Hugin & Munin Journal

The Alien franchise has always worked through contrast. Its futures are cold, industrial and procedural; its horror is wet, physical and intimate. The original film did not frighten only because of the creature. The Nostromo had ranks, routines, machinery and material limits, so every violation entered a world solid enough to resist it. Alien: Earth understands that surface exceptionally well. It knows the weight of retro-futurist controls, the sterility of corporate laboratories and the unease produced by artificial people who are never as emotionally simple as their makers expect. It also brings several promising ideas into the franchise: child minds housed in synthetic bodies, a wider alien ecology and a planet where corporations exercise powers once associated with states. The problem is not a shortage of ambition. It is that the season’s ideas, institutions and character decisions do not consistently reinforce one another. Scenes often look as though they belong in Alien be...

When Darkest Dungeon reached full release in January 2016, it did more than add another entry to the long tradition of dungeon-crawling RPGs. It placed psychological pressure beside health, equipment and positioning as something the player had to manage. The important innovation was not simply the addition of a stress meter. Games had represented morale, fear and sanity before. What made Darkest Dungeon distinctive was the way stress altered a hero’s behaviour, reduced the player’s control and continued to shape the campaign after the expedition ended. The heroes are not merely combat units with a second health bar. They are people who can become unreliable, infect one another with despair and eventually cost more to repair than the player is prepared to spend. The game’s real horror lies partly in how quickly that becomes an administrative calculation. Official artwork for Darkest Dungeon , developed and published by Red Hook Studios. Used for purposes of re...

Agyar is something as unusual—and quietly impressive—as a vampire novel that never once uses the word vampire . Every hint is indirect, every clue oblique. Instead of being told what Agyar is, the reader is left to assemble the truth from his habits, appetites and carefully controlled recollections. That restraint is more than a clever device. It shapes the entire novel. Agyar is telling his own story, and the things he avoids naming matter almost as much as those he chooses to reveal. Cover image: Agyar by Steven Brust, published by Tor Books. Used here for purposes of review and commentary. The pleasure is therefore not really in discovering that Agyar is a vampire. Most readers will know that before opening the book, and the clues soon leave little room for doubt. The more interesting mystery is what kind of man—or monster—is constructing this account, and how much sympathy his version of events deserves. Agyar is also a love story, although not a re...