You get to say ‘stop’ when adding ingredients to the boiling pot of your kitchen cooker. Decision two is a less sophisticated instrument. At the end of every phase of potion brewing, you get to buy fresh new ingredients for your future hideous concoctions and add them to the cloth bag that acts as your storage pantry. And yet you really only make two significant decisions during any round of the game. It’s a game built almost entirely around the idea of catastrophising. Mostly what you spend your time doing in Clacks of Quindington is worrying. How else could you explain a game mechanism that lets you use rat tails as a bulking agent? I mean, that’s how I get the appropriate blend of textures in my home-made soup but I had assumed that was my own innovation. You’re a traveling peddler of snake oil and other reptile based unguents, plying a trade where healing potions use chunkiness as a first order selling point. Here, it’s not a syndrome at all – you genuinely are an imposter. For those of you that may struggle with imposter syndrome, this is a game that will give you something of an outlet. Still, aside from the name there’s a nice pitch in here. Even now, writing this review with the box right in front of me I’m still not sure I’ve spelled it correctly. This is a game that has built its search engine discoverability around what it found in the recovered escape plans of Osama Bin Laden. Whenever I talk about it I have to look at the smeared out writing on my palm, at which point it becomes ‘Quorks of Cuisinart?’. It’s given my spell-checker a stress headache. I have never once written it down correctly the first, second or even third time. I have a number of things that aggravate me about Quacks of Quedlinburg but none are quite so intense as my hatred for whoever named it.
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