173.6 hours. Four playthroughs. 100% of the achievements. I have officially lost my mind, and I regret absolutely nothing.
I don’t even know where to begin describing this game. I laughed until my stomach hurt, cried like a fucking baby, got emotionally attached to a fictional detective and his colleagues, became a communist on my first run, and somehow came out of it feeling a little more hopeful about being alive. What the hell did the developers put into this thing?
Disco Elysium is depressing as fuck. It is hilarious as fuck. It is a political manifesto, a detective story, a character study, a tragicomedy, and a journey through the wreckage of one man’s mind. It is also one of the most creative games I have ever played. And underneath all that misery, absurdity, and philosophical rambling is a message that genuinely made me cry: Something beautiful is going to happen.
Not because the universe owes us a happy ending. Not because some superhero is going to descend from the heavens and fix everything. But because we can take the first step toward making something beautiful happen ourselves.
And that is what makes this game so fucking special.
Harry Du Bois
I played my first Harry almost entirely by instinct. I didn’t look up an optimal build or try to get the objectively best outcomes. I put myself in his shoes and chose what I would choose. I became a communist, a feminist, a Sorry Cop, and an Art Cop. I refused to let Harry drink alcohol, although I absolutely abused the drugs and cigarettes on that first run. Later, I tried to keep him away from addictive substances altogether. I don’t care if they make his dice rolls easier. I would rather save-scum my way through a difficult check than make my already miserable detective suffer even more.
Yes, I know he is a grown-ass man. Yes, I know he is a complete disaster. I love him anyway.
Well, except for the Harry who existed before the game began. The one Jean Vicquemare tells us about. I genuinely hate that man. I hate what he has done to himself, what he has done to other people, and the wreckage he has left behind. But the Harry I played? The one who tries, fails, makes an absolute fool of himself, apologises, and occasionally manages to do something good? That man touched my soul.
I am a depressed person myself, and I recognise something deeply uncomfortable in Harry. We are both lonely. We both know what it feels like to become obsessed with our own misery, to keep revisiting our pain until it becomes the centre of our entire existence, to turn everything into a joke before it has the chance to hurt us. Harry has Dora. I have former friends I still find myself thinking about far more than I probably should.
I understand Harry’s obsession with Dora. I really do. I understand how someone could believe they were going to build something beautiful with another person, only for circumstances, financial problems, and the slow deterioration of a relationship to destroy that future. I understand why a person might cling to what they lost, even when they need to let it go. But understanding it doesn’t mean believing it is healthy. His pain is real, and so is the harm that can come from allowing that pain to consume everything else.
That dream conversation with Dora before the final confrontation absolutely destroyed me. I was sitting there watching Harry speak to the person he had built so much of his misery around, and all I could think was how desperately sad it was for both of them. I cried so much. I wanted to give them both a hug, even while knowing that their relationship could not simply be repaired by wishing hard enough.
And that is one of the things I appreciate most about Harry’s story. The game doesn’t tell us that every bad thing in his life is his own fault, nor does it tell us that everything can be blamed on society. Yes, capitalism creates genuine suffering. Yes, the world can be cruel, unfair, and deeply alienating. But Harry also has to confront his own behaviour, his own obsessions, his own mistakes. He cannot change everything that happened to him, but he can decide what kind of person he wants to be now.
That distinction matters to me. I tend to judge people by the way they speak, the way they behave, and the feelings I pick up from them. I trust my instincts, sometimes to a fault. And yet here is Harry, this walking catastrophe of a human being, reminding me that a person can be both responsible for their own actions and deserving of compassion.
Also, let’s be honest: some of his supposedly idiotic dialogue options weren’t even the result of failed dice rolls. Sometimes I deliberately chose the stupidest possible response because I love making a fool of myself in videogames. And Harry Du Bois is an absolute comedy machine. The man could turn a routine police interview into a historical event in the field of public embarrassment.
Kim Kitsuragi
Oh, Kim. My beautiful, brilliant, handsome, composed, impossibly patient fictional boyfriend. I love you.
Kim is not simply a well-written companion who follows you around and provides exposition. He is the person who gives Harry the space to become something better without pretending that Harry is already fine. He knows when to be serious, when to challenge him, when to allow him some dignity, and when to let an idiotic joke pass without making the situation worse.
He is professional without being cold, compassionate without being naive, and principled without needing to turn every conversation into a lecture. He shows Harry what being a good cop can look like, even in a world where the institutions surrounding them are broken.
And the game rewards you for paying attention to that relationship. Whenever Kim laughs at one of Harry’s jokes, smiles at him, gives him a high five, or tells him he did well, I get ridiculously excited. I genuinely felt bad whenever he scolded my Harry. The man could give me a disappointed look through the screen and I would immediately want to apologise to him.
That smile he gives Harry, the little moments of trust between them, and the way Kim continues to work alongside him despite all the ridiculousness are some of my favourite parts of the entire experience. And if something happens to Kim during the tribunal, I am absolutely going to feel it.
Kim is a fictional character, obviously. I know that. But after 173.6 hours, he feels like someone I have come to know. I sometimes wish he were real, not even necessarily as a friend, but as someone I could sit down with in a café for an hour or two, talk to about life, listen to his troubles, and maybe help him work through mine. What a wonderful thing that would be.
My only complaint is that the writers made him a Moralist. How dare you do this to my angel? I understand why it fits his pragmatism and his belief in procedure, but I reserve the right to be dramatic about it. Kim, darling, you have done nothing wrong. You are a saint. Please continue putting up with my Harry.
This Game’s Characters Feel So Human
Jean is such an interesting counterpart to Kim. Where Kim accompanies Harry through the present investigation, Jean carries the accumulated frustration of knowing Harry for years. He is cynical, sarcastic, exhausted, and understandably fed up with his former partner. Yet the bitterness doesn’t mean that he has stopped caring.
Finding out that Jean had gone to all the trouble of disguising himself as Guillaume Bevy partly to amuse Harry was genuinely heartbreaking. Imagine being so angry and disappointed with someone, carrying so much resentment toward the person they have become, and still trying to find ways to make them laugh. Jean has not simply forgotten Harry or stopped caring about what happens to him. Their relationship is messy, painful, and complicated, and that makes it feel real. Jean, come here. You deserve a hug, too.
Then there is Cuno, my son. My child. My precious little menace who does not fucking care.
Jokes aside, Cuno reminds me of who I was as a teenager. Between thirteen and sixteen, I could be furious, foul-mouthed, hostile, and ready to spit venom at anybody who came too close. I was angry at other people and angry at myself. Looking at Cuno, I recognise that defensive attitude, the aggressive performance of not caring, and the way someone can use cruelty to make sure nobody gets close enough to hurt them first.
His environment helps explain why he behaves the way he does. I don’t read his constant swearing, third-person speech, and hostility as proof that he is simply an irredeemable little shit. I see a troubled child who has learned to survive in circumstances that have given him very few good examples to follow. Beneath the bravado is someone who deserves to be taken seriously, even when he makes it incredibly difficult.
Jean, Ruby the Instigator, and Cuno are also three characters whose personalities remind me of different parts of myself. Jean gives me the sarcasm and cynicism; Ruby the instinctive reading of people and willingness to trust my own judgement; Cuno the rebellious, foul-mouthed teenager who reacts first and gives absolutely no fucks about whether anyone approves. Put them in a blender, and you get something uncomfortably close to me.
I love that Disco Elysium gives characters like these the space to be unpleasant, funny, complicated, and vulnerable without reducing them to a single trait.
The Writing Is Extraordinary
I love the political writing. I love the philosophical dialogue. I love the descriptions of Revachol and its people, the competing voices inside Harry’s head, the absurd jokes, the moments when a seemingly insignificant conversation suddenly turns into something profound.
I will also admit that some parts went over my head. I am not a political theorist, and some of the more brainy passages had me wondering whether I was playing a detective RPG or sitting an exam I had not studied for. Even after four playthroughs, I cannot honestly say I fully understand the Pale. My personal interpretation is that it reflects the accumulated destructiveness of human existence: our greed, selfishness, jealousy, misery, resentment, and all the other things that hollow out the world around us. Maybe I haven’t grasped every dimension of the metaphor, but that is what I took away from it.
And I don’t believe that failing to understand every single idea diminishes the experience. Sometimes a piece of writing can make you feel the weight of something before you have the vocabulary to explain it. This game managed to do that to me repeatedly.
One of my absolute favourite moments comes when Harry is waiting with Kim for the ice to melt so they can investigate the car he crashed. Harry is devastated by another reminder of how badly his life has fallen apart. He has lost his badge, his gun, and now even his car. He just wanted to whistle.
And Kim reminds him that he can still whistle.
That tiny moment of kindness means so much to me. Harry has lost so much, and Kim cannot undo any of it. But he can remind Harry that not everything has been taken away from him. There is still something he can do. There is still a reason to keep going.
It is such a small moment in a game overflowing with enormous ideas, but it has stayed with me more than many of the grander speeches.
My second favourite writing moment is the conversation with the communist students, Steban and Echo Maker. I love the communist vision quest, the dialogue, the absurdity, and the fact that I could play a revolutionary leftist detective who actually gets to engage with other communists about politics. Please, waiter, waiter! More of this leftist greatness!
And the comedy is absolutely brilliant. I cannot count how many times I laughed out loud at the dialogue, especially the jokes Harry and Kim share. Their running joke about the next racist being their lucky one, followed by the possibility of asking Gary whether he is going to grant them three wishes, is so stupid that it becomes genius. The fact that Kim remembers the joke and brings it back later makes it even better.
I genuinely consider this game a comedy as much as a tragedy. It can make you laugh at the most inappropriate time, then immediately confront you with something devastating. Somehow, neither feeling cancels out the other.
The Political Writing
I think Disco Elysium does an extraordinary job of letting its political ideologies speak in ways that feel revealing, absurd, convincing, and contradictory. I played every political vision quest, and each gave me a different experience.
As a committed leftist, I felt most at home with the communist route. I loved being able to express a revolutionary perspective through Harry, and I loved the conversations with Steban and Echo Maker. The game understands the appeal of wanting something better than the world we have inherited, as well as the embarrassment, contradictions, and practical limitations of trying to make that better world a reality.
The communist route didn’t make me believe that Harry, a single detective with a broken life, could overthrow the entire social order through a few conversations. That isn’t the point. Sometimes the achievement is simply nudging the beehive. Sometimes a conversation matters because of the people who hear it, the questions it leaves behind, or the possibility that someone might decide to do something with it.
The other ideologies were fascinating in their own ways. Moralism sometimes made sense to me, but I always felt that something important was missing. Ultraliberalism made me angry. And playing fascist Harry made me laugh at the sheer stupidity of some of the things I was making him say. I also loved the feminist perspective, even though it doesn’t occupy nearly as much of the game as I would have liked. Getting to challenge René’s belief that women cannot be police officers was deeply satisfying. Fuck that old man.
What impresses me is that the game doesn’t need to make Harry an eloquent, flawless spokesperson for any ideology. His beliefs can be ridiculous, inconsistent, embarrassing, or surprisingly insightful. Political conviction doesn’t magically make a person intelligent, and having intelligence doesn’t magically make someone politically correct.
For me, the political writing works because the game recognises how our beliefs shape our understanding of the world, including the ways we justify our own behaviour. Harry can turn personal misery into a political argument, and sometimes there is a real social problem underneath that argument. But sometimes he also needs to confront himself. Both things can be true.
I cannot look at Revachol without thinking about Turkey.
This is my own interpretation of the comparison, but I see Revachol as a society living among the ruins of a revolutionary promise, unable to escape the consequences of its defeat. When I look at Turkey, I see a country that once had the possibility of becoming something very different. In my view, Atatürk’s revolution carried the promise of a more united, democratic society, and I cannot help wondering what Turkey might have become if that promise had been sustained. Instead, I see a country that has moved further away from that future, trapped in a capitalist hellhole under a homophobic authoritarian president.
I am not claiming that Turkey and Revachol have identical histories. Their political circumstances are different. But the emotional parallel is unmistakable to me: a revolutionary project, a better future that was supposed to be possible, and generations left to live with what remains after that promise has failed.
That is why Revachol resonates with me so strongly. The city is not merely an interesting setting. It is a place where history is still present in the streets, in the institutions, in the lives of its inhabitants, and in the way people imagine their own futures. You cannot understand the present without reckoning with what happened before it.
And that is also why I believe the game is so relevant to the world we live in. It understands the misery produced by unjust systems without turning every character into a simple symbol. It allows you to be angry about capitalism while recognising that personal responsibility, compassion, and the difficult work of becoming a better person still matter.
The Gameplay
I have played plenty of RPGs, and I have never encountered anything quite like the way this game handles skill checks. The dice rolls themselves are familiar enough, but the voices inside Harry’s head are what make the system extraordinary.
Your skills don’t merely determine whether you’re good at something. They argue with each other, interrupt your thoughts, offer advice, misinterpret situations, and sometimes confidently lead you toward the stupidest possible conclusion. They can disagree about what a person means, what you should say, and what kind of detective you should be.
This is such a brilliant way of representing the human mind. We contradict ourselves all the time. We misread people, jump to conclusions, give ourselves terrible advice, and convince ourselves that an impulsive decision must have been the right one. Sometimes our instincts are helpful. Sometimes they are catastrophically wrong.
A failed check can be just as interesting as a successful one because failure is not necessarily a punishment. It can produce some of the funniest dialogue in the game, reveal unexpected information, or send Harry down a path you would never have deliberately chosen.
And I am a gambling addict when it comes to these checks. I see a 20% chance of success and immediately think, “Oh, that’s definitely happening.” I will keep reloading until I get the delicious green success check. I have no dignity. I have no shame. I have a detective who needs to roll a fucking dice.
The entire UI, the Thought Cabinet, the character progression, and the way the game ties role-playing mechanics to Harry’s psychology are incredibly creative. I keep wondering how human beings come up with ideas like these. I would never have thought of making competing skill checks a representation of the voices inside someone’s head, and I have enormous respect for the people who created this game.
After my first playthrough, I wanted to see what would happen if I changed Harry’s build, his political beliefs, and my approach to conversations. That curiosity turned into four playthroughs and 100% achievement completion. I kept finding new dialogue, new interactions, and new ways to embarrass myself. Even knowing the general shape of the story did not stop me from wanting to return to Martinaise.
A Few Things I Could Have Done Without
My biggest gameplay complaint is the autosave system. It sometimes feels unpredictable, and there is nothing quite as infuriating as losing hours of progress because I forgot to quicksave before experimenting with a dialogue option. I have lost around three hours of gameplay that way. Three hours! I would like to speak to whoever designed that system.
Klaasje’s sections also became frustrating on subsequent playthroughs. Once you know she is lying to you, some of the investigation can feel like a lot of work for information you already know. That said, depending on your build and the choices you make, the information she leaves behind can still be useful.
The writing can also be demanding. This is an extremely dialogue-heavy game, and there are conversations that require you to pay attention, think about what is being said, and tolerate long stretches of philosophical or political discussion. There were moments when I was confused, and there are certainly ideas I still haven’t fully unpacked.
But I don’t consider the dialogue-heavy nature of the game a flaw. It is fundamental to what Disco Elysium is trying to do. Just don’t come into it expecting constant action, neatly explained lore, or a straightforward detective story.
Also, this game made me cry so much. Unacceptable behaviour from a videogame. Five stars.
Something Beautiful Is Going To Happen
I started this game by playing Harry according to my own instincts, and I ended it having spent 173.6 hours exploring four different versions of him. The experience has made me laugh, made me cry, made me angry, and given me a lot to think about. I don’t think I will forget it anytime soon.
I am not going to pretend that I understand every metaphor or philosophical idea in the game. I am not going to pretend that Harry can solve Revachol’s problems by becoming a better person, either. That would be missing the point.
We live in a world that is cruel, unequal, and often deeply depressing. Those with power have plenty of reasons to convince us that nothing can change, that collective action is pointless, and that our suffering is something we should deal with individually. But that is exactly why we need to stand together.
Stand united, my friends. Those at the helm, the billionaires, and their bootlickers have lied to us, and they will continue to do so. We have every right to be angry. We have every right to cry, to shout, and to demand something better. But do not allow the misery of this world to eat you alive. Do not tear yourself apart, and do not turn that anger against the people who are suffering alongside you.
Do not become a human shield protecting fascists who devour and rape children. Do not allow your self-pity, resentment, or fear to turn you into an obstacle to the very people who need your solidarity. Recognise the systems that hurt us, but also recognise the ways we hurt ourselves and one another. Understand your flaws. Learn from your mistakes. Take responsibility for the things you can change.
And no matter what the world tells you, do not abandon yourself just to make other people comfortable, provided that being yourself does not mean causing harm to others. You can be flawed and still be a good person. You can be miserable and still have something to offer the world. You can have failed before and still try again.
We cannot wait for a superman to come and save us. We have to start somewhere, with ourselves and with one another. We have to create the conditions in which something better can happen.
I don’t know if I can explain everything Disco Elysium has made me feel. I don’t know if I have done justice to everything it has to say. But I know that, after all those hours in Martinaise, I came away with one thought that I want to carry into the world outside the game.
Something beautiful is going to happen.
And it starts with us.
10/10.