repeatedly just to understand what’s lethal. I don’t generally mind trial-and-error design, but Ori pushes it too far, seeming almost eager to punish the player.
Movement is another sticking point. Ori accelerates instantly and moves with great speed, but lacks the precision required for such punishing platforming. Landing on narrow ledges or poles becomes an exercise in overcorrection. Admittedly, I’ve had persistent issues with Switch controllers—including the Pro Controller—and it’s entirely possible the PC version would feel better.
These control issues become most apparent during the escape sequences, where you flee natural disasters like floods, storms and volcanic eruptions. In theory, these should be triumphant, flow-state moments. In practice, they’re brutally unforgiving, demanding flawless execution with controls that rarely feel trustworthy. These sequences became major roadblocks for me.
Combat fares no better. Enemies respawn constantly, interrupting progress, and take far too long to defeat. Ori’s basic attack feels weak even when upgraded, defensive options are limited, and combat lacks a reliable dodge mechanic. Instead, you’re encouraged to counter projectiles or detonate energy-based attacks—ideas that sound good but feel clumsy in execution. Waiting for enemies to attack just so you can respond quickly becomes exhausting.
There’s undeniably a good game buried beneath the frustration. Some ideas are genuinely inspired, and when the balance clicks, the experience briefly shines. The world is beautiful, and the music strains—often unsuccessfully—to calm you with soft piano and ethereal choirs. But I never reach the meditative state the game seems to demand. Instead, it feels determined to mock me, dragging me repeatedly into spike pits along with my patience.
Still, for a first effort, Ori and the Blind Forest shows promise. I can only hope its sequel learns from these missteps and finds the clarity and control this one so desperately needs.
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