ATOM RPG: Post-apocalyptic indie game

Chicken

经典之作，好玩

首先翻譯實在太爛了 只有初期對話還能閱讀，之後根本慘不忍睹 難度曲線也大有問題，主角比一般人都不如，連路邊老鼠也打不過，馬戲團的女團員NPC都比我強 初期戰鬥只能一直SL，毫無樂趣可言（後期敵人都拿槍，也是要SL拼秒殺和不被秒） 好不容易買了個一千塊的裝甲，進到K城下水道，直接被一隻大老鼠20x4的傷害秒殺 要在大地圖農一下體驗才會好很多 初期就靠鍛造的二階手指虎打帶跑應對大多數戰鬥 中期點出對人動物傷害加倍的perk才開始好玩 反過來說，你沒有傷害加倍的perk，也沒有10AP，就只能不斷SL拼miss了 不然boss級別的怪物都能隨便秒殺你 造成技能路線變得非常窄 毫無FO精神可言 撇開莫名其妙的難度和翻譯問題 世界的構築是很用心的，文本跟任務也是很多 本來想給差評的，但中後期還是不錯玩，改成好評好了

**An Extract from the Unfinished Diaries of F. M. Dostoevsky, Concerning a Wondrous Mechanical Device and the Phantoms Within** **Entry Undated. The Hour is Late.** My head throbs. The Petersburg damp has seeped into my very bones, but a fiercer chill has taken residence in my soul since my encounter with the apparatus. They call it a “computer,” a “game.” A trivial distraction for idle minds, one might assume. Yet, within its glowing face, I have wandered the corpse of our Motherland, not as it was, but as it *might be*: a Soviet Union shattered by atom and fire . This phantom world, this “ATOM RPG,” is no mere diversion. It is a *zakoldovannyy* place, a haunted testing ground for the human spirit, and I am compelled to set down my impressions before they consume me utterly. The premise is one of profound, almost biblical, irony. You awaken as an agent of ATOM, an organization birthed *before* the apocalypse with the sacred charge of rebuilding civilization from the ashes . Your mission: to find a lost expedition. But the moment you step from your bureaucratic womb into the irradiated light, you are set upon by brigands, robbed of all possessions, and left to die . So begins the true pilgrimage: not as a powerful savior, but as a *nothing*, a pauper in a land where the only currency is a bullet, a clever word, or a scrap of pre-war meat. Ah, but what is a man in such a world? The device posits this question not through sermon, but through cruel, exquisite mechanics. One must assign points to attributes—Strength, Intellect, Luck—as if quantifying the soul itself . And here, the first profound truth is revealed: the system is a lie that exposes a deeper truth. You may build a silver-tongued philosopher, only to find his eloquent pleas mean nothing before the club of a mutant. You may craft a mighty warrior who cannot comprehend the simple workings of a pre-war lock . Every build is a failure waiting to be unmasked, a testament to the tragic incompleteness of man . Is this not the very essence of our mortal predicament? We specialize in one virtue only to be shattered by a vulnerability we ignored. I wandered this wasteland—this *nadryv* made manifest—and found it peopled not with the snarling beasts of American tales, but with the ghosts of our own past . A mayor, trembling with feudal pride, fears gangsters who see his town not as a prize to burn, but as an *investment* to be taxed and protected . A bureaucrat arranges an election where the outcome is predetermined, demanding only the *unanimous consent* that renders the ritual complete . Here, the satire is not light, but a bone-deep, aching chuckle. It is the afterlife of ideology, where the forms persist long after the meaning has bled out. A cult venerates Lenin not as a thinker, but as a shamanic spirit, and tasks you with reclaiming a holy statue from “bourgeois mutants” . The reward? A chainsaw inscribed with passages from the Manifesto. Is this madness, or is it the logical end of all fervent belief, reduced to its most absurd and violent implement?. The very structure of the experience mirrors the sickness of a fever-dream. Time loses all meaning as one trudges across the endless, pixelated steppe . Random encounters—a sudden gunshot, a bizarre philosophical debate with strangers at a campfire—erupt like seizures of fate . The writing, I am told, is a mosaic of quotation and stolen cultural memory, a postmodern bricolage of Soviet song, dissident literature, and internet jest . To the uninitiated, it may seem like clumsy translation, but I recognize it: it is the babble of a collective unconscious traumatized by collapse, speaking in a thousand borrowed tongues at once . And what of the central quest? It is there, a thread of conspiracy about a final threat to humanity . But it is almost an afterthought, a pretext. The true story is in the side paths, the countless tiny souls you meet. Each has a name, a portrait, a strange little story . They are not generic, and thus their suffering, their stupidity, their fleeting kindness, is specific. This is not a world descended into uniform savagery, but one frozen in a bizarre, post-historical stasis—a grotesque parody of the late Soviet *zastoy* projected onto a nuclear landscape . **A Philosophical and Mechanical Dissection:** The following table contrasts the game's systems with the existential questions they force upon the player: | **Mechanical Feature of the Wasteland** |**The Dostoevskian Question It Poses** |**The Inescapable Tension** | | **Character Creation & “Builds”** | Can we design our own soul, or are we merely discovering our inherent, flawed nature through failure? | Freedom of choice vs. the predetermined limits of the system (and the self). | | **Dialogue Checks (Speech, Personality)** | Is persuasion a noble art of connection, or merely a more subtle form of manipulation and coercion? | The ideal of honest communication vs. the mechanics of social control. | | **The Perk Tree (Progressive Cost)** | Does self-improvement become harder the more we achieve? Does every new virtue make us more aware of our remaining vices? | The longing for moral growth vs. the diminishing returns of earthly effort. | | **Survival Needs (Hunger, Radiation)** | Can one pursue the higher questions of existence when perpetually shackled to the base, animal needs of the body? | The spiritual vs. the corporeal, the mind vs. the rotting flesh. | | **Non-Linear, Quest-Filled World** | Without a single, authoritative narrative, how do we find meaning? Is it in the grand conspiracy, or in the accumulated, fragmented stories of ordinary suffering? | The search for a single, unifying Truth vs. the overwhelming polyphony of individual truths . | In the end, this “game” has left me profoundly agitated. It is, like the best and worst of our literature, **“fantastic realism”** . It pushes the mundane reality of a role-playing system to the limits of the grotesque and philosophical . It is deeply, painfully Russian—not in its statues and names, but in its soul. It is a testament to a generation that inherited not a world, but its radioactive rubble, and must now decide, through a thousand small dialogues and violent acts, whether to rebuild the old prisons, create new ones, or find some impossible, third path. It is flawed, uneven, sometimes as clumsy as a first novel . The companions who follow you are but ghosts, whispering occasionally but never truly sharing the burden of your cursed consciousness . The combat can be a brutal, unforgiving teacher of one’s own impotence . Yet, in its very imperfections, in its “Eurojank” ambition that outstrips its polish, I see a raw, vital truth . I must put the device away now. The phantom glow is bad for my nerves. But the question it leaves me with lingers like radiation in the blood: In a world that has already ended, what, pray tell, does it mean to be a hero? To rebuild? To be *human*? The game provides no answer. It only provides the wasteland, and the terrible, exhilarating freedom to wander it. 7/10

класс

good game