
PHYSARUM
You never move the mould. You paint hunger onto the agar and it flows there — stretch a vein too thin and the plate saws you in half.
Think three moves ahead, then watch it all fall apart anyway.

You never move the mould. You paint hunger onto the agar and it flows there — stretch a vein too thin and the plate saws you in half.

Enemies only move when you do, and you become whatever you capture. The queen is a weapon or a curse — it's all in the order.

Hold the line in Flanders, 1916. Buy your company, dig in, and survive what comes across the wire.

One ray of sun, five bronze mirrors, the whole Roman navy. Every bounce burns ×1.4 hotter — until a cloud calls your bluff.

The shovel slows it. The helicopter annoys it. Only a fire you lit first can stop it — right up until the wind turns.

A whole file drains and frees its space. A shattered one just sits there, thrashing. The disk never stops writing.

A WWII platoon-tactics sim in the Normandy bocage — real ballistics, real suppression, and a campaign that remembers your dead.
