Conan Review


by David McComb |
Published on

The history of digital breasts is like a snapshot of the evolution of console graphics; from Sam Fox’s pixelated puppies on the ZX Spectrum to the pendulous peaks bouncing through Tecmo’s Dead Or Alive - via Lara’s Croft’s gravity-defying, rock-solid bazookas, of course - it’s encouraging to see the world’s finest digital artists have been busy honing their skills through the medium of polygonal pillows. And in Conan, the barbarian’s tradition of titanic ta-tas has been taken to outrageous new heights.

Like in the Schwarzenegger movies of old, every simpering maiden Conan rescues is discovered wearing little more than a shredded napkin, her painstakingly rendered jabbercrackers only outshone by her propensity for spontaneous lapdancing - making the game a guilty pleasure and maelstrom of adolescent thrills, but not the sort of thing you’re likely to play if your girlfriend is home.

Sex aside, what’s left is a functional and deceptively shallow brawer; like a Kiwk Save God Of War, Conan features all the gory deaths, relentless combat and slavering monsters you could wish for, but with limited opportunities for linking attacks and dumbass puzzles that can often be solved by trial and error. Factor in the disappointment that the game practically screams for cooperative slaughter but doesn’t offer any multiplayer modes, either on or offline, and it’s hard to recommended this brutal romp unless the jiggle of virtual fun bags * really * turns you on.

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