My body talks to me. Not in words, exactly — more in feelings, tugs, and the quiet hum of bad ideas. It’s just usually a little louder or quieter than I’d like it to be.
The year is 2010 and I am in tenth grade. The PlayStation 3 is the most beautiful object in the known universe: black, curved, glistening like obsidian in a museum of unattainable things. Retail price: $600. My wallet: pretty empty.
Electrochemistry: You want it. You need it. Think of the graphics.
Logic: You are a busboy at a Mexican restaurant. You make $4.25 an hour plus tips.
Volition: Ignore them both. You’re saving. You’re responsible.
Electrochemistry: But… what if there’s a deal
Every day after school, I had been scrolling Craigslist like a raccoon rummaging through trash. And one day—there it is. A post. “Brand new PS3 consoles. $300. Call Benny.”
Inland Empire: Benny. The name hums with mystery. And danger.
Perception: Brand new? Several units? Half price? Suspicious.
Electrochemistry: You’ve got the money.
Reaction Speed: Dial the number. Now.
A gruff voice answers amid a roar of city noise — Benny. He says they’re selling fast, but he can meet me in Detroit that evening. He’ll text the location later.
Logic: This is not how legitimate retail transactions work.
Electrochemistry: Shut up.
Authority: Call your dad. Convince him. This is your moment.
Dad agrees, though I can feel the skepticism vibrating through the phone. Later that night, we’re in the car, headlights slicing through the dark as we head toward the city. When I finally read him the address, he pauses. Says the neighborhood has a reputation. The kind of reputation that makes people lock their car doors at stoplights.
Empathy: He’s worried. You’re his kid, chasing a console-shaped dream into a bad part of town.
Electrochemistry: You’re going to be fine — HE’S going to be fine.
Endurance: Your stomach is tight. You could turn back. You won’t.
We arrive. The building is boarded up, the streets quiet except for the wail of distant sirens. A white van waits under a flickering streetlight, as if summoned from a cautionary tale. Two men step out. One is thin, wiry, with eyes like burnt coffee beans—Benny. The other, taller, built like a refrigerator with muscles—Jet.
Inland Empire: Jet. That can’t be his real name. He doesn’t look like an Elton John fan..?
Perception: There’s something tucked into the back of his jeans.
Composure: Do not panic. Breathe normally. Pretend this is normal.
Jet opens the van. Inside is a mountain of PlayStation 3 consoles, stacked like treasure in a pirate’s trunk.
Logic: These consoles did not arrive through official distribution channels.
Intuition: They must have ‘fallen off the truck’.
Electrochemistry: Who cares? They’re beautiful.
Money changes hands. The console changes cars. My dad drives off before anyone can change their mind.
Volition: You did it. You got your PS3.
Logic: You may also have just funded organized crime.
Electrochemistry: Totally worth it.
With my heart pounding, the dull hum of the highway fills the car and drowns out the voices in my head.
Playing Disco Elysium feels like trying to solve a murder while also solving yourself—and doing both poorly. You wake up half-naked on a stained hotel carpet, your brain fogged by alcohol and regret, and your tie whispering questionable advice from the ceiling fan. You’re not just a detective, you’re a human disaster in a pair of briefs, staggering through the wreckage of your own life, trying to make sense of a city that’s just as broken as you are.
At its core, the game is a detective role-playing game, though it bends that label almost beyond recognition. There’s no combat in the traditional sense: no guns, no swords, no quick-time events, just dialogue, dice rolls, and the endless chatter of your own fragmented psyche. You navigate the story through conversations, choices, and internal arguments, shaping both the case you’re solving and the character you’re playing as. Every skill in the game is a voice in your head, each with its own personality and agenda: Logic tries to keep you grounded, Drama insists you’re a misunderstood genius, and Electrochemistry just wants another drink. The result is a game that plays less like a procedural mystery and more like an interactive novel wrapped around a nervous breakdown. You don’t level up by killing monsters; you do it by saying something so stupid or profound that the universe has no choice but to reward you. It’s chaotic, brilliant, and maybe the first RPG where your biggest enemy is your own brain.
Disco Elysium is set in the city of Revachol, but Revachol isn’t just a backdrop. It’s a living, breathing world that feels like it has seen everything and would really prefer not to see any more. Once the grand capital of a revolution that fizzled out decades ago, it now sits in a sort of permanent hangover—cracked streets, bullet holes, and all. It’s a city haunted by history, where every corner whispers about something that used to matter. The people you meet in Revachol are layered and deeply human, each carrying their own quiet tragedies, political grudges, and dark pasts. The city is grimy, beautiful, and weirdly alive. A place where failure is the default state of being, and everyone’s just trying to make peace with it.
Every action, every failed dice roll, every impulsive decision adds up to something that feels strangely profound. Failure isn’t punishment here—it’s character development. You’ll botch interrogations, insult witnesses, and probably pass out a few times, but the beauty of Disco Elysium is that all those mistakes weave together into something authentic. It’s a story about fumbling through the chaos of being human and still daring to care.
Conversations in Disco Elysium aren’t just dialogue trees, they’re battles of ideology, philosophy, and self-delusion. You aren’t just choosing what to say in a conversation, you are simultaneously choosing what kind of person you’re becoming. Are you a washed-up communist, a fascist cop, a sad disco poet, or just an honest man trying to make it through the morning without collapsing? The game doesn’t judge you, it just holds up a mirror and lets you squirm. With all the dialogue, the game can drag a little bit, but the writing is what ties it all together and keeps the player engaged. It is witty, melancholic, and painfully self-aware. One minute you’re laughing at your own idiocy; the next, you’re staring at the screen, gutted by a line about lost love or forgotten ideals. The voices in your head (your skills, your fears, your impulses) are as much your companions as your partner Kim Kitsuragi, who somehow remains the moral center of the universe even while you spiral into philosophical nonsense.
Kim Kitsuragi is the calm eye in Disco Elysium’s hurricane of chaos—a lieutenant from another precinct working with you on the murder case in Revachol. He’s the one person holding things together while you’re busy arguing with your necktie or trying to philosophize your way out of a hangover. He’s patient but not passive, stoic but not cold, and somehow manages to treat your endless self-destruction like it’s just another part of the job. Kim doesn’t use grand speeches or dramatic gestures; his quiet competence says everything. He believes in doing the work, collecting evidence, taking notes, and being decent in a world that’s long stopped rewarding decency. The best part is, he never gives up on you, even when you’re giving him every possible reason to. He’s the grounding force in a story full of ghosts and delusions, a small reminder that amidst all the absurdity and despair, there’s still room for empathy, professionalism, and a little bit of hope.
To me, one of the most interesting parts about this game is its art style. Disco Elysium looks like a fever dream painted in oil and nicotine. Its art style leans toward impressionism — every scene feels like it’s been brushed onto the screen by someone who hasn’t slept in three days but still cares deeply about light and texture. The city of Revachol isn’t rendered in crisp lines or photorealism; it’s all soft edges, muted colors, and hazy details that blur like a memory you’re not sure you want back. Characters move through painterly backdrops that feel both decayed and oddly romantic, as if the world itself is trying to remember how to be beautiful. The result is a game that doesn’t just look like art—it feels like art. Art that’s been left out in the rain too long, which is a perfect fit for the story it’s telling.
By the time the credits roll, you haven’t just solved a case, you’ve lived a whole messy life in fast-forward. Disco Elysium is less about finding answers and more about learning to sit with the questions. It’s a game about failure, redemption, and the quiet dignity of trying again, even when everything inside you (and around you) is falling apart. It’s strange, sad, brilliant, and deeply funny—a masterpiece that somehow makes self-destruction feel like an act of grace.
Logic: Tell them to play the game.
"Visual calculus is the coolest skill in all of video games."
"So many people ask 'what's Cuno'. Not enough people ask 'why's Cuno'."
"A permanent fixture in my thought cabinet."