Now that I’ve finally cleared Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door, I’ve returned to playing through Unicorn Overlord in whatever spare gaming hours I’ve got that aren’t dedicated to playing through the Dragon Age franchise (which have been a lot, lately, since I’ve been too tired to engage with Dragon Age). In fact, I just cleared one of the two major plot beats introduced after the initial setup–forming the rebellion that would make up the core of the game and rescuing the childhood friend who got kidnapped the instant they got off the boat in one of the most infuriating cases of “don’t just stand there, jackass. Do something!” I’ve ever seen–and unlocked a massive slew of support conversations that I’d been sitting on since I realized I could just spend the ample money I earned in the game to increase everyone’s support levels. While the plot doesn’t reflect the writing chops brought to bear on giving voice to the characters, it’s impossible to deny that this game knew what it wanted to provide and provided it: excellent character writing (and voice acting!). As I worked through this bevy of unlocked conversations, I was reminded anew of how much I enjoyed the incredibly unique depictions of each character via their writing and the interesting mix of subtext and text sprinkled into the conversations between all of them. I’m fond of saying that the writer can only bring half of the work to any storytelling and it is up to the reader to provide the other half, but that’s not exactly true. Readers can bring much more, overwhelming the writer’s work, and writers can work in such a way that leaves the reader with little room to interpret. Unicorn Overlord has a bunch of interesting examples of both explicit and implicit information, as some character relationships are defined in fairly clear terms, some are left ambiguous enough for the reader to interpret, and some give so little information that it is almost entirely on the reader to see more than what is shown.