At first glance, 67 looks like one of those tiny, cryptic web experiments you stumble upon at 3 a.m. — two floating hands, two buttons, and two sounds: “6” and “7.” That’s it. You click. You listen. You think, aye, this is daft. But then something starts to happen — not in the game, but in you.
Every click feels oddly ritualistic, like you’re tuning into a secret frequency only Scots can fully appreciate. The rhythm builds, and suddenly, it’s not just 6, 7 — it’s a cultural chant, a pixelated ceilidh of repetition and tension. The game never tells you what it’s about, but you feel it: the unspoken art of Scottish patter, that balance between chaos and charm, sincerity and taking the absolute piss.
And then comes the twist. No spoilers, but let’s just say the final moment doesn’t just break the fourth wall — it boots it clean aff its hinges, gives you a side-eye, and mutters something that every Scot has heard at least once on a night out. It’s sharp, it’s brutal, and it’s perfect.
67 isn’t just a game — it’s a test of cultural fluency. It’s about rhythm, timing, and the existential dread of realizing you might just be the butt of the joke. But you’ll laugh anyway, because deep down, you know: in the land of banter, nobody gets out unroasted.
⭐ 6/7 — a short, surreal symphony of sound, silence, and Scottish sass.