As the UK plunges once more into political chaos, I’ve found the roguelike deckbuilder that can help me process it

Weird Weekend is our regular Saturday feature where we celebrate PC gaming oddities: peculiar games, strange bits of trivia, forgotten history. Pop back every weekend to find out what Jeremy, Josh and Rick have become obsessed with this time, whether it's the canon height of Thief's Garrett or that time someone in the Vatican pirated Football Manager.

Terrible news! The Fractured Kingdom has been chosen to host the Horrific Games, the “world's most boring and expensive international sporting event”. I have two options: pretend to be pleased, or desperately try and find a joint host—a nearby country which might help bear some of the financial strain. I plump for the latter. “Thank goodness,” says Sir Blandolph, the head of the Snivel Service. “Our dreadful neighbours are willing to host some of the really dire events.” Even so, there's a decent chance the ordeal might end my premiership.

The prospect of the Horrific Games looms ever larger during my term as Prime Monster. I find myself hastily confirming impossible deadlines and injecting more cash. At a certain point, I'm informed the Games will require the construction of 12 new stadiums. “Apparently,” says Blandolph, “one of them has to be dedicated entirely to Synchronised Falconry!”

When I refuse, it doesn't go over so well with the voters. “Prime Monster, I am afraid you have underestimated the public's ravenous desire for watching strange monsters indulging in niche activities that stretch the definition of sport to its utmost degree.”

Before long, I find myself in parliament, trying to explain away the collapse of a shoddily-constructed arena. In the chamber, I emphasise the number of humans killed in the accident—a silver lining for the MPs in my own party, who are all zombies.

If I've learned anything this past week, it's that being Prime Monster is truly thankless.

Eventually, the dreaded day comes. I attend the Horrific Games as a guest of honour, and receive a three-point reduction in the public polls for my trouble. “The papers are saying we humiliated ourselves with tens of millions watching all over the world,” says Blandolph, “but I don't agree. I'd be shocked if viewing figures were that high.”

If I've learned anything this past week, it's that being Prime Monster is truly thankless. It's enough to make me pity Keir Starmer—the real life British PM who, at the time of writing, is peddling hard to keep his own leadership on track after disastrous results in the local elections. Vultures are circling, and right now, few would bet on Starmer making it to the end of his first term.

Running the UK is clearly a form of roguelike—a truth that Prime Monster recognises by applying a Slay the Spire-style structure to its warped political simulation. Once you're elected as leader of the Fractured Kingdom, your job is to pass bills in parliament—and to do so, you'll need to win over your MPs during turn-based card battles. Attacks represent biting comments that undermine the power of the opposition leader. And when you're not on the offensive, you're trying to increase the unity of your own party through persuasive pontificating.

The fact that you can't actually tell what anybody's saying only sharpens Prime Monster's satirical edge; in this chamber it's only the strategic moves that matter, not the pledges made or issues debated.

Win enough bill battles—while safely navigating the dilemmas that pop up inbetween—and you might just get through the next general election. Or not, and watch your leader wind up as a half-forgotten portrait on the wall of Number 13.

A general election in Prime Monster is a hands-off affair: by that point, it's too late to make a difference to the outcome. But it's an enjoyable spectacle nonetheless, full of knowing nods to British political culture. On television, the results are declared by the Abominable Peter Snowman—a white-furred take on the real-life Peter Snow, a broadcasting legend who presented UK election analysis for three and a half decades.

“Make your voice heard for exactly one day, then be quiet,” reads the cover of the Daily Wail, the Fractured Kingdom's favourite and only broadsheet newspaper. It reports that the country's borders have been closed in an effort to increase voter participation—a wry joke that couldn't feel more relevant right now. In England, the average voter turnout in local elections over the past decade has been 30-35%. In my own council ward this year, things were a little better, with turnout reaching 49%—but it's fair to say the fate of the country is often decided by the minority.

The tone of Prime Monster tends to veer towards farce, and that's what makes it such entertaining and cathartic company.

Prime Monster definitely offers some explanations as to why voters in the Fractured Kingdom might be disillusioned. Every so often, you'll be given the option to grant peerages to unpopular figures with deep pockets—or to bring up a particular issue in parliament, and paint your donors in a favourable light. In the context of the game, these offers are very tempting. More cash means you can buy powerful permanent abilities, enabling you to draw an extra card every turn in battle, or handicap your opponent before the fight's even begun. Corruption very often pays.

But the tone of Prime Monster tends to veer towards farce, and that's what makes it such entertaining and cathartic company. At one point, my ghoulish avatar stayed up all night to invent new policies because the old ones had been accidentally shredded—only to find that the public preferred the rushed drafts. A scene straight from The Thick of It.

Elsewhere, I found myself bolting the door after one of the Queen's horses had trampled yet another citizen to death. And answering a question about my favourite biscuit in an interview—attempting to name something well-loved and controversial without tripping over my own tongue.

In my latest run, I played as the creaky Thatcher-esque Rotilda De Cay of the Zombified People's Movement (“Opening minds across the nation”). And my most regular opponent was the bumbling, baffoonish Bonar Straw—a cartoonish take on the UK's own straw-haired political poltergeist, Boris Johnson. My nemesis waffled and cringed through all his speeches, but I dared not underestimate him. I could all-too-easily waste my time and resources rebuffing his poorly constructed points, while his hot air filled the room.

What did all this conversational combat achieve? Well: my MPs voted through the 'Lend a Hand' scheme, aimed at tackling the premature limb loss that affects one in five zombies. The bill relies on mandatory arm donation from humans, on a monitored 'use it or lose it' basis. On top of that, I'm pretty sure I legalised arson. Oh well: it'll save on winter fuel costs.

If I'm honest, the issues themselves faded into the background as I fought for my political life at the highest levels of power. And in that sense—despite its roster of vampires, werewolves and animated scarecrows—Prime Monster very much reflects reality.

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