The Moon Sliver
Some of what happens in The Moon Sliver occurs in your periphery: Some shadowy sound will tug at the edge of your ear, or some indistinct shape will be there when you look away--but disappear when you stare directly at it.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen literally. The Moon Sliver doesn’t program anything too advanced into its simple, exploration-based, story-building gameplay. But you get the sense that it’s happening. And that sense deserves some polite but deserved applause, as far as atmosphere is concerned.
You start in a single-story fortress of a home, built upon the sand, with the wind at its back and the sea on its doorstep. You’re on an island being eaten by the ocean. You’re surrounded by a landscape that’s moving on, despite the habitats built upon its surface.
The day starts cloudless and bright, with a brilliant haze turning some of your line of sight into a white out. You head for the only man-made landmark you can see at first: a powerline. And from there you can see two choices of where to go. One, a square cluster of square homes to your left, and two, some kind of odd wreckage to your right. You go right.
Narrative story beats fade into the screen as you explore. Some are prescient. Some are dragged in from the past. “The night was wild and cold” could mean anything at this point. You don’t know. You keep looking for more head-scratching clues.
There’s a hatch you will never open. Ruins that conjure memories of the shoreline. Gears and levers that make you think for just a moment that you’re playing Myst, that maybe you can puzzle your way out of this. But then the gears and levers unlock a line or two of story, not a door or a gateway.
The environmental storytelling is as Spartan as the environments themselves. Panels on the wall. Pipes from the ground. A scattering of used tools around an old toolbox. But everything starts piecing itself together into a story of distrust. Of theft. Of disappearance. Of innocence lost. And from where you’re standing, salvation is nowhere in sight.
Locked in their fortress homes, the island’s former (?) inhabitants read books, burned candles, and warmed themselves with firewood against the cold ocean spray. As day turns to dusk, and twilight fades to night, The Moon Sliver builds an honest but understated sense of dread. There are hints of monstrous tracks wiped away by the wind. And then, in the passages below the island, your flickering flashlight doesn’t inspire confidence in dealing with whatever’s lurking in the dark.
It’s one of those stories where you can never quite tell if the game is talking about you or someone else. It’s entirely possible you’re a ghost from the beginning. Or a lone survivor. Or the killer.
The Moon Sliver has no save-game button, and is meant to be played in a single one-hour sitting. Its pared-down graphics leave plenty to the imagination (a good thing, in this particular instance), and its blunt, rough-edged audio cues are unsettling in a way that makes you distrust your own computer equipment.
The Moon Sliver is there for you if you’re in the mood for a brooding, slow-burn thriller with nothing to offer but loneliness--and an empty feeling pushing you towards a conclusion you know you don’t want to be a part of.
Rating: 8 Good
About Author
Randy gravitates toward anything open world, open ended, and open to interpretation. He prefers strategy over shooting, introspection over action, and stealth and survival over looting and grinding. He's been a gamer since 1982 and writing critically about video games for over 20 years. A few of his favorites are Skyrim, Elite Dangerous, and Red Dead Redemption. He's more recently become our Dungeons & Dragons correspondent. He lives with his wife and daughter in Oregon.
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