Final Fantasy XIII: The Empire Strikes Back begins with the main protagonist, a former soldier, riding a train with their astonishingly stereotypical black sidekick to go fight an evil authority of some description. Wait a girlfriend-impaling second: haven’t we been here before? Well, yes, twelve extremely “final” times. But the seventh outing more than any other. Of course, Final Fantasy VII didn’t fill every cinematic with more ShakyCam™ than a Paul Greengrass film being projected onto a fat jogger’s tits.

You know why this game is on three discs? Not because it’s a complex roller-coaster of an epic. It’s because it’s padded like a menstruating fire hose…. I only vaguely know what the story’s about because I made myself read all that ancillary text-log bullshit. This is not good storytelling! You’re supposed to weave exposition into the narrative! Not hand the audience a fucking glossary as they walk into the theatre!

I played Final Fantasy XIII because I am an unbiased critic—shut up, I am—and I must give everything a chance to surprise me. After five hours, the only thing that surprised me was how I managed that much without chewing off my own face.

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