Split Fiction Review: Hazelight's Co-op Triumph Rekindles Gaming Wonder

Split Fiction is a co-op-only adventure that rekindles the old feeling of being wowed by a game’s imagination. By splitting two players between a lush fantasy realm and a gleaming sci-fi dimension, Hazelight builds a rollercoaster of inventive set-pieces, heartfelt storytelling, and design tricks that demand communication and trust. It’s a crowd-pleasing journey that constantly reinvents itself, sticks the landing with a giddy, grin-inducing finale, and reminds you why we love playing together in the first place.

There’s a particular kind of gaming magic that happens when two players lock eyes after a wild sequence and both burst out laughing at the audacity of it all. Split Fiction chases that feeling with almost reckless enthusiasm. The premise is simple and brilliant: two characters are trapped in a story that has ruptured into two parallel genres. One player moves through soaring forests, rune-lit caverns, and dragon-haunted cliffs. The other navigates neon corridors, quantum labs, and humming server vaults. You share the same narrative beats, but your paths and verbs are different, and the only way forward is together.

Hazelight has always been good at making cooperation feel physical and immediate. Here, every chapter pairs asymmetrical tools that fit together like puzzle pieces. The fantasy player can bind bramble bridges or ride gusts of wind; the sci-fi player can reroute power, deploy tetherable drones, or reverse gravity pads. None of these are just gimmicks. The brilliance is in how they interlock. A late-game tower climb had one of us surfing wind currents while the other rotated entire room segments by hacking gyro cores. We traded countdowns, missed a beat, recovered with a laugh, and finally nailed it on the third try. That rhythm of fail-forward fun is Split Fiction at its best.

The campaign is structured as a tour of duets. Each location introduces a fresh twist, explores it with two or three spicy variations, and then bows out before it grows stale. It evokes the same idea-density that made It Takes Two such a blast, but with a tighter thematic glue. The split theme isn’t just a filter on the world; it is the world. You’ll push a crystal obelisk in fantasy while your partner drags a magnetic battery in sci-fi, both moving the same underlying “object” that only exists as a shared silhouette. You’ll solve a rhythm puzzle where your inputs are drums on the fantasy side and laser gates on the sci-fi side, playing the same melody across two instruments. These touches don’t just look clever—they force you to think as one mind.

That duality extends to the story. Split Fiction isn’t a dour drama, but it does have a gentle emotional core. Two leads—one a curious archivist, the other a pragmatic technician—snap at each other, reconcile, and learn to translate their languages. The writing walks a nice line between zippy banter and quiet sincerity. When the game takes a breath, it lets you soak in its worlds: a mossy shrine that hums when both players hum back, a starship window that only reveals constellations when you trace them simultaneously, a waterfall that hides a binary-safe passage you can only open by counting together. It’s never cloying, just earnest enough to land.

Presentation-wise, the split aesthetic is a treat. On the fantasy side, color grading leans into amber sunbeams, deep greens, and particulate motes that sparkle when your partner flips a sci-fi switch. On the sci-fi side, light is crisp, silhouettes clean, and UI flourishes feel tactile without clutter. Audio is the secret sauce. The soundtrack braids motifs: wooden flutes and hand drums meet airy synths and arpeggiators, crossfading based on who’s currently “leading” progression. Even small cues, like your partner’s actions bleeding into your soundscape as a soft echo, help reinforce the bond.

Co-op options are generous. Couch co-op is the standout—this is a talk-to-each-other game—but online play is smooth, with minimal latency and an elegant ping system for when voice chat isn’t possible. Accessibility gets thoughtful attention: adjustable QTE windows, colorblind-friendly rune glyphs, remappable inputs, and optional aim assist on the more demanding platforming sections. There’s also a chapter select for revisiting favorite moments or chasing optional challenges. The game is less about mastery and more about shared discovery, but completionists still have reasons to return.

The set-pieces deserve a shout. One chase sequence has the fantasy player on a stag sprinting through briar tunnels while the sci-fi player rides a rail cart, hacking gates in rhythm to keep lanes open. A later puzzle asks you to align a massive stained-glass mural while your partner rotates a holographic star map; only when the colors and constellations overlap does the next door open. A mid-game boss plays out like a two-channel bullet hell, kaleidoscopic patterns in fantasy and vector arcs in sci-fi, both derived from the same attack logic you must decode aloud. Crucially, no encounter outstays its welcome.

Does Split Fiction stumble? Occasionally. A handful of platforming stretches ask a bit too much precision from the fantasy toolkit, especially when wind timing stacks with cooperative triggers. Some minigames, like a competitive glide-and-collect challenge, feel like palate cleansers that don’t quite earn their length. And while the script mostly avoids cliche, a late twist is foreshadowed so clearly that the reveal lands with a soft thud rather than a gasp. None of these hiccups linger, because the next clever idea arrives before you can dwell on them.

Let’s talk about the finale without ruining it. The game has been teaching you to see two realities as a single system. The last act pushes that lesson until the distinction between fantasy and sci-fi becomes a mechanic you manipulate at will. It’s not just visually spectacular; it’s the kind of design flourish that makes you sit back and appreciate how every earlier puzzle was training. The final stretch feels like a magic trick where you suddenly notice the threads, then realize seeing the threads makes the trick even better. When the credits roll, there’s a good chance you’ll still be smiling at how thoroughly the team commits to the bit.

Who is Split Fiction for? Couples looking for a date-night campaign, friends hungry for a breezy weekend adventure, parents and kids who want to solve things side-by-side, and anyone who misses the thrill of couch co-op design built with craft and care. The difficulty is approachable with toggles that make it even more so, but the communication demands keep it engaging for veteran players too. It’s not about raw challenge; it’s about synergy.

If you value games that deliver polished, bite-sized bursts of novelty and funnel them into a cohesive finale, Split Fiction belongs near the top of your list. It carries the torch of Hazelight’s co-op philosophy—playfulness married to purpose—and adds a clear identity of its own. More than any single mechanic, what lingers is the sensation of jointly overcoming something clever, then laughing in relief as the next clever thing appears on the horizon.

Verdict: Split Fiction is a joyous, idea-rich co-op adventure that turns the split between fantasy and sci-fi into a celebration of partnership. It dazzles often, surprises more than once, and leaves you grateful that games can still feel this wonderfully new when two minds share one horizon.