Despelote review: A poignant memoir masquerading as a soccer game

Envision stepping into a time machine aimed at Quito in the early 2000s. Despelote is more than just a game; this is the pixelated portal standing witness to Julián Cordero-Waldner’s childhood. No grand quests or battles take place here; drama unfolds on playing fields of dirt and within the confines of a deeply sentimental family, all from the perspective of an eight-year-old boy.

Static crackles along the edges of vision as shadows move by sun-drenched streets, and that is young Julián. Days would be spent going to school, going to family, and forever being pulled by a soccer ball. The air buzzes with the fever of the nation’s soccer fever-a fever dream conjured from heard news snippets and whispers.Despeloteis not the history on paper; it is living history as experienced through the delightfully egocentric viewpoint of a child for whom the world revolves around the next kick.

The year is 2001. Quito buzzes at its fever pitch. Ecuador stands guard on the threshold to World Cup glory, birthing a soccer supernova. InDespelote, you get tolivethe electric atmosphere through Cordero. His worldissoccer: a crazy blur of kicks reverberating in the streets of Quito, pixel victories in FIFA showdowns, and hypnotic glows from World Cup matches on TV. He’s a one-man hurricane of soccer, in various degrees, charmingly disrupting or ruining, depending on who is telling the story the regular lives of his neighbors.

Welcome the colorful, dreamlike atmosphere insideDespelote. Here is where Quito, Ecuador, will live in your memory.

We are not talking about pixel-perfect graphics; this way, the game breathes the raw energies of Real Life. Cordero opens the gates of his inner chamber: intently listen to fiery Spanish conversations (there are speech bubbles, so you need not worry!) together with chuckling about inside jokes and enjoying the sounds of everyday life.

This game world is not rendered but remembered by the thinker. Imagine Quito bathed in hazy, single-color hues, key figures and objects etched in sharp monochrome, like fragments of a cherished photograph.

And, well, then the magic winds down. Catch the sparkling Ecuadorian World Cup legacy on those small screens inside the stadium. Scramble to a seat as an entire match flashes to life on this flickering TV.

TheDespelotedaringly blends hard reality with the surreal, setting you firmly on the hard-core bumps of reality while whisking your soul up into a soft caress. This creates an absolutely mesmerizing experience.

Transitions shimmer like half-remembered dreams – a subtle zoom, a blurring cityscape – each moment a sun-filled invitation to join flowing waves of childhood ecstasy. Controls melt away: a flick of the wrist puts the ball in the air, holding one’s breath starts a sprint, a curious pressing eases open the world. Even looking at one’s watch turns into an adventure against time. Quito breathes. Then, fleeting mirages erupt-surreality from the future Cordero, an Ecuador still to be. These go sharper and more poignant and suture themselves into the tapestry of memories-the hints of conflict and transformation about to come-without shattering the innocence of play.

Panic

Grand narratives, she said. Seizing such grand narratives was no way forDespeloteto flourish. Each fleeting scene is like a stroke of paint on Cordero’s world and, strangely, on ours. The humid night conjured dreams not fully realized on the misty glass of the van, with parental voices softly droning behind. From a mother’s frustrated yet loving request, from a sister’s shy beseeching to be taught how to draw a frog, a stolen ball into laughter from a bottle cast away as a shining surrogate:Despelotefeels for poetry in the everyday, raises up the innocent, and holds the very idea that the adult world steals glories of childhood in seemingly meaningless gestures. It is not spoken of but washed in the ebb and tendency of feeling.

Despelote isn’t just another game; it is a memory put into a tangible form. I am searching for comparisons, clutching at shadows, grasping for familiar points of reference and coming up short. To call it an autobiography in pixels doesn’t suffice, but there is something deep within it that sings to the sheer and raw vulnerability of That Dragon, Cancer and the richly affecting strand in Dys4ia. Instead of stark, cutting pain, however, Despelote is like a soft light of remembrance, childhood. That Dragon, Cancer is a glaring flash of pain. It reminds us of the fact that memoirs are not always formed by suffering. Despelote definitely shows that if truth is forged with care, it can transform the deeply personal histories upon which it is based into truly universal interactive experiences.

Panic

Then the screen crackled. Cordero steps out of Despelote, no more pixilated. The game shifts: a documentary unfolds. He speaks, almost intimately, describing a pilgrimage with his fellow co-creator Sebastián Valbuena to Quito. They were in search of echoes and recorded the very sounds that were part of the landscapes engendering Despelote. Cordero wrestled with slithering memories, attempting to stitch together the timeline for his game. His confession: an anguished cry for honesty. He sought to convey the raw, burning essence of that time in Ecuador when soccer was oxygen and he was but a boy lost in the roar.

I believe he succeeded.

Despelote is available now on Steam, PlayStation 4, PS5 and Xbox Series X/S, published by Panic.

Despelote

$15 at Steam

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