![]() Kid, if you want the heat on, why don't you go out and stamp some passports yourself! Glory to Arstotzka!) ![]() ![]() (Boy's gotten sick like five times already this game. At night you take home your meager salary and try to decide if you should pay for heat or food today, or medicine for your son. The labor lottery has assigned you to a checkpoint near East Grestin, where you'll be checking passports and allowing/denying people entry to your glorious country of Arstotzka.īy day you scan passports, tickets, and IDs, trying to keep track of regulations of ever-increasing complexity, as well as all the various papers that begin to flood your desk: bribes, solicitations to strip clubs, Big Brother-esque ticker warnings printed at your every misstep, and oh, the occasional bomb that comes your way. So last night I started playing this game called Papers, Please. ![]()
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