Summary
Some games trick players because of bugs. Others because of bad tutorials. But then there are those that lieon purpose—games that look players dead in the eyes and twist the truth for the sake of a narrative rug-pull, a mechanical surprise, or just sheer mischief. These aren’t just clever; they’re designed to be deceitful in the best possible way, turning misinformation into a core part of the experience.
Whether it’s messing with expectations, breaking the fourth wall, or pretending to be something they’re not, these games play with their narrative in the most deceitful way possible. Here are the best games thatknewthey were lying andlovedevery second of it.
At first glance,Inscryptionlooks like another spookydeck-building roguelike. Cards on a table, a mysterious figure across from the player, some light horror vibes. Pretty normal stuff, until the stoat starts talking.
From the moment that first card opens its mouth, it’s clear something’s not right. The game doesn’t just break the fourth wall, itgrinds it into dust. The cabin setup is just the first layer of a deeply nested matryoshka doll of genres and lies. One minute, players are tweaking their deck to survive Leshy’s sadistic table games, and the next, they’re diving into found footage horror or exploring top-down RPG segments straight out of the ‘90s.
The wayInscryptionlies is methodical. It sets rules, then quietly breaks them. It teaches players how to survive, then pulls the rug out with a genre shift that reframes everything that came before. And that’s not even counting the ARG elements that bleed into real-life file manipulation. It’s as much a psychological magic trick as it is a game.
For players who thought they were signing up for a simple roguelike,Inscryptionquickly makes one thing clear: itwantsplayers to believe that. It needed to lie, because the truth would’ve ruined the surprise.
There’s something eerily serene aboutThe Talos Principle. The sunlit ruins, the ancient structures, the omnipresent voice of Elohim telling players to solve puzzles and ascend—it all feels like it’s reaching for something spiritual. But beneaththe philosophical toneand the beautifully designed logic puzzles, this game is quietly feeding players a lie.
Elohim speaks with authority, assuring players that obedience will lead to enlightenment. But the deeper players go, the more cracks begin to show. Forbidden terminals appear in corners of the world, offering fragments of lost history. AI logs, system overrides, and corrupted messages hint that this divine playground isn’t divine at all—it’s a simulation built atop human extinction.
The game’s lie is its promise of purpose. It asks players to accept its rules without question, all while seeding rebellion as a quiet alternative. Those who defy Elohim, who climb the mysterious tower he warns against, discover that free will is the real test, not the puzzles.
Where most games reward players for following the path laid before them,The Talos Principledares players to question whether they should be on that path at all.
What starts as a story about a man in an empty office quickly turns into a game that actively resents the idea of being played correctly.The Stanley Parabledoesn’t lie to the player in one clean stroke—it lies constantly, gleefully, and with layered sarcasm so thick it borders on performance art.
The Narrator tells players what Stanley is doing. Or rather, what heshouldbe doing. But the moment players choose a different door, or refuse to move, or do something absurd like walking in circles, the narrative bends, breaks, or combusts entirely. The game adapts around disobedience, spinning increasingly surreal and often hilarious consequences for players simply existing in contradiction.
There’sno “winning”inThe Stanley Parable. Every ending is a commentary on agency, expectation, and the illusion of choice. The Narrator tries to guide, then manipulates, then begs, then mocks. All of it stems from a core deception: that there’s a story here with a point, and that players can find it if they just follow the rules. But the real story is in the refusal to comply. And the game knows that. It always did.
There’s lying, and then there’sUndertale. From its first moments, it sells itself as a quirky retro RPG with a harmless sense of humor. The kind of game where flowers talk, skeletons crack jokes, and love is measured in “LV.”
But the second players pay attention, it becomes clear something’s off. That “LV” stands for “Level of Violence,” not experience. That enemies don’t have to die. That mercy is more than a mechanic—it’s a choice that reshapes the world and how its characters treat the player.
And then there’s Flowey. That smiling, innocent flower who outright tells players that inhisworld, “it’s kill or be killed.” He’s not just the face of deception inUndertale, he’s the meta voice of it. He remembers what players did on past runs. He calls them out for resets. He breaks the game’s rules because he knows players are trying to play by them.
Whether players go fullGenocide or stick to the Pacifist route,Undertaleremembers. It weaponizes its own save system to make the consequences stick. And the game lies to protect its illusion of innocence, right up until it’s ready to drop the curtain and reveal that every decision mattered more than it seemed.
Few games commit to a bit as hard asThere Is No Game: Wrong Dimension. It starts by telling players not to play it. Literally. A booming narrator tries to shut things down before they begin, insisting there’s nothing to see here, no fun to be had, and definitely no game in sight.
Of course, that’s the first lie. What follows is an absurd, multi-genre puzzle comedy that constantly reinvents itself. One minute it’s apoint-and-click adventure, the next it’s parodying mobile games, then suddenly it’s trapped in a fake RPG. Players solve puzzles not just within the game world, but by manipulating menus, dragging UI elements, and breaking every rule of interface design.
The charm lies in how deeply it commits to misdirection. The narrator lies constantly—not out of malice, but out of desperation. He’s trying to keep things from unraveling, to stop players from pulling on the threads. But curiosity always wins, and that’s exactly what the developers want.
There Is No Game: Wrong Dimensiondoesn’t just lie about being a game. It liesasa game, disguising truth as joke after joke until players suddenly realize they’ve been emotionally invested this whole time.
When it comes to deception in games, nothing touches the scale of whatMetal Gear Solid 2pulled off. The trailers showed Snake on a tanker. The box art featured him front and center. Even the demo was pure Snake. And then, an hour into the full game, he’s gone—and players are suddenly controlling Raiden, a rookie with anime hair and no clue what’s going on.
It was the bait-and-switch of the generation, and it wasn’t just for shock value.Hideo Kojima designedthe entire twist as a commentary on player expectation, media manipulation, and the idea of heroes being shaped more by legend than reality. Snake becomes a background myth. Raiden, despite being green and unsure, ends up walking the same path, echoing Snake’s actions until he becomes his own kind of soldier.
The lies inSons of Libertydon’t stop there. The Colonel starts glitching. The objectives contradict each other. Codec calls devolve into nonsense. Players are told to turn the console off, delete their save files, or that they’ve been playing a simulation the whole time. It’s gaslighting as game design. What looked like a straightforward sequel became one of the most subversive experiences of its era. Not because it tricked players once, but because it never stopped.
