Blast Corps. is a very deceiving game. The title is apt yet completely ill-fitted. The concept is ludicrous yet intuitive. And then there is the gameplay.
The experience of playing Blast Corps. is like riding a motorcycle naked. An insane thrill-ride teeming with adrenaline and buttcheecks suctioned to leather. A lapse in concentration or bump in the road and the whole thing gets very messy for anyone involved. But mostly you. Things get very messy for you. Literally the ride of your lifetime at first, the entire ordeal quickly becomes a lesson in abject terror. And that's not even the worst part, because there's banjos. The twang of electro-country thumps oddly in the distance, providing an odd but perfect soundtrack to the incredulity unfolding before you.
Blast Corps. is fun, but Blast Corps. is also not fun. However, Blast Corps. is not, not fun. It's a damned infuriating good time of a game, and I hate it for that. Blast Corps. is full of blasting, but it is also full of not blasting. At times it is "Position the Boat with Millimeter Precision Corps.", as well as "Push a Box that Slides Every Way Except the Way You are Going Corps." These are the times when Blast Corps. is not fun. Except these are also the times when Blast Corps. is not not fun. I loved this game, and I hated this game. And I loved it again. And before you realize, your job is done, somehow, the day is saved. Blast Corps. can finally rest, safe in the knowledge that their sanity destroying occupation was worth the sacrifice.
Then you go to the Moon, and Mercury, and every other solid planetary body in the solar system. You haven't earned a rest. You've earned the right to strip naked and strap back on to that motorcycle and do it all again. But you have to do it even faster this time. Why? Because fuck you, that's why. Because this game never ends. Until it does end. And then I guess you can stop playing Blast Corps. because the game literally tells you to stop playing Blast Corps. at this point. You did all the things, you somehow mastered whipping the dump truck around. Seriously, fuck that dump truck.
Who can drive that dump truck and clear paths with any kind of control? The dump truck takes that stupid naked motorcycle metaphor and shits all over it. I can't even come up with a metaphor for that thing. Wait, I got it. It's like driving a dump truck, but you're drunk, and it's a drifting competition. If the idea of operating a five-ton piece of people crushing machinery while inebriated and sliding sounds fun, let me tell you. It is fun. Except it's not fun, until it is.