Mr. Rainweather is not amused. The stacks of letters I receive from developers have begun to overflow from every surface in RPS’ office, and Rainweather, the office temp, has done nothing but stack and alphabetise since he got here a fortnight ago. He tells me that each missive is brimming with enthusiastic detail about unknown videogames, but I don’t have time to read them in full myself. Instead I have the mewling Rainweather hand me three at random and write about whatever games they contain.
Snails! Gangsters! Mechs!