I’m beating him.
I’ve built a good deck and made my sacrifices. He’s on the ropes.
But he speaks.
Too Fast. Too Soon.
Naturally, eight bears materialise. Their eyes glint red; angry zigs of fur ripple. Black gums solder their teeth in place. They advance. He wins. My run is over.
His trump card hits like a slap across the face. It’s unfair.
I begin from scratch.
Inscryption is a game about resisting control. You create cards that twist the game’s rules; all the while, you seek to escape a candle-lit cabin. But your opponent, the mysterious and violent Leshy, is more than happy to shorten the leash. With his wall of bears, Leshy seizes back control and controller.
But this is his fatal mistake. It insults me, and I come back more motivated than ever. Leshy’s mask slips; under all that brooding mystique, he’s a sore loser and manchild of a dungeon-master. The bear wall, a desperate bid for control, ultimately weakens Leshy’s hold over me. Sacrifice runs through Inscryption like a dark vein. The bear wall proves that honour is the first thing Leshy is willing to discard. In the bargain, he loses his ability to intimidate.
Finally, I beat Leshy with my own trump card, my own bear wall: a praying mantis which smells like a skunk. I realise, of course, that I am the same as him, bending the rules to my whim. In time, I learn that Leshy’s desire to prolong the game came from a far deeper place, from something we have in common. Leshy can be ready as an analogy for God, patriarch, game developer, or overzealous Monopoly banker; at his core, though, he’s a man who wants to stay—and play—a little longer. Perhaps I should’ve listened. Perhaps I should’ve slowed down.
