Superbrothers: Sword & Sworcery EP is one of those games that never really leaves you. Not because of plot twists or difficulty spikes, but because of its atmosphere. It features this strange, half-dreaming world that feels like it drifted out of a deep place in someone’s imagination and wandered onto your screen.

I mean just look at this

Even accounting for the pixel graphics, which aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, this is gorgeous, but not in a straightforward way — more in a dreaming way, which is entirely the point, as the game, world, characters, and story are heavily based on Jungian psychology and his Red Book. Sword & Sworcery never adapts Jung literally, of course, but it borrows his fascination with archetypes and the “mythic psyche” — that sense that dream-figures carry ancient weight. The Scythian feels like one of those wandering figures from Jung’s visions: half-hero, half-symbol, moving through a landscape that seems to be made not of places but of states of mind.

But knowing that is not important to enjoying the game. And you will enjoy it. It’s the kind of game that tells you up front to take your time, use headphones, and go with the flow. And remarkably, it delivers on that promise. Most games scream for attention. But not this one. This one whispers, and is more powerful for it.

A game that feels like a memory

My first playthrough was years ago,[1] but scenes from it keep resurfacing when my mind wanders: the silhouette of the Scythian walking through moonlit woods, the shimmer of golden light when you strike your sword, that soft pixel fog curling around the trees.

Sword & Sworcery doesn’t behave like a typical adventure. If anything, it feels like an impression of an adventure. Everything is reduced to mood, line, shadow, and sound. The pixel art is deliberately sparse, the animation clipped down to essentials. Far from leaving us wanting, that restraint is the source of its charm.

It also has a steady confidence in its pacing. Some moments ask you to wait. Some puzzles only work during certain lunar phases. Real ones, not in-game timers. You can brute-force it by faking your device’s clock, but that ruins the spell.[2] The whole point is that the game wants to exist alongside your life, not rush ahead of it.

Few games are comfortable enough with themselves to do that.

Jim Guthrie’s soundtrack is the game’s secret heart

If someone told me they loved Sword & Sworcery solely because of the soundtrack, I would nod without hesitation. Jim Guthrie’s score is a masterpiece. A masterpiece! It’s warm, melancholy, and a little cosmic. It feels hand-crafted, as intentional as the pixel art, and it shapes the emotional rhythm of the entire journey.

There’s a particular moment (if you’ve played the game, you know exactly what I’m talking about) which simply would not work without the music’s slow build. You’re walking. A certain theme begins. Nothing “happens” in a traditional sense. Yet the emotional weight hits harder than most games’ big cinematic cutscenes.

It’s astonishing how much meaning can come from so little. A few pixels, a drifting melody, a figure walking toward something undefined.

The music is so good and so beloved that many Japanese music game developers have been influenced by it, so much so that there was a Japanese version of the soundtrack put out some years ago. (It isn’t as good as Jim Guthrie’s original, but it is interesting)

A strange, earnest tone

Sword & Sworcery breaks the fourth wall constantly, but not in the winking, postmodern style so common in indie games. Its meta-commentary is playful, but gentle. The narrator isn’t mocking you; he’s guiding you with this odd, warm detachment which is both slightly amused and slightly cryptic, yet somehow still sincere.

This is the game’s quiet trick. It manages to be both ironic and heartfelt at the same time. It acknowledges the tropes, the archetypes, the structure of old adventure games, but then leans into them anyway. Not to parody them, but to celebrate what they can still evoke.

There’s a sequence I always think of: you descend into the dark woods, intent on retrieving the Trigon. The narrator is lightly teasing you, commenting on the weirdness of the whole quest. And yet, when the music swells and you enter the grove, the moment is still filled with awe.

The game stands at this crossroads between sincerity and self-awareness, and for once, neither cancels the other out.

Combat as ceremony, not challenge

The combat is minimal, almost ritualistic. Sword up, sword down, shield up, shield down. Timing, not twitch reflexes. Duels feel like small ceremonies rather than fights. They’re sparse enough that each one matters, and simple enough that they never break the game’s mood.

That and they are love letters to Zelda. Well, not the combat, but the main enemy.

Modern games often mistake complexity for depth. Sword & Sworcery goes the other way: it strips everything down until only the feeling remains.

And the feeling is strangely elegant—like performing a small dance in sync with something older than the game itself.

The Scythian herself

The Scythian is a silent protagonist and one of the most mysterious in gaming. She’s presented with a kind of understated reverence. No bravado, no theatrical heroism. She’s weary, determined, and a little mystical. The narrator jokes around her, but never at her expense.

And her journey doesn’t end in triumph — no, it ends in sacrifice. Not melodramatically, not with grand speeches. It’s quiet, heavy, and inevitable. When the final scene comes, it feels like a natural exhale.

That’s right, this game is a classical tragedy. That has to be a rare thing in gaming. Games love victory. Sword &Sworcery understands that some endings are softer, sadder, and more meaningful.

Why it remains a favorite

Sword & Sworcery is one of the first games that made me think: video games can be poetry, too. Oh I know, I know, of course the poet would say that! Why don’t you write us a haiku about it, poetry-boy![3] I know. But hear me out. It’s not poetry because it tries to be artsy in the pretentious sense, but because it doesn’t chase the usual rewards. It’s more interested in mood, space, rhythm, and reflection. It’s a game that trusts you to slow down.

Most games want you to “play.” This one wants you to listen.

I think that’s why it stays with me. Life is full of noise. Sword & Sworcery is one of the rare experiences that offers silence.

And when a game can do that, it becomes more than a game. It becomes a place you can return to when you need to breathe.

And I do. This is probably the only game I own that I return to and play through at least once a year. It’s like a favorite book that gets better and better every time you return to it and always greets you like an old friend.

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So what about you? Have you played Sword & Sworcery? Did the music hit you the way it hit me? And if you haven’t played it yet, do yourself a favor and go get it right now — it’s only a few bucks on Steam. Put on headphones, dim the lights, and take a slow walk with the Scythian.

❦

David is an American teacher and translator lost in Japan, trying to capture the beauty of this country one photo at a time and searching for the perfect haiku. He blogs here and at laspina.org. Write him on Bluesky. 【Support @dbooster with Hive SBI】