Gnomes and Goblins review: lovingly crafted and wonder-evoking

Creator Jon Favreau and director Jake Rowel’s charming game Gnomes and Goblins beautifully evokes the simple, evergreen pleasures of arriving somewhere, and of being invited somewhere. When I recall the experience, I think about being welcomed into a space. It’s set in a goblin village in a magical forest: a tranquil setting given a whiff of menace—though it’s very much a family-friendly experience—by the unwelcomed presence of troublemaking gnomes, who are engaged in ongoing war with the tiny green folk.

We begin on a mist-ensconced stone path with a golden fairy above it, omitting a streak of light—which in video game design screams “follow me!” The fairy leads us to a large leather-bound guest book next to a blue portal. The presence of this book visually infers that this is not our home: that we are indeed a guest, and our stay will be temporary. When we pass through the portal there’s an even cuter thing than the fairy to follow: a little green goblin who drops their fruit in surprise when they see us. They soon adjust to our disruptive presence—we’re a giant in this world—and act as our tour guide through this lovely neck of the woods.

We’ve been welcomed, and we have entered, several times—via the fairy, the path, the book, the portal, the goblin, the gate. The game goes on to evoke a lovely sense of community; we don’t belong in this neighbourhood, but many little creatures do. Gorgeous abodes are carved into trees. We can stick our heads into them and observe small details: furniture, accouterments, time-worn books on shelves, miniature pots on the boil.

These environments feel lovingly crafted and evoke a sense of wonder. The first 50 minutes or so of Gnomes and Goblins is a narratively steered experience, in which we participate in life in Goblinville (my word) and help the community, for instance rescuing a citizen abducted by gnomes and assisting in the preparation of a religious ceremony.

After that, the game becomes a kind of magical forest simulator, moving from on-the-rails to no rails—and very loosely defined objectives. We can perform a range of activities such as growing vegetables and brewing beer. I quickly found this rather lackluster, missing Favreau’s guiding hand and the story-led approach. This review focuses on that introductory section, which hits a sweet spot—being guided but feeling like exploration. It’s a shame this section wasn’t five or 10 times longer.

In one memorable scene, we’re shrunk down to goblin size and climb a vertiginous edifice—the equivalent perhaps of an apartment high up in a skyscraper. Another sweet sequence brings us into a goblin festival, full of merriment: singing; dancing; drinking; a hoedown; a knife throwing competition. It’s delightful. 

What isn’t so delightful, in fact doesn’t feel remotely pleasurable, are the games’ clunky controls and fidgety object interaction, and the way our virtual body is represented—or not, as the case may be. Instead of hands we have ghost-like transparent outlines of controllers—a weird choice that breaks the sanctity of the experience, pricking the bubble of illusion. The controllers are elements from our reality, not the fantasy world’s; their inclusion makes no sense.

More memorable than our hands (or lack of hands) are the hands—and more particularly, the gestures—of our goblin friend. The way the little fella motions to us, beckons us, and looks at us with awe expresses the power of non-verbal communication, crossing linguistic and cultural divides. It’s a shame this is mostly one-sided; that we don’t make more gestures ourselves. Come to think about it, the same can be said of VR games in general, which often roll out non-diegetic elements such as dialogue trees, reminding us that we’re participating in a mediated experience. Like magic forests, body language will never get old.