![]() A route that seemed like a good idea ten minutes ago is now an unmitigated disaster, there aren’t enough bridges to span the river and a new destination has appeared at the opposite side of the map to every single one of the commuters who need to get there. All too soon, the cute suburbs of the early game have become a languid Lilliputian latticework of misaligned roads, stagnant traffic and gridlock. Roads can be torn up and re-laid with ease, but the asphalt inventory doesn’t replenish until deleted routes are free of cars, something that becomes ever more unlikely as the game gets busier. While Mini Metro restricted the number of lines and trains, Mini Motorways rations its roads, forcing players to limit the routes they build and to quite literally cut corners. It’s such a shame that all this has to be tempered by the limits of geography and available infrastructure. Soon, this traffic evolves into an engrossing, multicoloured spectacle akin to a circus parade, or even a May Day military march. Drivers can do no wrong, so as long as you trace out suitable routes for them to take, they’ll dutifully drive as speedily and as efficiently as possible. Initially, there’s the gentle joy of watching half a dozen petite vehicles cruise down empty streets, whirl majestically around their first roundabout and slot smoothly into all the right parking spaces. All this starts off as easy as drawing a line between two points, but becomes predictably complicated as more locations and more shades of colour spring into being. Composed only of colour-coded commuter homes and their corresponding destinations, it’s the player’s job to weave these together with a web of roads, embellished by traffic lights, bridges and motorways, more of which are awarded every seven days. Week by video game week, a minute metropolis gradually grows across the screen, buildings popping into existence at random. ![]()
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