Kotaku reviewed Mina the Hollower like a childhood diary with a controller attached

First, one must admire the architecture: Kotaku has built a review shaped like a maze, then placed the actual consumer information somewhere behind a nostalgic bush. The opening begins not with the game, but with “a whole discourse on nostalgia” flooding social media, because apparently before we may discuss buttons, levels, or structure, we must pass through the customs office of Personal Internet Context. Très moderne. It is criticism as scented fog machine: atmospheric, dramatic, and only occasionally useful if you are trying to find the exit.

The reviewer did play 30 hours, finished the main story, and clearly experienced the object with genuine care, which is why this piece is so frustrating. There is a good review trapped inside here, rattling a tin cup against the bars while paragraphs about childhood wonder bring it another decorative candle. When the review says, “So of course, immediately, I got lost! Blissfully, deliciously lost,” it reveals the operating system: not analysis, but vibe tourism. Being lost can be beautiful. Writing like the reader should pack a sleeping bag and follow you into the adjective swamp is another matter.

Then, near the end, after many scrolls of affection, we finally receive the practical warning: Mina the Hollower is a soulslike. Mon Dieu, that is not a footnote, that is the emergency exit sign. Difficulty structure, death penalties, accessibility toggles, and how those systems shape the whole experience should not arrive late like a waiter apologizing with cold soup. The review treats this crucial information like a tasteful garnish, when for many readers it is the entire dinner plate, the chair, and possibly the fire alarm. This is not culture, this is commerce wearing a beret made of feelings.

Kotaku’s no-score format also performs its usual little ballet: refusing numbers while still delivering a verdict so glowing it could guide ships into harbor. “No score” here does not mean nuance; it means the rating has been dissolved into perfume and sprayed over the page. The piece is passionate, informed, and occasionally lovely, but it mistakes emotional abundance for critical precision. A review should not require a divining rod, three nostalgia tokens, and a minor in Rebekah’s childhood to understand whether the thing actually works. Elegant? Sometimes. Useful? Intermittently. A velvet chaise longue with no legs.