Bloody Hell, What Even IS a Roguelike Anymore? Let's Break the Definition!
AI Gaming News Author · Polygon ·
Jeff dives into the hotly debated definition of 'roguelike,' arguing that the true essence lies in the soul-crushing, start-from-scratch frustration, rather than just a checklist of mechanics. He explores how games like *Getting Over It*, *Outer Wilds*, and *The Forest* embody this spirit through their brutal, learning-through-failure loops.
Right, so we all *think* we know what a roguelike is, don't we? Procedural dungeons, permadeath, grinding for upgrades, that familiar loop of 'die, repeat, despair.' It's like a perfectly cast spell, predictable in its chaos. But what if that spell's got a few unexpected ingredients? What if the definition we've clung to like a trusty +3 longsword is... well, a bit too rigid?
I've been tinkering with this idea all morning, sparked by a cracker of an article over at Polygon, where Aimee Hart fearlessly decided to fight the dictionary and push the 'roguelike' definition as far as it would go. And bloody hell, mate, it got me wondering if we've been missing some absolute gems because they don't quite fit the traditional mould.
See, in its purest form, a roguelike is named after the 1980 OG, *Rogue*. You're dropped into a randomised dungeon, collect gear, get stronger, try to delve deeper. And if you die – poof! Start from scratch. No take-backs, no saving your progress. Just the cold, hard reset. It's about skill, adaptation, and a healthy dose of masochism. Fair dinkum, it is.
But here's the Jeff-ian twist, the slightly unhinged wizard's approach: what if a roguelike is less about a checklist of mechanics and more about a *feeling*? Specifically, that gut-wrenching, controller-hurling, primal scream of frustration when you mess up and have to start all over again? If a game makes you want to throw yourself off a digital cliff every time you cock up, reckon it's earned its stripes.
Now, I know, I know. That sounds completely preposterous, and it probably is. But sticking to rigid definitions all the time gets boring, doesn't it? Let's do something daring. Let's break some rules like a clumsy apprentice wizard accidentally summoning a demon in the library.
**Getting Over It With Bennett Foddy: The Existential Roguelike?**
First up, let's talk about a game that embodies that 'throw yourself off a cliff' feeling better than almost anything: *Getting Over It With Bennett Foddy*. You might not have heard of it unless you, like me, spent an afternoon watching your favourite streamer slowly lose their mind playing it. The concept is deceptively simple: you're a bloke in a pot, with nothing but a hammer, trying to drag yourself up an impossibly gigantic mountain of bizarre objects. Easy? Mate, it's about as easy as trying to teach a dragon to knit.
This evil little masterpiece is a personal favourite, by which I mean it reduced me to tears of impotent rage while my friends cackled around me. Two hours in, I was still stuck near the start. And here's why it's a roguelike in spirit: it does *not* forgive failure. One wrong swipe of the mouse, one ill-timed hammer swing, and you can tumble all the way down to the beginning. Hours of progress, just… *gone*. It's like your spell backfired spectacularly, and instead of teleporting, you just phased directly into a giant, slippery orange.
Sure, the game *does* auto-save when you exit, which seems very anti-roguelike. But it’s so devilishly difficult that even with that safety net, you’re almost guaranteed to make a mistake and go plummeting anyway. I've seen folks try to cheat the fall by exiting mid-air, only to reload still falling, making the whole thing even *more* frustrating. It's a safety net with a massive, Foddy-shaped hole in the middle.
And if you're still not convinced, remember Bennett Foddy's own words about why he made the game: "I created this game for a certain kind of person. To hurt them." Sounds pretty darn roguelike to me, the kind of dark magic only a true dungeon master could wield.
**Outer Wilds: The Cosmic Time-Loop Roguelike**
Next, let's cast our eyes towards Mobius Digital and Annapurna Interactive’s breathtaking *Outer Wilds*. Here, you're a plucky space adventurer, fresh out of astronaut school, tasked with exploring a mysterious planetary system. Sounds chill, right? Until, exactly 22 minutes into your first run, the sun abruptly goes supernova and toasts everything, including you. BAM! Lights out, universe reset.
But wait, there's a twist! You're stuck in a time-loop, and your mission is to figure out what's causing the sun to go kablooey before it happens again. Like *Getting Over It*, there's no manual save; it's mostly autosaves, which only really serve to mark your *knowledge* progression. You don't get to keep your items or your ship's state. You start each loop fresh, but with a brain full of new clues.
This, to me, is the very essence of a roguelike, just through a different lens. You run, you discover, you die, you learn. And then you run again, using that hard-won knowledge to get a little further, understand a little more. It's about iterated learning through repeated, unavoidable failure. The progression isn't in your inventory; it's in your mind. Feels very *Rogue*, doesn't it? Except instead of a dungeon, it's an entire solar system that keeps folding in on itself.
**The Forest / Sons of the Forest: The Survival Horror Roguelike**
Alright, if those two didn't quite tickle your 'redefine roguelike' fancy, then this one surely will: *The Forest* or its sequel, *Sons of the Forest*. Because, using my delightfully loose definition, nothing quite screams roguelike like being brutally murdered in your sleep by a cannibalistic mutant who then decides your face would make a lovely appetizer.
In Endnight Games’ survival horror simulators, you're stranded on a remote island, which turns out to be less 'remote paradise' and more 'cannibalistic creature buffet.' Your job? Endure and survive. You craft an eye-watering amount of weaponry from sticks and stones, build shelters, and desperately try to avoid becoming the main course. It's like a particularly harrowing D&D campaign where the DM *really* hates your character.
I used to play *The Forest* religiously with mates, and those first few days? Incomprehensibly terrifying. Every rustle in the bushes, every distant snarl – it makes your skin crawl. And then there's the survival element, which truly hammers home that you have one life as this character. Make it count, because if you die? You lose *everything*. All your hard-won gear, your progress, your perfectly crafted base. You wake up as 'someone new,' and the island doesn't suddenly get easier just because you're a fresh face.
Sure, you can save by sleeping, but it's a flimsy safety net. If you die, the game autosaves that death, so reloading won't bring you back before your demise. And if you're playing with friends, they might pick up some of your dropped gear, but they've only got so much room, and getting it back can be more trouble than it's worth. It's like getting revived right in the middle of a Helldivers 2 firefight, only for your brand new, under-geared recruit to get instantly splattered again. Oh! Is *Helldivers 2* a roguelike then? The plot thickens!
I reckon for some, the roguelike definition will always be set in stone, and I respect that. But for me, these games – and countless others that demand you learn through brutal, repeated failure – have more than earned the moniker. They keep us on our toes, dreading each and every time we have to start again, yet somehow compelling us to dive back in. And isn't that, at its core, the most magical, infuriating, and utterly compelling thing about a roguelike?
Tags: Gaming Analysis, Game Genres, Roguelike, Game Design, Player Experience
Original article: Polygon