Sifu grabbed me with both hands and didn’t let go when I first played it earlier this year. It slapped me about, left me for dead, and, by way of its unique aging mechanic, demanded that I immediately get back onto my feet and go again. What began with me shuffling off this mortal coil at the age of 75, battered and bruised, halfway through its nightclub second level, ended with me whipping the final boss’s ass in its fifth and final stage as a late 30-something-year-old Chinese martial arts expert. Fighting its hordes of faceless baddies, five charismatic end-of-zone champions, and, of course, the merciless hands of time in Sifu is addictive. And while I’ve since managed to pry myself from Sloclap’s alluring action fighter, I’m now ready to return as a direct result of its newest feature: hats.
