You won't find any overwrought pretenses or tales of mammoth-chinned space-time savior Ace Q. The first great triumph of Antichamber is that it manages to frame all this Escher-esque madness in a way that feels perfectly natural. Colors warp as though the offspring of a rainbow on the world's most potent acid, and around every corner lies a new logical absurdity waiting to leap out and re-mold your preconceived notions about, well, the universe in its own image. Floors fade into nothingness, stairs suddenly materialize beneath your every footfall, looking one way and then back again begets neon orange hallways blinking into existence, insistent that they've been there the entire time. It's a game of nearly astounding confidence, overriding the rivulets of rules, creeds, sights, and sounds our brains are used to with tidal waves of its own. The outside world has no place inside Antichamber's stark, white walls. When its bizarre (yet shockingly consistent) brand of hyper-logical un-logic takes over the screen, that's it. Because, at its best, Antichamber is an utterly consuming experience. It's like the black is rising up to pry open your eyes and nose and mouth - to guide a creeping, colorful wisp into all your cavities until there's no room left for anything else. Seriously, have a decent stare at the one below. The normal, natural laws of the universe don't even apply to pictures of Antichamber. But is it actually, truly finished? And was it worth the interminable, largely radio silent wait? Here's wot I think. But creator Alexander Bruce insisted that - even after multiple years of near-obsessive fine-tuning - his non-Euclidean, Escher-ish, other impressive words that start with E puzzler needed more. Truth be told, Antichamber felt nearly finished the first time I ever laid hands on it.
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