The Hitman connection doesn't end there, either. It's a bit like when Agent 47 gets his cover blown in Hitman, except instead of getting shot to pieces within moments, you're simply shown the rough end of a broom and told to bog off for a bit. They will chase you down and haul back your prize with surprising force if you get caught, and when they continue to push you away you know it's time to accept defeat. While you can pick up, steal and whisk away almost every single object you come across in this game, their exasperated human caretakers aren't going to let you get away without a fight. That would rob you of the joy of discovering it all for yourself. I don't want to spoil the exact contents of said to-do list. You can rebind them all, of course, but to be a true honk master, I was going to need to play with a controller. I was never going to successfully complete my ever-expanding to-do list of naughty deeds if I couldn't quickly duck, honk or even run in the correct direction at a moment's notice. I tried taking a mouse and keyboard approach when I first started playing, but quickly found them to be ungainly tools, ill-suited to the task at hand. Or at least they aren't if you're playing with a controller. Shoes, glasses, carrots, hats, tea cups, walkie-talkies, cricket bats - even the knives and forks from their dinner tables aren't safe from this honking kleptomaniac. As a student, I learned early on never to come between a goose and their chicks (one nearly murdered my foot when I cycled a bit too close to them one spring), but for these poor souls, nowhere is safe. It's a wonder the residents of Untitled Goose Game's quaint little village ever manage to get anything done when their shops, gardens and pubs are being repeatedly invaded by this terrible goose hell-bent on sneaking into their homes and businesses for the sole purpose of ruining their day. That hulking white menace is evil incarnate. But those ungainly birds of years gone by have nothing on the goose from Untitled Goose Game. They were, and are, obnoxious, belligerent birds (except barnacle geese, beautiful creatures about which I will not have a bad word said), and even now I still feel a small shudder in my soul whenever I catch sight of one. Those cackling honks would also be the first sounds I'd hear waking up in the morning, too, the conversation no doubt still flowing about their daring escapades playing chicken against cyclists, or snapping at drunks in the night.
As I'd fall asleep at night I'd hear them honking away outside, having a right old laugh with the resident ducks and swans. Admittedly, it's a rather odd question to have been mulling over for so many years, but for my whole time at university I lived in extreme proximity to them, and it had an impact. What's the deal with geese? It's a question I've been asking myself for the better part of a decade.
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