I am Thomas Jefferson, and I have just signed the Declar൩ation of Destruction. I leap into the air like a Power Ranger in a powdered wig and hurl a scroll at my enemy. My opponent--some kind of oily goblin--pops on his reading spectacles and scans the words, before being blown to quivering pieces. It’s a pleasing centre point between cartoon slapstick and spine-shivering awesomeness. But wait! I am, for the purposes of a dramatic introduction designed to keep you reading, a massive liar. And while I may not actually be Thomas Jefferson, this is exactly the kind of sticky-fingered lunacy that passes for normality in Costume Quest 2.

It’s basically a big, fat empowerment fantasy for every kid that’s ever been purple nurpled, wedgied or spitballed. There’s no meannessﷺ or spite here, though: exactly like the first game, it𝐆’s a chocolate-dipped monument to dressing up in flimsy costumes and collecting candy, built on surprisingly sturdy RPG foundations.

To begin with, I find myself back in pumpkin-adorned suburbs on Halloween night. It’s here I meet the game’s surprisingly compelling new bad guy, Orel White D.D.S.: crusader against confectionary, friend of fluoride. Being a dentist, he&rsqu🎀o;s an obvious choice for an antagonist, but he’s also the best thing about Costume Quest 2. Orel hates Halloween, but he’s more nuanced a villain than a bubbling punch bowl of Modern Warfare baddies. I don’t want to get too beard-strokey here--this is, after all, a game about sugared-up children pretending to be wizards--but a clever time-hopping mechanic means you get to see Orel as a child, and fully appreciate his motivation. No spoilers, but he’s essentially the Norman Bates of tooth decay. Resolving his story was incentive enough to keep me playing.