Tucker and Dale vs Evil

Given that it’s the season to be spooky, I thought I’d finally talk about a film I only recently got around to watching—one that I should have seen a long time ago. Tucker and Dale vs Evil.

At first glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is just another backwoods horror flick. A group of college kids heads out to a cabin in the woods, ready for a weekend of drinking, swimming, and bad decisions. Along the way, they bump into a pair of scruffy-looking locals, Tucker and Dale, whose awkward attempts at friendliness are interpreted as menacing stares and sinister muttering. The setup is familiar, and horror veterans know exactly where this should be going: the kids will be hunted, the locals are evil, and the blood will flow.

But that’s the joke. The film takes those expectations, flips them upside down, and gleefully plays with them. Tucker and Dale aren’t killers—they’re just two best friends fixing up a run-down cabin with dreams of turning it into a fishing lodge. They’re well-meaning, a bit hapless, and completely bewildered when one by one, the college kids start dying around them in freak accidents. To the kids, it looks like a massacre. To Tucker and Dale, it looks like the strangest, bloodiest case of bad luck imaginable.

The misunderstandings pile higher as the bodies do. A simple rescue attempt becomes an apparent kidnapping. A chainsaw accident while fleeing bees turns into a terrifying chase. One teen literally dives into a wood chipper trying to attack Tucker, who then has to explain the situation to a horrified Dale while covered in gore. It’s slapstick comedy drenched in horror aesthetics, and it works far better than it has any right to.

The casting sells it completely. Alan Tudyk as Tucker is every bit as hilarious as you’d expect—his weary exasperation in the face of chaos had me in stitches. Tyler Labine, as Dale, is the heart of the film: shy, kind, and deeply insecure, yet impossible not to root for. Their chemistry together grounds the madness, and without it, the whole premise could have collapsed into parody.

That’s not to say the film doesn’t lean heavily on the very tropes it’s mocking. For all its clever subversions, it still relies on horror shorthand: the dumb but attractive college kids, the remote cabin, the escalating gore. There are moments where the satire softens and you’re just watching another horror cliché play out with a comedic twist. But in some ways, that’s the charm. It loves the genre enough to poke fun at it while still giving horror fans the blood and chaos they expect.

What struck me most is that beneath the carnage and comedy, there’s actually a gentle story about friendship and acceptance. Dale’s awkward romance with Allison (played by Katrina Bowden) feels surprisingly sweet, even amid all the dismemberment. Tucker and Dale’s friendship is the steady core: two good-hearted men just trying to live their lives, unfairly judged by appearances. It’s a reminder that “evil” isn’t always where we expect to find it, and that assumptions can be deadly in more ways than one.

It’s not perfect, but Tucker and Dale vs Evil is one of those rare horror comedies that genuinely earns its cult status. It made me laugh, wince, and occasionally look away from the screen. Most importantly, it reminded me that horror doesn’t always have to be about despair—it can also be about having a bloody good time.

So if you’re looking for something seasonal that doesn’t lean too hard into outright terror, this is well worth your time. Just don’t operate a chainsaw near bees. Trust me on that one.

The Quiet Joy of Re-Reading (and Re-Watching)

There’s something quietly comforting about going back to a story I already know. A book I’ve read before, a TV show I’ve finished, a film I could almost recite line for line. Some people chase the new, the thrill of the unknown — and I enjoy that too, but every now and then I find myself drawn to the familiar.

When I re-read a book, I’m not really chasing the ending anymore. I know what’s coming. Instead, I notice the little details I missed the first time: a clever line of foreshadowing, a look between characters that suddenly feels heavier, a piece of worldbuilding I brushed past too quickly. The story deepens, even though it hasn’t changed.

The same is true with films and TV. A favourite series becomes like background music for the soul, something I can put on when I want the comfort of characters I know. Watching them again is like visiting old friends. The tension of “what happens next” is gone, replaced by a softer anticipation of “ah, here comes that moment I love.” Sometimes it’s a dramatic scene, sometimes just a small exchange that always makes me smile.

Re-reading and re-watching remind me that stories aren’t just about surprise. They’re about connection. The first time is discovery; every time after is relationship. A well-loved book or film isn’t just entertainment, it becomes part of my personal landscape, a touchstone I can return to whenever I need grounding.

So yes, I’ll keep chasing new stories. But I’ll also keep circling back to the ones that stayed with me. Because in their familiarity, I don’t lose the magic, I rediscover it in a different way.

Ashes of the Damned is out!

I’m excited to share that my new short story, Ashes of the Damned, is now available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FHY2YPWX

Set against the backdrop of a burned-out industrial estate and a crime scene like no other, this tale follows Paladin Gideon Voss and witch detective Isolde Thorne as they uncover whispers of rituals, missing persons, and something far darker rising beneath the city.

The deeper they dig, the higher the stakes become—until the threat they face could tear everything apart.

Though short in length, Ashes of the Damned packs in all the grit, sharp dialogue, and urban fantasy atmosphere of a full novel—perfect for a quick, immersive read.

Writing and Escapism

 I’m a daydreamer. I often retreat into my own stories, crafting worlds and creating new narratives. It’s one of my favourite things—like having a brand-new movie on demand, only one that plays out entirely in my head.

It’s probably why I write. Some of these stories seem interesting, at least to me, and I hope that by sharing them I can pass along even a fraction of the joy they bring me.

Sometimes the ideas arrive fully formed and feel unique, as if they’ve come from nowhere at all. My mind latches onto them and starts filling out their reality with details and characters.

Other times they’re sparked by games. I’ve always been drawn to open-world sandboxes where you start as a blank slate—no obligations, no backstory, just freedom to define who you are within that world. That sense of possibility is intoxicating, and it often bleeds into the stories I write.

Books inspire me too. When I’m reading, I sometimes put the story down and imagine what else could happen. I’ve written before about my favourite characters, and occasionally I rewrite their fates—saving them, adding someone new to balance the group, or better yet, disrupting it completely.

Films do the same. I’ll drift off and change the ending in my head. Some films invite this more than others—I’ll let you decide which.

Imagination is a powerful, wonderful thing. I’m not suggesting anyone should live there all the time. Reality is tough, but it’s also necessary—and honestly, there’s no finer source of inspiration than the world around us. The trick, I think, is learning to carry that spark of daydreaming into the everyday, where it can make both fiction and life feel a little richer.

Behind the Scenes: Detective Eleanor Bryce

Detective Eleanor Bryce has built her reputation on grit, discipline, and a fierce sense of responsibility. A senior officer with decades of experience behind her, she’s the sort of person colleagues look to when things get difficult. Calm under pressure and unshaken by intimidation, Eleanor has a talent for keeping order in chaotic situations.

She carries herself with quiet authority—never needing to raise her voice to command attention. Her silver-white hair and sharp eyes make her instantly recognisable, but it’s her steady composure that leaves the stronger impression. Whether in uniform or plain clothes, Eleanor presents a picture of professionalism, always immaculately turned out and always prepared for the unexpected.

Though she operates in a world where supernatural forces often collide with the everyday, Eleanor herself has no magic or enchanted weapons to rely on. Instead, her strength comes from training, experience, and an unwavering moral compass. She believes in protecting people first and foremost, especially those who can’t protect themselves. That fierce protectiveness has earned her the loyalty of her colleagues and the respect of the communities she serves.

Outside of the badge, Eleanor is private. She doesn’t talk much about her personal life, and she’s not one to indulge in gossip or idle chatter. What people do know is that she has a dry sense of humour that surfaces at the most unexpected times, and a sharp wit that can disarm even the most stubborn personalities.

Above all, Eleanor Bryce is defined by her integrity. She does the job because it needs doing, and because she refuses to stand by when others are at risk. In a city where the lines between ordinary and extraordinary are often blurred, Eleanor remains firmly, proudly human—proof that courage and conviction can be just as powerful as any spell or blade.

When Cleverness Wins the Day

 I like it when the Doctor—the Doctor, as in Doctor Who, not my local GP—is clever. There’s something special about those moments when the Doctor is standing toe-to-toe with a villain, the odds stacked impossibly against them. Everything looks lost, companions are in danger, the enemy has all the power… and then, with a spark of brilliance, the Doctor reveals the plan. Suddenly the tables turn, and the day is saved not by brute force, but by wit, timing, and sheer cleverness.

But here’s the key: it has to be done properly.

The best of these moments are like a good whodunnit. All the clues were there, scattered for us to see, but we missed them—or didn’t quite piece them together. Then, when the reveal comes, it feels both surprising and inevitable. You realise the solution was in front of you all along. That’s when the writing shines.

It also works best when it’s the underdog who pulls it off. The character who has been battered, beaten, and underestimated. The one who never quite gets the upper hand, who’s been on the ropes the whole time. When that character finally turns things around through sheer ingenuity, it’s not just a resolution—it’s a triumph. That’s when you get the jump-out-of-your-seat moment, the cheer, the fist pump, the yes, they did it! feeling.

Of course, when it isn’t done well, the magic disappears. If a solution suddenly appears from nowhere, with no groundwork laid, it doesn’t feel clever—it feels like the writer pulled something out of thin air. Instead of being impressed, you’re left thinking, well, that was convenient. Nothing kills tension faster than plot armour disguised as genius.

I’m looking at you, Star Trek. As much as I love it, nobody does last-minute techno-babble like Starfleet. Voltaire even wrote a song poking fun at it—“bounce the tachyon particle beam off the main deflector dish”—because sometimes it really does feel like the writers are just making it up as they go along. It sounds impressive, but without proper set-up, it’s more like narrative duct tape than true cleverness.

That’s why I enjoy Doctor Who when it gets it right. Often the Doctor’s plan looks chaotic or half-formed, cobbled together from scraps and quick thinking. But when the final reveal comes, you can look back and see the breadcrumbs that were there all along. It’s not magic, and it’s not luck—it’s storytelling that rewards your attention.

Think of the way Sherlock Holmes lays out his deductions—you had the same evidence, but he saw what you didn’t. Or how Bilbo in The Hobbit wins not through strength but through sharp thinking and a different perspective. These are satisfying victories because they feel earned.

That’s the essence of why I love the clever win. It’s not easy to pull off, but when it works, it sticks with you. It’s the kind of storytelling that respects the audience, makes you want to go back and spot the clues you missed, and leaves you grinning long after the credits roll.

Hard to write? Absolutely. But when it lands, it’s brilliant.

Behind the Scenes of A Paladin’s Vow: Isolde “Izzy” Thorne

Behind the Scenes of A Paladin’s Vow: Isolde “Izzy” Thorne

Isolde Thorne isn’t someone you meet and forget. She has that rare quality of making the extraordinary feel natural, of weaving together strength, playfulness, and heart until they’re impossible to separate. People call her Izzy — and the name fits. It carries the brightness and approachability that she herself radiates.

Izzy’s path was shaped early on by her connection to magic. Under the mentorship of Selene Awkwright, a witch whose name carries weight in arcane circles, she grew into her power with discipline and imagination. What stood out wasn’t just her talent for elemental spells or the versatility of her craft, but the way she approached magic as an extension of herself. She treats it with the same ease as conversation or breathing.

Elemental fire, protective wards, healing salves, even glamours to nudge perception — all of these are in her repertoire. But for Izzy, magic isn’t about what she can show off; it’s about what she can do for others. It’s the difference between conjuring flame to destroy, and conjuring warmth to protect.

If you expect Izzy to be serious all the time, you’ll be surprised. She has a keen appreciation for the ridiculous. Where others get weighed down by chaos or nonsense, Izzy tends to lean into it with a grin. It’s not that she can’t be serious — she absolutely can when the moment demands — but she refuses to let life become only grim struggle. Absurdity, to her, is part of what makes life worth living.

This lightness makes her disarming. Even in high-pressure moments, she can find a thread of humour, a small reminder that not everything has to be darkness and duty. It’s a quality that helps people breathe easier around her.

Izzy is perceptive in a way that goes beyond magic. She notices things: the unspoken hesitation in a colleague’s voice, the flicker of fear in someone’s eyes, the details others skim past. This emotional insight makes her invaluable, not just in crises but in everyday life.

She doesn’t posture. She doesn’t need to. Her long blonde hair, usually tied back when she’s working, her focused gaze, and her calm confidence make her memorable — but she never performs for attention. She’s at ease in her own skin, and that authenticity is what draws people to her.

Izzy inspires loyalty because she gives it freely. She stands by those she cares for with a kind of fierce gentleness — protective without being smothering, present without being overbearing. She is quick to comfort, but not afraid to challenge. Friends and colleagues alike know that when Izzy is with you, she is with you.

She’s also someone who values connection. That might come through in a shared laugh at the absurdity of a situation, or in the quiet reassurance she offers when someone is on the edge. Her relationships are built not on grand declarations, but on consistency — the steady presence that lets people know she’ll be there when it matters.

Izzy is, in many ways, a conduit. She belongs fully to the world of magic, but she never loses sight of the human side of things. Her command of spellcraft and ritual would be impressive enough, but what makes her remarkable is how she combines it with empathy, humour, and integrity. She is both the flame and the hand that steadies it.

What makes Izzy unforgettable is not just her power, but her perspective. She demonstrates that being strong isn’t only about wielding force — it’s about knowing when to listen, when to laugh, and when to stand firm. People gravitate toward her because she proves, again and again, that kindness and strength aren’t opposites. They are at their most powerful when they walk together.

Isolde Thorne is more than just a witch. She’s a reminder that in a world filled with darkness and uncertainty, compassion, humour, and quiet strength can be just as vital as any spell.

When Characters Become More Than Words

We all have our favourite characters — the ones whose victories we celebrate and whose losses we feel deep in our gut. They’re the voices we root for, the people we want to see succeed.

When I’m writing, I sometimes find myself forming that same attachment. Somewhere along the line, I stop feeling like I’m steering the story and more like I’m watching it unfold. Characters start to act as if they have their own wills, their own stubborn ways of surprising me. I’ll admit it — I play favourites.

The hardest part? Wanting to protect them. To give them the win. To hand over the happy ending. But stories — like life — don’t work that way. An unbeatable character would be flat, uninteresting. Aliens, one of my favourite films, wouldn’t be the same if Ripley was an invincible super-soldier. What makes her unforgettable is the fear, the struggle, the fact that she risked everything to protect others despite the terror clawing at her. Her grit and vulnerability are what make us care.

That’s why, as painful as it can be, our characters need to suffer. They need to lose. They need to face the dark before they earn the light. It’s what makes their victories matter — and what makes us love them all the more.

I won’t pretend I find it easy. Sometimes it feels cruel. But without adversity, there’s no growth. Without loss, there’s no real triumph.

How do you feel about this as a reader — or as a writer, if you are one? Do you struggle with letting your characters suffer? Or do you find it easier to put them through the fire, knowing it’ll forge them into something stronger?

Behind the Scenes of A Paladin’s Vow: Who is Gideon Voss?

Some time ago, a young paladin named Gideon Voss made a name for himself.

For as long as anyone could remember, Paladins and Witches had been at odds. Paladins feared the witches’ unpredictable magical potential, while witches resented the paladins’ rules and restrictions. Neither side would relent, and so fights — and even wars — were all too common.

Gideon Voss rose to prominence and eventually earned the rank of Justicar — a shining example of what a paladin should be. But behind that polished title, Gideon had lost his will to support the Order.

Years of battle, the defeat of witches, and the loss of friends had taken a heavy toll. The Order felt less like a protector of humanity and more like a repressive regime. Gideon’s faith in the institution crumbled — but in its place, he found a new faith: in people.

He had seen the worst of both sides — Justicars brutally attacking witches who wanted only to heal, and witches cursing gentle paladins with cruel magic. One meeting, however, would change his life forever: Isolde Thorne. When they first met, he hadn’t known she was a witch. As their bond grew, Gideon realised he could never again hunt her kind.

When the magical world and the “normal” world collided in a catastrophic event, Gideon saw not disaster, but opportunity — a chance to change things for the better. To become the bridge between the two worlds. To protect instead of harm. To end the conflict once and for all.

The weight of this mission rests heavily on his shoulders. It makes him short-tempered, irritable, and gruff. He has no hobbies, no possessions — only the relentless drive to make things better for everyone.

And yet, beneath that rough exterior lies a heart that is kind and gentle. He wants to help, to heal, to make things right. But for those who would deliberately inflict suffering on others? Gideon Voss has no mercy.

The Habit of Writing

I read Atomic Habits recently and found some of its suggestions really helpful. I’d definitely recommend it. The core idea is simple: build small habits and turn them into routines, so the things that matter always get done—even on the rough days.

One suggestion that stuck with me is this: make habits accessible. Remove the obstacles that get in your way before you even start.

For me, one of those obstacles was my laptop. Sounds weird—I love my laptop. It’s getting on a bit, so old I replaced the expiring copy of Windows with Ubuntu. But it still works, and I’m a big fan of mending things when they break rather than replacing them.

The problem is where it lives. It’s in the spare room, and it’s kind of a beast to lug out in the morning. So when I tried to combine my writing with my morning routine, that became a hurdle. Just the act of setting it up felt like too much friction when I was barely awake.

The better option turned out to be my phone.

I reorganised my files into a neat structure, added a few shortcuts, and now every morning I can just tap and open the doc I need. No setup. No resistance. I’ve cleared the path, and that’s made all the difference.

As I mentioned, I was aiming to combine the habit of writing with my existing morning routine. That’s another useful tip from Atomic Habits: habit stacking. You anchor a new habit to one that’s already established. That way, it becomes automatic over time.

So now, every morning, I wake up, journal, plan my day, then write for a bit—just ten minutes—before I move on to a short workout. I’m not a fan of gyms (but to each their own). This rhythm works for me.

The time limit helps too. Doing something—even something small—is better than doing nothing. Ten minutes a day doesn’t sound like much, but it adds up. It keeps the story moving forward, a little at a time, without pressure.

And the last piece of the puzzle? Forgiveness.

At just ten minutes a day, it’s easy to keep the streak going. But if I skip a day—if I’m not feeling it, or life gets in the way—that’s fine. No guilt. No regrets. I know I’ll be back at it tomorrow.

That, to me, is what makes a habit sustainable. Not perfection. Just progress.

Why Open World Games and Immersive Storytelling Matter to Me

There’s a reason I keep going back to games like Skyrim, Oblivion, and Fallout. It's not just about the epic quests, the sprawling worlds, or the unique items (though I’ve lost more weekends than I can count to those). For me, it's about something deeper—something that speaks to how I connect with stories on a personal level.

Open world games have always felt like more than just games. They’re living, breathing spaces where I can step out of my day-to-day life and become someone else entirely. Not just an adventurer or a warrior or a mage, but a character I’ve shaped—one with history, flaws, choices, and consequences. I love the freedom to wander off the main quest and find some forgotten cave, stumble upon a strange little side story, or just stand on a mountain and watch the sun rise over a virtual world that somehow feels more real than it should.

What I’ve always found fascinating is how these games don’t just tell a story—they let you live one. Every choice, every interaction, every moment of silence or chaos becomes part of your narrative. You’re not just watching events unfold, you’re shaping them, owning them. That’s something I find incredibly powerful.

It’s the same reason I’m drawn to immersive storytelling in books and film. I want to feel something real, even in the most unreal settings. I want to believe in magic, or monsters, or a world teetering on the edge of collapse—but I also want to believe in the people trying to survive it. That blend of the fantastic and the grounded, the epic and the personal, is what keeps me coming back.

As a writer, I carry that love of immersion with me. Whether I’m building a scene, crafting dialogue, or dreaming up a new world, I’m always asking: How can I make this feel real? How can I make the reader care, like I cared when I first stepped into Tamriel or wandered the Capital Wasteland?

At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about. Escaping, connecting, and feeling something real in the heart of a story that was never truly yours—until you made it so.

The Art of Fear: Horror in Video Games

Many moons ago, I played a game called F.E.A.R. at a friend’s house. I didn’t know what to expect—hadn’t seen a trailer, read a review, or even glanced at the box art. I assumed it was just another generic shooter. That assumption didn’t last long.

From the opening moments, it was clear F.E.A.R. was something else entirely. Jump scares hit hard. The atmosphere was oppressive, unnerving. You’d catch a fleeting glimpse of something—someone—just out of the corner of your eye. Was it real? Did you imagine it? That constant uncertainty installed a level of tension no amount of firepower could dispel.

Horror in video games is a tricky beast. You want players to feel afraid—but not so afraid they quit. There’s a fine balance between fear and frustration, tension and terror. Get it right, and the result is unforgettable.

Alien: Isolation nailed that balance. You’re not a super-soldier. You’re prey. The alien is relentless, unpredictable, and unkillable. The game leaves you in a state of constant vulnerability. Every door you open, every corner you turn—your heart skips a beat. It’s survival horror in its purest form.

But for me, the most unforgettable horror moment in gaming came from a perhaps unexpected place: Half-Life 2.

Enter Ravenholm.

The game up until that point is a slick sci-fi shooter. Then suddenly, you’re thrown into a decaying town infested with headcrabs and zombies. The tone shifts. You’re no longer the hunter—you’re being hunted. And just to twist the knife, your only real weapon at first is the newly introduced gravity gun. Tense doesn’t begin to cover it.

Ravenholm is pure survival horror. The fast zombies shriek as they scramble across rooftops. The poison ones knock your health to a single point before retreating into the shadows. And the grotesque brutes? They launch headcrabs at you like biological mortars. It’s horrific, and yet it’s rich in atmosphere and storytelling. You start to understand why “we don’t go to Ravenholm anymore.”

And when you finally get the shotgun? It’s not just a weapon—it’s payback. Every tense encounter, every jump scare, every desperate scrap for survival culminates in that satisfying moment of catharsis.

Horror in games isn’t just about making you jump. It’s about atmosphere. Vulnerability. Suspense. And sometimes, just sometimes, giving you the tools to turn the tables—if only for a moment.

Witchfire Awakens is out!

I wanted to share that I’ve just released a short story called Witchfire Awakens. It’s the start of a new urban fantasy series I’m working on.

The story follows Gideon Voss, a paladin working for the Arcane Operations Unit (AOU), a branch of law enforcement dealing with magical incidents. Alongside him is Izzy, a witch and his second-in-command, who helps keep the peace in a world still getting used to living with magic.

When a young witch accidentally unleashes her power in a park, Gideon and Izzy step in to protect her before others with less kind intentions can get involved. It’s a story about trying to do the right thing in a messy world, and about small acts of protection and kindness, even when it’s difficult.

It’s a quick read and the first step in a series I plan to continue.

If you’d like to take a look, you can find it here:

https://amzn.eu/d/4lprs1f

Thanks for reading.

Making Your Own Story

I love to read, but my favourite stories are the ones I can’t wait to put down.

Sounds counterintuitive, I know. Let me explain.

I don’t think there are bad books, just ones that aren’t right for me at that moment. Some books I’ll persist with, carrying them around in my bag or leaving them on the arm of the sofa, picking away at them slowly. Others I let go of, quietly admitting that I’m not the reader they need. There’s a kind of freedom in that, in letting stories find their right moment.

The good books, though—those are the ones that pull you in so deeply you lose track of time. You tell yourself, “just one more chapter,” and suddenly it’s midnight and your drink has gone cold beside you. They’re the books that let you live in someone else’s shoes for a while, where the world feels bigger and softer because of what you’ve read.

But the really good books? They’re different. Those are the stories that reach out and shake something awake in you. You start to see what’s coming next for the characters, and you can’t help but hope for a different path. You want to step in and save that character from heartbreak, or give them the courage to speak up, or even take the villain aside for a cup of coffee to ask, “Is this really what you want?”

They’re the books that make you pause mid-chapter, staring at the ceiling, imagining how the scene might go if you were the one telling it. They’re the ones that make you close the cover gently and pick up your notebook, or open a blank document, just to capture the spark they’ve left behind.

The really good stories make you want to stop reading—and start writing. They remind you that you have your own stories to tell, in your own voice, in your own messy and beautiful way. They inspire you to take that feeling of adventure, fear, love, or hope, and pour it into something new.

Those are the stories that matter most. The ones that remind us we’re allowed to build our own worlds too—and that sometimes, the best way to honour a story you love is to start creating one of your own.

That First Step into the Wasteland: Experiencing Fallout 3

I didn’t know what to expect from Fallout 3. I knew there were earlier games in the series, but I’d always struggled with isometric RPGs. Something about that perspective made me feel disconnected from my character, which is the opposite of what you want in an RPG. The only exception was Diablo, but that was more about chasing loot than getting pulled into a story.

Playing through the introduction, living out my character’s early years, I still wasn’t sure what I was in for. It felt almost like a shooter, but the dialogue was sharp, and the dark humour shone through right from the start. Escaping the Vault to search for my character’s father, I didn’t quite know what kind of game Fallout 3 was trying to be.

Then the Vault doors opened.

I stepped out into the blinding sun and saw the ruined sprawl of the Capital Wasteland for the first time. I looked around, taking in the collapsed highways and skeletal buildings, and thought:

Ah. I recognise you now.

I’d been a huge fan of Oblivion, spending countless hours chasing every quest and exploring every corner of its world. Now, I was faced with what felt like Oblivion in an alternate, post-apocalyptic future—and I couldn’t have been happier.

I ignored the quest marker and set off in a random direction, free to explore in a world that seemed to say, Go on, see what’s out there.

Unfortunately for me, what was “out there” turned out to be a nearby ruin where I ran into the local raiders. Let’s just say they weren’t exactly welcoming—and their idea of a meet-and-greet involved shooting first and not asking questions later. Not the friendliest start, but it was the perfect introduction to Fallout 3’s chaotic, darkly funny world—and I was hooked from that moment on.