As you make choices within the world, the success or failure of these decisions relies on the outcome of a hidden dice roll, which pits the value of the relevant attribute against the chance of victory. The outline of amnesiac, addict cop, is filled in with scores of attributes, from strength to charm to logic, and each has a numerical value attached. The game is built around the conventions of dice-rolling, role-playing games of the sort played by a group of friends seated at a table, hurling complicated dice to shape their collective story. With a light touch, the dialogue explores everything from minor acts of everyday racism to entire systems of governance, all through the lens of the murder case. The writing, by the Karelian-Estonian novelist Robert Kurvitz, skilfully builds on the themes suggested by the presentation. There’s a feeling that this is a scene of tangled riddles, and that you, in your equivalent brokenness, might be just the right key to unlock them. The town is filled with nooks and alleyways, secret doors and high-rise elevators that lead to unmarked floors. The melancholic strains of music that float in combine with the painterly, impressionistic style to create a distinct and cohesive sense of place. Numerous assets mark Disco Elysium out from more run-of-the-mill Chinatown-esque thrillers. The resulting power vacuum has been filled by the local unions, whose strictly anti-snitch stance makes life difficult for a pair of detectives. As you sober up, you find that the locals are wilfully uncooperative this is an “orphan” district, so-called because the local police precincts are unable to agree on which of them is responsible for maintaining law and order. He explains that you have been paired to investigate the apparent murder of a security guard, whose body still dangles from the tree on which he was strung, behind the hotel in which you’re staying. Soon enough you meet your partner, an abstemious young detective who places a steadying, expositional hand on the narrative. Then you begin to piece together your identity, and discover why you have wound up in this rundown port town, “a puddle at the end of some drainpipe”, as one character puts it, not unfairly. You spend the next few minutes clothing yourself (an exertion that, for an unlucky player, can lead to a terminal heart attack). Your work tie ribbons from the ceiling fan, your room is a wreck, and your immediate purpose is lost to the week’s substance abuse. The game opens as you emerge from unconsciousness into a shuffling, amnesiac hangover following a three-day bender. Disco Elysium establishes the character you play – a washed-up detective living out of a hotel room – with enviable efficiency.
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