'Koira' Game Review - A Quiet Song of Snow, Silence, and Companionship

There’s a certain kind of magic that happens when a game doesn’t just ask you to play it—but to feel it. Koira is that kind of magic. The kind that tiptoes softly into your heart, as if not to startle you, and then takes root like a warm memory you didn’t know you needed to revisit.

From the first snowflake that falls onto your screen to the moment you lock eyes with your puppy companion, Koira casts a quiet, beautiful spell. You are a silent traveler in a forest of whispers, shadows, and light—no words are spoken, yet everything is said. The world is drawn in brushstrokes of soft purples and cold whites, where sunbeams peek through branches as if nature is gently guiding your way.

At your side is a puppy—curious, sweet, a little clumsy in the way all young things are. And you love them immediately. Not because the game tells you to, but because it gives you every little reason to: the way they stumble, the way they wait for you, the way they tilt their head when you play a tune. You’re not just playing a game—you’re making memories with a creature who trusts you completely.

This isn’t an epic quest, and it never tries to be. There are puzzles, yes, but they’re more like opportunities to pause and look around. You’ll throw snowballs to knock fruit from trees, guide melodies to sleeping statues, and explore the terrain to feed your puppy and soothe frightened animals. You’ll play. You’ll sit quietly. You’ll build snowmen together. It’s a love letter to small moments, and Koira never rushes them.

There is danger too—dark, faceless hunters who lurk like bad dreams. They remind you that the world isn’t always gentle. But even then, the game never feels cruel. Stealth becomes less about fear and more about protecting what you hold dear. Your bond with the puppy grows stronger in those moments of shared stillness and trust.

And if you’ve ever played Gris, you’ll find something beautifully familiar here. The same reverence for silence. The same use of music as language. The same sensation of exploring not just a world, but a feeling. Where Gris painted with color to explore grief, Koira uses snow, song, and a puppy’s gaze to explore love, companionship, and the ache of care. If Gris broke your heart and put it back together with watercolor, Koira wraps it in a scarf and leads you into the woods for a walk you won’t forget.

There are no quests, no bosses, no dialogue trees. There is only you, your puppy, and a forest full of quiet stories. Some told in shadow. Some in music. All of them felt.

Koira is the kind of game that feels like a poem written in the margins of winter. It’s tender and lovely and soft around the edges. It reminds you how healing it can be to simply exist beside someone who needs you—and to let them exist beside you, too.