And so I reached the moment of cinematic hubris pictured above. Into The Breach had left me with a choice of who to save, and the misery of knowing someone’s death would be all my fault.
I tend not to go back to old games, but a few months ago The Breach swallowed me afresh. It’s more elegant than a flock of starlings. Punchier than boxing. Tighter than a can of sardines.
Every turn, you rewrite disaster. That mech can shove that bug there, this mech can fire a missile at the other. When you’re done, the invaders might find themselves at each others throats. It’s a game of perfect manipulation, against enemies with mindless wits and telegraphed attacks. There’s always a way out, if you search for long enough. Until you mess up.
I sacrificed the pilot of my Mirror Mech, in the end. She shot down the last Vek, freeing my Aegis Mech while dooming herself. Poor lass. We’d only just pulled her out of a time pod.
