Goat Across Time

One building. Three centuries. One goat.

 A tavern in 1150, a family house in 1994, a pub in 2077 — the same walls, six hundred years apart. Press Z, X or C and you are standing in a different one, in the same spot, with the same hooves. Even  mid-jump.

Everything you cannot get past is a year you are not in. A wall in 1994 is a doorway in 1150. A tool that has not been invented yet cuts plaster that was hung four centuries after the tool was scrapped. The  thing in the cellar lives in 1994 and only 1994 — you will not beat it by fighting it. You beat it by leaving the year it is in, walking round behind where it stands, and coming back.

Nothing here has a health bar. Every fight is a puzzle with a solution: work out the move, or don't get past. Being caught costs you your position and the second you needed, and nothing else.

 What the past remembers is a rule, not a mood. Break a water wheel in 1150 and it is broken in 1994 and 2077 as well. Break a wall in 1994 and 1150 has never heard of it, and never will. Only the goat and  what he carries move both ways — a rule the game states out loud and then never bends, including where bending it would have been easier for the person who wrote it.

There is also a chicken.