Lost Records: Bloom & Rage (Tape 2 - Rage) Review

Spoilers for Lost Records: Tape 1 - Rage ahead!

Don’t Nod’s split-timeline narrative Lost Records felt like a lovely return to the kind of wistful melancholia the studio has captured so well across many of its games. Their decision to divide the story into two parts was an interesting one — it allowed each half to develop at its own pace rather than squeezing everything into a five- or six-chapter structure. However, this approach also sets certain expectations — namely, that Tape 2 will resolve the big ideas introduced in Tape 1. In that respect, it falls short.

Rage picks up shortly after Bloom ends, as the girls try to come to terms with Kat’s terminal cancer and support her through her final days. In the present-day timeline, the now-grown women (minus Kat) are puzzling over a mysterious box sent to them — and grappling with the surreal appearance of a vast supernatural sinkhole in the forest.

Unless you’ve paid really close attention to the first part — or recently completed it — some of the choices you make feel like shots in the dark. For example, in the past timeline, Autumn asks you to collect her things or reminisce at the girls’ hideaway. But how are you supposed to know that inspecting the lock on the hideaway door will trigger a negative response? Why would other options be seen as positive? Too often, it feels like guesswork with little context.

As in Bloom, certain scenes must be reconstructed in the present by playing through memories from the past. But if you fail to complete them after a few attempts, they’re simply discarded with a handwave about them being misremembered. It’s a clever conceit in theory, but feels unsatisfying in practice — though you are at least given the option to replay scenes after completing the game.

Some of Bloom’s lighter side stories carry over in a charming way. Whether you’re playing matchmaker for a bartender and his favourite customer or revisiting familiar locations to film them again, there are natural, warm callbacks. But the camera, central to Bloom’s emotional weight, takes a clear back seat here, reducing the interactivity and shrinking the playtime. Recordings in Rage feel more like a box-ticking exercise than a meaningful mechanic — an “oh, we should probably do this again” collection of vague remembrances and checklist tasks which lack the intimacy or impact of Swann’s earlier footage.

And that shorter runtime matters. Bloom felt expansive — at times even indulgent — as it gradually unpacked each character’s thoughts, relationships, and fears. By contrast, Rage speeds through key developments with a kind of narrative urgency that undercuts all that earlier care. Corey, who seemed poised for a more nuanced path, reverts to being an unrepentant caricature. Ostensibly Kat’s sister’s boyfriend, he ends up playing the same obnoxious meathead role from the start. His presence, tone, and actions feel jarringly out of place, existing more to justify the chapter’s subtitle than to serve any meaningful arc.

Then there’s the supernatural. Don’t Nod has often used magical realism to frame personal stories, with varying success. Life Is Strange and True Colors both used their supernatural mechanics to shape the narrative, albeit with different levels of subtlety. Bloom hinted that the Abyss might alter reality, and Rage includes a handful of clearly unexplainable moments. But the emotional weight of the story — particularly Kat’s death — seems like it should have grounded the magical elements either as metaphor (processing grief) or pushed them to a bolder, reality-bending extreme. Instead, Rage opts for a murky middle ground, neither emotionally rich enough to be symbolic, nor committed enough to feel like high-concept fantasy. This lack of clarity dulls the emotional impact and is further undermined by a post-credits tease for a potential sequel. It lands with a thud, undercutting the gravity of everything that came before.

I wish more time had been spent fleshing out both timelines, especially the adult one, which is underserved in Rage. The mystery box simply doesn’t carry the significance the story seems to think it does. And while the visuals remain stunning, the voice acting feels noticeably flatter. Swann’s constant nervousness begins to feel like a tic — an affectation that never quite evolves — and the rest of the cast, once vibrant, now feels subdued.

Rage is still a well-made game in many respects. There are moments of beauty and flashes of the brilliance that made Bloom so compelling. But the rushed structure and hesitant storytelling leave it feeling like an unfinished thought. The final scene plays like an apology — a promise that answers will come eventually, in a sequel you didn’t expect to need. This was meant to be a complete two-part story, and I came away from Rage feeling like a promise had been broken.