Ahead of the September launch of The Last of Us Part I, I've been playing the original PS4 remaster. This is the first time I've hung out with Joel and Ellie since I reviewed the PS3 version back in 2013, and I'm finding its mix of tense stealth, savage combat, and slow-paced exploration as compelling as it was almost a decade ago. But of all the experiences the game has to offer, it's that last point that really stands out for me. I've realised that the moments that I really love in The Last of Us are the ones where nothing much is happening at all.
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This is a game heaving with cinematic action set-pieces, nerve-shredding stealth horror, and chaotic shootouts—and I enjoy all of that stuff. But it's the quiet, thoughtful stretches of exploration inbetween that I look forward to the most: when the action temporarily subsides and you're free to absorb the game's haunting, atmospheric setting at your own steady pace. These serene moments are a merciful break from the relentless nightmare our heroes are being forced to endure, giving both them and you, the player, a chance to just breathe.
But, more importantly, they're also an opportunity to fully absorb Naughty Dog's beautifully realised setting. The world-building in The Last of Us is still spectacular, with a rich sense of place and a palpable atmosphere that draws you deep into its bleak, hopeless post-apocalypse. As I play the game today, I'm struck by how much the game can say without saying anything at all. Naughty Dog's artists are great at telling stories with little more than props, clutter, and careful placement of objects, which tinges every moment of exploration with
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