One could make the argument that the tedium represents Quico’s struggle. Puzzles are about process, not challenge, so there’s no sense of reward for what you accomplish. Unless you're too fast and confuse the camera, or can gauge your jump distance without the help of your shadow, it's tough to miss simple jumps as well. Doors open because you press triangle when instructed. Each switch you flip serves only to open up another switch that needs flipping, only now it’s up a set of stairs that wasn’t there before. Solutions reveal themselves instantly, and it becomes less about problem solving and more about your patience for pointless push/pull puzzles. Maybe it’s because we’re living inside the mind of a child, but the problem solving in Quico’s life isn’t terribly interesting to me as an adult. “Inconveniences keep Quico from getting through doors or to high ledges, which is where Papo & Yo’s puzzles come into play. Metaphorical manifestation is a terrific reason to present interesting ideas to the player, but is ultimately used as a crutch to create inconsistent and arbitrary events for this third-person puzzler. It pops with personality as pieces peel apart, open up, and scuttle around on imaginary legs as Quico pulls levers or pushes buttons. Because the world is at Quico’s whim, it isn’t beholden to physics or reality. Papo & Yo sends Quico to a colorful corner of his imagination filled with South American favelas, graffiti-tagged walls, and childlike mysticism.
The road to the excellent conclusion is a rough one, though, and although Papo & Yo only takes three to four hours to complete, everything between the intro and ending is a disaster. The bleak beginning is a pretty cut-and-dry father/son parallel, which creator Vander Caballero has stated before, that blossoms into a powerful parable about childhood trauma. Quico retreats into his imagination to escape a monster. Play Papo & Yo begins with a boy, Quico, crying and cowering alone in the dark.
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