Cloverpit blasted my brain with roguelike endorphins and, surprisingly, childhood nostalgia

In a week where moving house has seen the vast majority of my gaming time vanish, some short, sweet, distracting hits were needed – and, boy, has Cloverpit delivered. I know I’m a little late to the party here – the roguelike gambling simulator is a good four months old at this point – but it’s been the perfect game for me recently. The clanking of coins, the aural bombardment of multipliers and charm effects chaining together – and the big payouts – are a perfect cocktail for endorphins.

It also, bizarrely, triggered some genuine emotion, which is impressive for a game that keeps you trapped in a grotty prison cell for the duration. Not only did it achieve its allegorical goal of making me question the addictive nature of actual, real-world gambling games, but weirdly, it hit me with some pangs of childhood nostalgia, too.

In between hauling boxes, dismantling and reassembling furniture, and working out how the hell this new boiler works, Cloverpit has been my salvation. Aside from when you do go on a crazy run, this Balatro-meets-a-slot-machine roguelike offers quick satisfaction that doesn’t require massive amounts of energy. A bit of brain power, sure – strategically picking charms, remembering what modifiers you have, and being resourceful with your tickets are all important factors in clearing your ever-increasing debt with your ATM overlord. But overall, it’s one you can play in short bursts – even when you’ve mentally checked out for the day.

While your grimy, low-res surroundings do little to stimulate the senses, the slot machine itself does the heavy lifting there. The hypnotic rotation of the wheels. The blips when you land on a pattern. The surreal sound effects of cats, trains, spicy peppers, and whatever other random charms you’ve accrued – and the spurting blood effect that happens when you’ve rinsed one for all it’s worth. It is truly mesmerizing. Combined with the constant desire to chase bigger multipliers and score larger payouts, Cloverpit quickly succeeded in hooking me.

While that is of course the literal goal of most games – to keep you satisfied and playing as long as possible – in this context, it does make you think. What if those coins were real money? What if that rising debt was the spiraling chase to win back your losses? Some may argue that by replicating a slot machine this closely, Cloverpit is a bad commentary on the real-life impact of gambling addiction. For me, I see it the other way – it makes me grateful I’ve largely dodged gambling throughout my entire adult life.

However, as I mentioned, it stirred up pangs of childhood nostalgia. Ironic nostalgia, given what I’ve just said. Growing up in a small rural, coastal tourist town in the UK, there really ain’t much to do in your free time as an early teen. You haven’t got a car to escape. Your job probably isn’t full-time. There’s no cinema or mall. Most would surf or skate – I didn’t have the balance for it. The only escape would be to trek a good mile or so up the sand dunes to sneak into a holiday park, which was home to a giant arcade. There, my friends and I would throw tiny amounts of money on low-stake slot machines for a bit of fun – and the potential buzz of turning a couple of coins into enough for a burger, a can of Monster, or whatever else constituted a ‘treat’ to a 13-year-old kid like myself.

In a week where I was doing adult stuff, moving into another adult house, and complaining about my weary, adult bones, the spinning of Cloverpit’s inconsequential reels reminded me of those times. I certainly didn’t expect to get that out of a gritty Balatro-like.