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Heroes aren't born, forged, plucked from obscure, charming villages or raised from centuries of slumber in Darkest Dungeon - they are broken in. Or at least, broken. Out on Switch today, Red Hook's festering roguelike sees you battling to reclaim a cliffside manor from the cosmic terrors unleashed by your dead, yet mysteriously talkative Ancestor, sending quartets of procedurally generated adventurers into the estate to slay eldritch creatures and gather the resources and experience you need for an assault on the mansion itself. Besides the usual stats, unlockable abilities and gear slots, each adventurer has a stress bar, which fills up as they weather punishments both tangible and intangible. The mouldering hush of a crypt might fill it up a little. A clash with a screaming pigman the size of a house will probably fill it up a lot. Max out the gauge, and the adventurer will undergo a "resolve check" that usually results in an Affliction - the effects may include spurning medical attention while at death's door, or berating the rest of the party for missed attacks, raising their stress levels in turn. There's a small chance that the hero will discover hidden reserves of strength and acquire a Virtue instead, the effects of which range from massive stat buffs to random self-healing, but in general, such meltdowns are to be avoided. You won't always be able to avoid them, however. When not wading into the filth, characters can be left to recuperate at the local tavern and chapel, or treated of stress-inducing "Quirks" such as claustrophobia at the sanitarium, but the expense of such therapies, coupled with the unpredictability of the dungeons, make it impossible to keep everybody's blood pressure down for long.
Accordingly, the thrill of Darkest Dungeon lies not, as in other turn-based RPGs, with the delicate arranging and toppling of variables whose effects can largely be relied upon, but in rolling with the punches when somebody's morale gives way. It's a game about bending souls and bodies out of shape, then dealing with - and taking a certain morbid pleasure in - the fallout. This is a gamble your adventurers have no choice but to endure. Oh, they might slip your clutches for a turn or two, going AWOL after an all-night drinking session or departing on some grotty/mystic errand. They might refuse to serve with ungodly character classes like the Abomination, or beg you not to send them on quests above their level. But the one thing they can't do is up and quit. For all their warped predilections and frailties, their resentment and gibbering outbursts, they make perfect employees - and if all else fails, they are easy enough to replace, with new recruits carted to the Hamlet every turn.
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