One Of Mouthwashing Publisher Critical Reflex’s Demos Made Me Gag (Plus, Three Other Games I Can’t Wait For)

Tiny Chills – Not From Ears

While I wouldn’t definitively crown Tiny Chills – Not From Ear my favorite experience of TGS, it holds the unforgettable distinction of being the only game that genuinely made me gag. Rest assured, that isn’t a criticism—if anything, it amplifies my anticipation. Crafted by developer Docktopus Games, this grotesque horror title unfolds in a perpetual earthquake-stricken hamlet plagued by mysterious human abductions. Amidst the mounting panic, your character finds themselves grounded following a schoolyard altercation. Confined to your home, you assist your mother in her makeshift ear-cleaning clinic, utilizing specialized instruments to extract stubborn wax, invasive bugs, and deeply unsettling subterranean anomalies from patients’ ear canals.

The atmosphere evokes a gritty, unsettling Coraline aesthetic, magnified by grainy textures, heavy shadows, and an oppressive lo-fi presentation. At your mother’s desolate clinic, desperate townspeople pound relentlessly on the heavy oak doors, terrified that the impending end of the world will arrive before they can secure one final medical procedure. Every thunderous knock jolted my nerves. As patients mumble about persistent itching and phantom ringing, you dive into a first-person perspective, guiding delicate medical tools directly toward the eardrum.

Gameplay involves wielding suction implements to clear dense buildups alongside hooked instruments designed to snag and painstakingly extract larger obstructions. The entire process is relentlessly, magnificently revolting. Between the meticulous extraction mechanics, the squelchy, wet auditory design, and the palpable sickness hanging in the air, my tolerance threshold was thoroughly tested. It is thoroughly disgusting, and utterly brilliant.

Beyond the grueling medical work, domestic life offers its own brand of unease, from capturing a mischievous pet crow to investigating your mother’s unexplained disappearances. Something is profoundly wrong in this fractured reality, and I am desperate to uncover the truth—provided my stomach can endure whatever horrors await in future patients’ ears.

Grobnopolis | Last Days

The name Grobnopolis possesses a magnetic phonetic quality; once you speak it aloud, you’ll find yourself repeating it endlessly. Following a 20-minute demo, I can confirm the game itself demands equal attention from anyone drawn to atmospheric psychological horror driven by an overwhelming sense of dread.

Set in 1983 within the bleak settlement of Huta-Grobno, you assume the role of an apartment caretaker simply trying to maintain order while a dense, suffocating haze rolls in from an industrial mining disaster nearby. Confined to a dreary apartment painted in drab browns and washed-out grays, I began interacting with household objects to understand my dreary surroundings. Discovering an old radio, I cycled through active frequencies, listening to eerie operatic compositions, panicked workers piecing together the catastrophe, and ominous broadcasts warning of rising religious cults. This radio serves as the narrative heartbeat of the experience, granting forbidden access to secrets better left buried.

Interactions with fellow residents in the tenement block offer no comfort; while harmless on the surface, their quiet eccentricities radiate deep unease. Any sensible caretaker would lock the deadbolt and stay put, but essential maintenance tasks—like sourcing cables and repairing domestic equipment—force you out into the ominous corridors. Meanwhile, a jagged fissure in the kitchen wall steadily expands, whispering unintelligible warnings.

According to the official synopsis, “From the black veins of the old mines rises a thick, blood-red ichor the locals whisper of as ‘Soup.’ It climbs through foundations, stains stairwells, and pools in places that should not hold liquid.” As this anomalous fluid seeps deeper into the infrastructure of Huta-Grobno, the local church steps in, orchestrating civilian evacuations while consolidating authoritarian power over the decaying municipality. Where this dark narrative leads is entirely unclear, but Grobnopolis has securely hooked my curiosity.

Sated

Among my TGS appointments with Critical Reflex, Sated struck me as the title most likely to become their next breakout phenomenon. It brilliantly merges the beloved mechanics of roguelite progression with monstrous body horror and culinary management reminiscent of a twisted Cooking Mama.

The demo wastes zero time, introducing you to a colossal mechanical shark emerging from watery depths to present a hastily scribbled, fin-written requisition list. The requested components are thoroughly bizarre yet symbolically coded. Carrying this order to a nearby refrigerator—which functions much like a randomized slot machine—you pull a lever to trigger item drops based on the required symbols.

Rather than providing exact measurements, Sated cleverly utilizes an ambiguous meter indicating the relative proportion needed for each component. This design choice forces you to rely on intuition and estimation to satisfy the ravenous creature’s specific palate. Following meal delivery, you receive a performance rating before returning to the captain’s quarters of your subterranean locomotive, charting your next destination via a classic roguelite map. Unfortunately, my culinary execution at the subsequent stop failed catastrophically, resulting in me becoming the main course. My run was abruptly cut short, yet the compelling gameplay loop left me eager for another attempt.

Flawless Abbey

Flawless Abbey functions as a surreal, kaleidoscopic dreamscape wrapped inside a moody, oppressive mystery—dual pillars that instantly captured my interest. As a “dreamseeker” inhabiting a sterile purple-and-gray subterranean facility, your daily routine involves plugging into neural pods to navigate a colossal obelisk known as a dream-tower. Navigating corridors to locate your assigned pod, I naturally encountered a mechanical failure, requiring a trip to an unnaturally enthusiastic IT entity to initiate a system reboot.

Once reconnected, my consciousness boarded a mythical locomotive soaring through a swirling, stellar expanse. Aboard the train, progression requires solving environmental riddles, such as utilizing a passenger ticket as a cryptographic key to unlock complex mechanical portals. Throughout the journey, dialogue choices feel less like conventional narrative progression and more like a psychological evaluation designed to analyze the player. Visually, the painterly, patchwork aesthetic paired with an avant-garde musical score easily justifies tracking its eventual release.

Official storefront descriptions tease extended systems including corporate benefits, health insurance policies, an encroaching beast attempting to dismantle the dream-tower, and a terrified personal assistant guiding you through the subconscious. “Something isn’t right,” the summary warns—a sentiment I wholeheartedly endorse, leaving me waiting with bated breath for the full launch.