If you want a prime example of people recognizing that things were simply better about 15 years ago, you can look at the unexpected resurgence of skateboarding games. It quietly started in 2020 with the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater remakes—a return to form so good it almost made people forgive Activision for everything else—, and it continues today with EA desperately trying to understand why no one is excited about their Skate reboot that looks more like Fortnite on wheels than the spiritual successor fans actually wanted. Which brings us to today’s topic: the skateboarding game for someone who probably has a Criterion Channel or MUBI subscription and talks about Wong Kar-wai at parties. Devolver Digital’s newest oddity, Skate Story, is skating for the anxious, the poetic, and the chronically online. It follows a fragile glass demon with a simple cosmic objective: eat the bright moon so they can finally sleep.
Right from the jump, Skate Story distinguishes itself not with mechanics, but with mood. This is one of the most visually striking games released in years—a neon-soaked fever dream where every lamppost, shadow, and passing breeze looks dipped in liquid melancholy. The entire world seems suspended between reality and hologram, like a mixtape of cyberpunk street photography, offbeat music videos, and PS2-era surrealism. You don’t just skate through levels—you drift through spaces that feel like metaphors. If traditional skate games evoke rebellious energy and backyard punk shows, Skate Story is more like skating through your intrusive thoughts at 3 AM.
The art direction isn’t just aesthetic for the sake of aesthetics. There’s an intentional fragility to everything, especially the protagonist. You are literally made of glass, and every fall shatters you into glittering fragments across the asphalt. It’s dramatic, but it’s also strangely vulnerable. Other skating games punish your mistakes with point deductions or goofy ragdoll physics; here, every failure feels like a tiny tragedy. And yet, that’s also what makes each completed trick feel meaningful. Land a clean kickflip followed by a manual, and the screen blooms with color, the soundtrack swells, and for a moment, the world looks less hostile. Mechanically, the game sits somewhere between arcade comfort and simulation precision. The controls demand intention—momentum, posture, and commitment matter. It has more in common with Skate than Tony Hawk, but where EA chases realism, Skate Story chases emotional texture. Every trick feels earned, not in a competitive sense, but in a meditative one. It’s the same feeling as trying to learn something in real life, not because someone is watching, but because failing hurts and succeeding feels like a secret you unlocked within yourself.
The narrative is minimal, but deliberately so. You meet strange, cryptic beings who speak in riddles about suffering, purpose, and hunger—all the things you expect from a Devolver Digital protagonist. But rather than provide exposition dumps or cutscenes, the story unfolds as quiet guidance. You’re not here to save the world; you’re here to eat the moon, escape pain, and understand your existence, which is somehow both absurd and emotionally resonant. The writing hints at a philosophical core without ever forcing itself into pretension. It allows players to project meaning rather than interpret someone else’s. The soundtrack deserves special praise. Composed largely by Blood Cultures and other ambient electronica artists, it feels like the game inhaling and exhaling in tandem with you. Soft pulses accompany gentle cruising, while glitchy crescendos erupt when you string together a chain of tricks. It’s one of those rare soundtracks that doesn’t just enhance gameplay but defines it—if the visuals are the bones, the soundtrack is the bloodstream.
Not everything is perfect, of course. The physics occasionally feel stubborn, especially when you’re trying to transition from artistic flow to mechanical precision. Some objectives repeat in structure, and a portion of players will inevitably bounce off the slow, introspective pacing. This is not a game built around content checklists or progression systems; it’s built around vibe. And in an era where “vibe games” are becoming more common—Jusant, Solar Ash, Sable—Skate Story fits comfortably among them while still doing its own thing. Where it truly excels is in the way it reframes skateboarding not as sport, not as urban rebellion, but as a metaphor for persistence. You fall, you break, you reform. You keep going. Every level is an emotional loop: fail, shatter, try, glide. It turns skateboarding into a language for healing, which sounds ridiculous until you realize that the game actually pulls it off.
Skate Story will not be for everyone, and it doesn’t want to be. It’s niche, deliberate, beautiful, and often frustrating—yet that’s exactly what makes it memorable. It’s the type of game that will appear on lists like “Top 10 Artistic Games You Missed,” the type that critics champion years later while players slowly discover it through word of mouth. In a year crowded with sequels, remasters, and corporate half-measures, Skate Story stands out as something rare: a game that expresses feeling more than formula. It’s a skateboarding dream soaked in sorrow, style, and starlight. Fragile, yes—but unforgettable.
Score: 8 out of 10
Reviewed on PC (Steam Deck)