The Lost Mixtape

It's definitely a cute little game, basic gameplay of the game. generally i think it'd be a one in done. can definitely can be completed within 2 hours or so for 100% achievements. i had a decent little time with it. i'd definitely recommend checking it out and playing. i didn't mind paying full price but if getting full "value" for time to money is important to you, then i'd recommend waiting for a sale. i enjoyed the music overall, platforming seemed a bit finicky at times but it's definitely not a make or break. nice little mall and environment to explore with some puzzles to solve. would have liked to have a little more content like a second level or area to explore after finishing but it's a good time for what it is. finally, you play as a raccoon with a cassette player listening to music. what's there not to love?

A really lovely game that I couldn't help but come back to 100%. There's a lot of interesting little details in this game that makes you want to know more about the world you've been thrust into -- a short, immersive little platforming experience that I can't recommend enough. Also good tunes. Also you know what, disregard everything else -- you're a raccoon, and that should be enough to make you wanna play.

Here I am, watching a trailer of some godforsaken new indie game - clearly destined for the landfill of history. Funnie racoone game, sure, whatever. I sit there marveling what people spend their precious lifeforce upon. Naturally, I've no intention of actually playing it. Firstly, come on? Secondly, what could it give me, really? Thirdly, playing games in 2026, are you crazy? The door to my room is flung open. An 18-month-old creature barges in, as they do. The creature sees the creature on the other side of the screen. The creature this side of the screen points its index finder. It proclaims: 'Onya! Onya!' That would be our 18-month-oldish idiolect of Russian for "racoon". 'That's right. A racoon' 'Onya! Onya!' 'So what did you want?' 'Onya! Onya!' This is getting out of hand. I switch the window. 'Onya! Onya!' 'Ah, you've brought a folding book! Come on, let's read then!' 'Onya! Onya!' Damn. 'Onya! Onya!' It's not like it's all that expensive, after all... 'Onya! Onya!' Three minutes later Onya is invoked. It crawls around the abandoned district like poisoned Corvo Attano, devouring used gumballs to more certainly demolish its digestive tract, its headphones blasting whatever flavor of I-don't-know-what-kind-of-techno-punk-this-is-supposed-to-be-but-it-feels-prehistoric-and-truesight-granting. The creature this side of the screen smashes spacebar, and the creature on the other side of the screen jumps tucking in its paws with amusing digital animal grace. We crawl and snoop in the landfill of history. The creature this side of the screen appears quite amused. But then something is wrong. The creature this side of the screen is exhibiting signs of unease. At first, it's motionlessness. Then it's an odd whimper. And then a weak but unmistakable weeping. The music goes off immediately, as the most likely culprit. The reaction does not subside. Up goes the familiar music of "Soul Rebels" by Bob Marley. It bears the creature's stamp of approval. The reaction stops. Onya is on the move again. But wait, the reaction is immediately back! What was it? Onya's rapid movements? The desolation of the empty space? The music, after all? The creature this side of the screen leaves never to return. In the following days Onya is never mentioned. It's just me and Onya now. I press spacebar, and the creature on the other side of the screen jumps tucking in its paws with amusing digital animal grace. Onya's face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, it sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of its feet. Onya is thorough and hopeful. Onya wants the old raves to rage once more. Onya is the beacon of life in this dead supermarket. Onya wants to find every coin and use it to get every one of those little mechanical contraptions, attractions and distractions living and vaunting their little lights, sounds, bells, whistles, smokes and mirrors yet again. Onya would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in its paws with such violence that Onya can no longer tuck them in. The storm irresistibly propels it into the future to which its back is turned, while the pile of debris before it grows skyward. That's what the instinct of the creature this side of the screen unmistakably identified and cut off as a destructive experience. But my security system is far beyond repair. I'm already eating from this trashcan. I remain here, Onya as my avatar, stalking this infinite blue landfill of history.