In my office, I have a collage of Ordnance Survey maps plastered across my wall. They're from places I've lived - Derbyshire, East London, Bournemouth, Bristol - with cycle routes, country roads, and parks highlighted and circled. It's an atlas of my experiences, a living memoir of the places I've been and the things I've seen. There's magic in a map, its ability to remind you of the paths you've trodden and where you've yet to go.

Perhaps that's why I love Metroidvanias so much. Really, the game is the map. Is there anything more intoxicating than pushing your palms up against the walls supposedly keeping you in and knowing that - somewhere - there's a hidden path leading to the other side? Over the years, you develop an instinct for it; you get to play against the sadistic engineers of these labyrinthine spaces. 'I see your mysterious overhang,' you say, 'and jump through your roof. I see your egregious slab of a wall, and phase through its illusion.'

And Castlevania: Belmont's Curse has all this in spades. There are so many sly nuances tucked away around the streets of Paris and within Dracula's Castle that it's like I'm instantly transported back to my pre-pubescent self, nudging the D-Pad against every wall in Castlevania: Symphony of the Night in a belligerent attempt to sniff out its secrets.

Dead Cells developer Evil Empire's stewardship of the series honours the Belmont legacy with reverence. That begins with Rose Belmont, protégé daughter of Castlevania 3's main characters Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades, and a fearless vampire slayer herself.

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