The first time I encountered one of those twitchy Pinocchio-like creatures in Crow Country, I actually jumped—my controller nearly slipped right out of my hands. That initial scare, though, was pretty much the peak of the game's survival tension. As someone who’s played survival horror titles since the original Resident Evil, I’ve come to expect a certain level of resource scarcity and strategic planning. But here’s the thing: Crow Country almost entirely sidesteps that classic formula. It’s not that the game isn’t enjoyable—it has charm, atmosphere, and some clever puzzles—but the "survival" part feels more like a casual stroll through a mildly spooky theme park than a desperate fight for your life.
Let’s talk about resources. In most games of this genre, every bullet counts. I remember playing Silent Hill 2 and rationing handgun ammo like it was the last food in the apocalypse. In Crow Country, though, I never once felt that pressure. I explored thoroughly, sure, but even when I wasn’t trying particularly hard, I ended the game with something like 120 handgun rounds, 40 shotgun shells, and a ridiculous stockpile of healing items. I stopped counting med-kits after my 15th pick-up, and antidotes? I think I used maybe two throughout the entire playthrough. That kind of abundance fundamentally changes the player’s relationship with the game world. You stop seeing enemies as threats and start viewing them as minor obstacles, almost inconveniences. The elongated skeletons with their eerie bone-rattling sounds are a great example—initially unsettling, yes, but after the third or fourth encounter, you realize they’re slow, predictable, and go down with just a couple of shots. They’re more atmospheric set-dressing than genuine hazards.
Now, I don’t mind a game being accessible. Not every horror title needs to be punishingly difficult. But when the core challenge evaporates, so does a significant part of the tension that makes survival horror so compelling. I kept waiting for that one moment—the equivalent of Resident Evil’s zombie dogs crashing through the window—that would really test my mettle. It never came. The frog-like creatures in narrow spaces? Non-existent. Enemy variety is limited, and most confrontations can be resolved by backpedaling and firing without much thought. By the time I reached the final boss, I was carrying all four firearms, each fully loaded, without ever having made a conscious choice about inventory management. And that’s another area where Crow Country diverges from tradition. Inventory management is usually a key strategic layer—do I carry this key item or that extra healing spray? Here, I never had to make those trade-offs. The game just lets you hoard everything, which, while convenient, strips away that layer of thoughtful preparation.
From a design perspective, I understand the intent—lowering the barrier to entry can attract a broader audience. But I can’t help but feel that in doing so, Crow Country loses some of its identity. The satisfaction of surviving by the skin of your teeth, of making every shot count, is largely absent. I finished the final boss fight with probably 80% of my ammo still unused, and the victory felt unearned. Compare that to my first playthrough of Resident Evil Remake, where I barely scraped by with three handgun bullets left—that’s a memory that sticks with you. Crow Country’s approach makes the combat feel more like a formality than a central pillar of the experience.
That’s not to say the game is without merit. The art style is moody and evocative, the sound design—especially those skeleton rattles—is genuinely creepy at first, and the puzzle design shows real creativity. But these strengths are undermined by the lack of meaningful survival elements. I found myself enjoying the exploration and story more than the actual "horror" parts, which is a bit ironic for a game in this genre. If you’re new to survival horror, Crow Country might be a gentle introduction. But for veterans like me, it’s a pleasant yet forgettable experience that plays it too safe. I’d rate its challenge level at about a 3 out of 10, and its inventory management at a solid 1—basically non-existent. It’s a game I enjoyed well enough while playing, but one I’m unlikely to revisit, because without that underlying tension, it just doesn’t leave a lasting impression.