In looking back at 2025 for the Advent Calendar votes, Callum notes a surprising tilt toward smaller titles, even in a year that saw a new Silent Hill and a new Doom on shelves. The Steam algorithm’s whispers nudged him toward indie gems, the sort of experiences that offer bite-sized joys and linger in conversation long after the credits roll. When the final tally arrived, a handful of personal favourites didn’t make the cut, but five titles earned their moment in the wintry sun.
Five games stood out as the year’s most playful and resonant experiences: Easy Delivery Co., Oblivion: Remastered, Peak, Repo, and Wanderstop. Easy Delivery Co. is a snowy-town caper in which you play a cat delivering packages in a pickup, its arcade driving gleefully chaotic while a quiet mystery threads through the streets. The town’s eccentrics pull you into side plots, including a bakery girl who cannot stop talking about dirt. The loop tightens around delivering parcels, a rhythm that can be hypnotic, and the game’s humor and atmosphere keep pulling you back—though the clock finally wins and most players will move on after a few days.
Oblivion: Remastered brings The Elder Scrolls IV into a clearer modern frame while trying not to erase its original rough charm. The remaster feels prettier, a welcome uplift to Cyrodiil’s textures and vistas, yet Bethesda preserves the game’s “charming blemishes” that longtime fans tolerate with a resigned grin. AI is improved, but the townsfolk still deliver idle dialogue that can feel absurdly repetitive, and the world still scales with the player in a way that can yield ridiculous moments—such as a beggar pulling a mythical greatsword from his rags after a level-up. The humor remains unapologetic, including the infamous magnified close-up of a potatoey face accosting you for breaking the law. Oblivion has always been a hot mess, but it’s a hot mess that many players still love.
Repo is a riot when played online with friends. You control a colourful crew of bug-eyed bailiff robots that explore haunted buildings and ransack them for cursed items, all while dealing with residents who are very much still around and often very hostile. The game defies the usual Lethal Company clone expectations with a distinct charm: unsettling monster designs, physics-based item handling, and moments of chaotic teamwork that hinge on careful, quiet communication. The first few runs are a blur of laughter and near-misses, culminating in tense exchanges as proximity chat reveals who’s about to spill the plan or blow the fuse.
Peak has been described on the roster as the friend slop juggernaut, a multiplayer standout that sits beside Lethal Company, Phasmophobia and Among Us on the genre’s Mount Rushmore. Its randomised desert island setting frames long, physics-driven climbs with a customisable goober of a character, and the thrill comes from the stories that emerge—whether that means a misjudged jump, a race against dwindling stamina, or a friend suddenly becoming a liability in the heat of the moment. The art style—bright, Saturday-morning cartoon—matches its absurd, high-energy tone and makes every misstep feel more endearing than final.
Wanderstop tells a very different kind of story. Alta, a prizefighter trapped in an endless forest, makes tea for a parade of magical patrons, each with their own problems. The surface farming loop—cultivating crops, turning them into tea, and serving patrons—becomes a quiet, therapeutic ritual. The monotony is deliberate: it slows you down, giving space to reflect, as Alta seeks a way to heal after a loss. The game’s suggestion to pause, sip, and consider your path resonates as a gentle reminder to take care of yourself, even in a fantasy world where combat and whimsy share the stage.
Together, these five games illustrate a year where intimate, character-driven experiences outshone even the biggest-budget releases. They demonstrate how small studios can carve out distinct spaces for play, humor, and introspection, often centered on co-op misadventure, personal growth, and the simple satisfaction of a well-timed delivery or a perfect cup of tea. The Selection Box is more than a list of favorites; it’s a snapshot of a culture that values accessible joy, shared stories, and the kind of games that linger in conversation long after the screen goes dark. For players seeking a pocket-sized reminiscence of 2025—a year equally defined by its indie spark as by its blockbuster noise—these five titles offer a clear compass.