Crimzon Clover Review – Hallelujah
An impassioned attempt to articulate why Crimzon Clover absolutely blew me away—and why it might be one of the greatest hidden gems of all time.
Last updated
An impassioned attempt to articulate why Crimzon Clover absolutely blew me away—and why it might be one of the greatest hidden gems of all time.
Last updated
I don’t normally write full reviews for games, but Crimzon Clover is an exception—because I feel genuinely compelled to convince at least one more person to try this absolute treasure of a game.
If any hardcore shmup veterans are reading this, I know some of what I’m about to say might sound like sacrilege—but I’m speaking as part of the 99% of gamers who’ve never truly connected with this genre until now, and I’m trying to capture what it felt like to finally experience it through the glory of Crimzon Clover.
I have to be honest: I never thought I would truly enjoy a bullet hell/shmup. My earliest experiences with the genre were more like passive sightseeing tours than actual gameplay. I used to load up PlayStation emulators and try out games like Harmful Park, Gradius, Parodius/Sexy Parodius, and Strikers 1945. The sprite art caught my attention, the weird and wonderful themes amused me, but the moment-to-moment gameplay? I couldn’t connect. I’d deploy infinite credits or cheat codes just to see the levels unfold. Same thing with MAME—I'd boot up DoDonPachi, pump in infinite coins, and enjoy sightseeing pixel art while having no real sense of how the game was meant to be played.
In those games I mentioned previously (with the exception of harmful park) the odds felt unfairly stacked against an average gamer. The ships felt sluggish, the bullet patterns felt cheap, and the learning curve was a brick wall. It felt hard and unwelcoming with a steep learning curve usually ramping up in difficulty after the second or third stage. I didn't know what to aim for. Playing for score felt abstract. One-credit clears (1CCs) seemed like they belonged to a tier of gods with nothing but time. I walked away thinking, “maybe shmups just aren’t for me.”
That changed the day an LLM recommended Crimzon Clover to me. I was asking for avant-garde, over-the-top action games—stuff that pushed the envelope. And that’s exactly what I got. Within the first ten minutes of Crimzon Clover: World Explosion, something clicked. During my first few runs, I just sat there in awe. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing on my screen. I couldn’t believe I was somehow dodging complex looking patterns and not dying instantly. I couldn’t believe this game was made by a single person. I couldn’t believe I had never heard or seen this game before.
The plot of Crimzon Clover focuses on the destruction of a mechanical army known as Gorgoneion and their new doomsday weapon known as Crimson Heart (the True Last Boss of the game). The primary focus with the game's overall gameplay is on utilizing homing lock-on shots—which activate a score multiplier—and a hyper system mechanic known as Break Mode and Double Break Mode.
The music didn’t just feel like some generic 16-bit background loop—it felt lovingly crafted, swelling with emotion and rising in intensity like a crescendo that perfectly matched the chaos and weight of the final stages and end boss. The music made me feel like the fate of the entire galaxy was hanging in the balance—like every boss fight was the climax of a war written in the stars.
Everything about this game felt meticulously handcrafted with intention. It doesn’t even feel like an indie game—hell, it doesn’t even just feel like a game. It’s a high-caliber experience, expertly engineered from top to bottom, where every decision feels deliberate and every moment feels earned. Production value felt very high on this.
The designs of bullet patterns were intricate and aggressive, but never felt cheap. The engine somehow kept 60 frames per second while simulating total chaos, particle effects, laser barrages, massive sprite clusters, and wild transformations. And through it all—it remained readable. I could tell what was dangerous and what wasn’t. I could play.
And then something beautiful happened: I started to get better.
Within ten hours, I had my first 1CC on Novice Original. Then another. Then one on Novice Boost. I tried different ships—Type III and Type Z especially clicked with me. The difficulty curve felt flawless, and the sense of progression was exhilarating. The design in Novice Original mode struck a perfect balance: bullet patterns were challenging but intuitive. I could dodge them on reaction, feel clever for slipping through tight spaces, and not feel forced to rely on pre-memorized bomb routes or cheese tactics.
But here’s where the story gets complicated.
As I got better and more strategic, I found myself watching replays and commentary from Arcade Original 1CC players. And I noticed a word that kept popping up: routing. These high-level players weren’t reacting. They were planning—down to the second. Where to break. When to bomb. Where to point-blank. Where the run-killer enemies spawn. Their dedication to the game was admirable. But the thought of taking this approach felt soul-sucking to me.
I realized I had unknowingly started doing the same in my Novice runs. Using breaks not to survive clutch moments, but to avoid having to deal with certain boss patterns. Knowing where enemies spawn and pre-breaking to clear the screen. It was efficient. It was smart. But when I watched my own replays back, the magic was fading. There was a significantly lower bullet density. Fewer daring dodges. More “mowing the lawn.”
I loved this game because it felt reactive, like I was piloting a tiny, badass fighter in a cosmic war, scraping by on instinct and adrenaline. But now, the more I optimized, the more it felt like I was solving a puzzle. I don’t say this to diminish the skill of Arcade players, their feats are nothing short of incredible. But I started wondering if this genre was drifting away from what I personally valued in a game: dynamic challenge, not rigid perfection.
Crimzon Clover Novice Original gave me that dynamism in spades. And it made me ask: why aren’t there more games like this?
After Crimzon Clover, I tried to explore more of the genre. I gave DoDonPachi Resurrection a try, especially since it’s often called “beginner-friendly” with features like auto-bomb. But I felt none of the magic. The bullet patterns weren’t intuitive. The game felt like it expected me to use bombs reactively—but didn’t give me the tools to learn why or when. The sense of visual polish and kinetic clarity I found in Crimzon Clover just wasn’t there. And that’s when it hit me:
Crimzon Clover might be the only game of its kind in the genre.
I consider myself a hardcore gamer—especially in the genres I’ve poured hundreds of hours into. So I completely understand the apprehension some shmup veterans have toward the slippery slope of “accessibility.” But when less than 1.5% of players have managed a 1CC on Arcade Original, and only 6–12% have done so on Novice Original, something doesn't add up. For comparison, the clear rate for Dark Souls—often cited as the gold standard for “hard but fair”—is 16.9% for the original Prepare to Die Edition and over 30% for the Remastered version. And yet, on shmup forums, Novice Original is often dismissed as casual. I'm sorry, but if a mode with a lower clear rate than Dark Souls is considered "casual," there’s clearly a disconnect.
High-res pixel art. An insane soundtrack. Thoughtful mechanical depth. Satisfying boss design. Clarity and chaos in perfect harmony. It blew my mind that it hadn’t become a franchise. We have dozens of Mega Man games. We have a small army of Metal Slugs. We have more Gradius and R-Type games than we know what to do with. But we only have one Crimzon Clover.
What really struck me about Crimzon Clover Novice Original was how it nailed a challenge that felt fair and engaging without ever needing to be dumbed down or overly simplified. It wasn’t “easy” by any means, but it found that elusive sweet spot where the game tests your skills and rewards your growth without feeling punishing or obtuse. It’s a balance that’s shockingly rare in the genre—and that’s part of why this game stands alone.
I was also shocked to find barely any wallpapers, fan art, or concept art of the game—which is tragic, because a world this visually spectacular deserves to be celebrated, shared, and immortalized far beyond just the game screen.
I find it bittersweet. I’m grateful to have played a game that redefined what shmups could be for me. But I’m also left thinking—this genre could be so much more. What if we had a mode with randomized enemy waves? What if bullet patterns were generated on a theme but changed subtly every time? What if we took this level of graphical and mechanical polish and added replayability that didn't rely on rote memorization?
Crimzon Clover proved to me that shmups don’t have to be homework. They can be exhilarating, emotional, and spontaneous. They can bring back that awe that made us fall in love with video games in the first place. Crimzon Clover is one of the best games ever made, period. It is a glorious, triumphant achievement in game design—one that deserves to be remembered, celebrated, and studied.
Rating: 10/10 - SPECTACULAR
