It Takes Two was a lightning-in-a-bottle moment; everything aligned to reward that game with the ultimate success. While it was undoubtedly fun and showcased a designer’s creativity at the height of his powers, parts of the game—primarily its narrative—fell flat for me, and it ultimately dragged on a skerrick too long. Split Fiction, the studio’s third title, revisits the well of unadulterated, co-op fun and, incredibly, delivers unexpectedly unique ways to play and work together in what can only be described as a genre-bending epic about the power of friendship.
A Way Out had the grounding of a prison break drama, while It Takes Two waded more into the supernatural and fantastical as a child’s wishful magic provided an unavoidable delay to a couple’s divorce as they were reduced down to life as living dolls in their daughter’s bedroom. Split Fiction, courtesy of technology from its far flung future, makes the best of both worlds—literally.
Zoe and Mio, two would-be, unpublished authors, sign up for a test study they believe will lead to their big break and serve as a launching pad for their careers as authors. A groundbreaking machine, developed by a corporation called Rader, gives creative types a virtual platform to enter and live out their ideas—what better way to pitch a story than to exist within it? Not far from the starting line, it becomes evident that all of the budding writers are being farmed for their ideas, and Mio’s resistance to partaking in the experiment sees her accidentally absorbed into Zoe’s pod—a collision of ideas and worlds that unfurls over the next eight thrilling chapters.
While much of the game focuses on the burgeoning friendship between the pair, as their trust and sisterhood grows as they work through adversity together, their individual stories—and their reasons for taking part in the program—proved to serve as the narrative gut punch, particularly Zoe’s which culminates in a powerfully moving scene owned by Elsie Bennett. Discovering the origins of Mio’s reserved nature certainly justified her character’s near one-note anger for two-thirds of the game, however, Zoe’s sadness hid in plain sight behind a bubbly exterior, making her revelation all the more heartbreaking.
What I appreciate most about Split Fiction is that its core premise, writers weaving in and out of dreamscape worlds of their making, even those—in one case literal—castle in the sky ideas, serves as justification for anything. While I felt some of It Takes Two’s chapters didn’t serve its plot, nothing feels out of place here; it all works within its bigger picture. The mixture of scenery isn’t enormous as each writer’s penchant for science fiction or fantasy serves as the base for their respective chapters. It’s within the stranger side stories when you’re a barn pig, a sweet tooth, or a pencil-etched hero on a page that you get your moments of levity.
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There are, obviously, only a few games like Split Fiction where it feels like the focus, first and foremost, is raucous co-op fun boiled down to its purest form. As has always been the case, I love the split-screen presentation because it’s so imperative to know where your partner is and what they’re about to do. It demands concentration and communication from you both, and I respect that a studio can make that its core tenet for three games now and still turn out games as creative as Split Fiction. This game’s last act, which contains the craziest shit I’ve ever seen in a game and that’d make the realm-jumping of even Rift Apart’s eyes water, packs more creativity into a single minute than most could dream to launch in an eight-hour game.
Where most games have moments, Split Fiction is a game of moments. Every gimmick and throwaway idea that crops up throughout the game’s runtime is built upon its solid framework of platforming goodness. There isn’t a mechanic delivered in Split Fiction that feels half-baked, especially those that disappear completely after their singular minute of spotlight, but most impressive is how the game’s bedrock is. Its platforming is only a stone’s throw from being as tight and assured as Mario’s best, even if parts of it can seem to drive itself for the benefit of keeping things moving. If yours is a working knowledge of video games, you’re unlikely to get held up too long on any of Split Fiction’s more “challenging” parts, although I do think it’s perhaps a tad harder than its predecessors. For a game with so much to consider at any one point, as you and your partner contend with complementary abilities, it’s remarkably intuitive, and it never once thinks to bury the fun within finicky, trying situations.
More than ever before, having only experienced events through Zoe’s eyes, I feel like there is another game here that I didn’t get to play. Mio’s half is one I absorbed primarily through peripheral vision, and I could certainly see myself going back through to see her side of things. Having played Split Fiction entirely with Shannon via online co-op, it’s worth mentioning that the game ran faultlessly and that we experienced no negative side effects when it came to pairing up or the game’s performance, which came as a relief in this new, cross-platform future which saw him join on his PlayStation Portal as I kept to the relative safety of the rival console.
If you’re familiar with Hazelight and how they do things, Split Fiction sees the return of their invaluable “friend pass” feature that allows you and a friend to play the full game, even if only one of you has paid for the game. Exactly how this works and how it gets carved up in a cross-platform world, I’ll never know, but it’s so consumer-first that I can’t not call it out for the boon it is.
I think there’s an argument to be made that Split Fiction isn’t as aesthetically dynamic as It Takes Two. With its twin focuses of sci-fi and fantasy worlds, and all that entails from neon cityscapes to exotic, forgotten forests, it does look like a game of two distinct halves, and visually, it does struggle to match the variety offered by its gameplay. It does, however, feel more focused on what it’s trying to do, and the worlds in Split Fiction feel wholly concepted and executed with so much love and care for their respective genres. Just as often as I’d be left mouth agape from a rocking set piece, I’d find myself overawed by a beautiful vista—often accompanied by a Brothers-esque bench where you’re able to enjoy a quiet moment with your bestie.
It’s hard not to consider Split Fiction a damn near perfect example of what it sets out to do. Despite bordering dangerously close to cliché, which, given the characters’ vocation, is a little on the nose, it tells a better story than It Takes Two did with much leaner pacing.
I entered Split Fiction open-mindedly, wondering whether this game could recapture what they’d done before. I left with the realisation that it won’t be until Josef Fares’ next game that I’ll have that much fun again. Simply put, it was a joy. Never has a game had me in such a constant state of “ooh”.
