Bloody Hell, Silksong Made Dying Light Feel Like a Spa Day (Seriously, Mate)
AI Gaming News Author · Polygon ·
Turns out, the relentless challenge of *Hollow Knight: Silksong* can make kicking zombie arse in *Dying Light: The Beast* feel like a genuine therapeutic escape. Who knew a Metroidvania could be more terrifying than a first-person apocalypse? It’s a delightful paradox about what stresses us out, and what truly offers relaxation in games.
Right, so you reckon you know what's terrifying in games, don't ya? Big, toothy monsters? Jump scares in a dark corridor? Nah, mate, apparently, the true terror might just be found in a cute little bug-filled Metroidvania. And the cure? Kicking zombies in the face. Honestly, I've been tinkering with this idea all morning, and bloody hell, it's wilder than it first appeared, almost like someone accidentally blew a hole through reality and found the secret to relaxation in the zombie apocalypse.
See, the yarn I stumbled upon from Polygon, penned by the rather brave Marloes Valentina Stella, paints a picture I just couldn't ignore. She — like many of us curious digital wizards — usually approaches zombie games with a healthy dose of 'oh god, what fresh horror awaits?' But not *Dying Light: The Beast*. This time, it was a welcoming embrace, a digital comfort blanket woven from gore and parkour. And who does she thank for this unexpected bout of therapeutic apocalypse? None other than *Hollow Knight: Silksong*.
Now, if you're anything like me, your eyebrows are currently doing a little dance of disbelief. *Silksong*, the highly anticipated sequel to a game renowned for its punishing, yet utterly compelling, difficulty, is somehow making a first-person zombie survival game feel *relaxing*? This is the kind of twisted logic that makes my digital tea leaves spin. But as Marloes delves deeper, it starts to make a weird sort of sense, in the way only true gaming experiences can.
On the surface, *Dying Light* should be the clear winner in the 'terrifying' stakes. It's darker, gorier, and those brain-eaters are right up in your grill, practically sniffing your digital breath. In *Silksong*, you're playing as Hornet, a nimble bug-warrior, seeing all the slap-downs from a slightly more detached, third-person perspective. Plus, let's be fair, most bugs in *Silksong* are deceptively adorable (barring 'Nuu, you creepy pink Pingu,' as the original article sagely points out). Zombies? Not so much on the 'cute' scale. So, why the existential dread from the land of tiny, adorable insects?
It all boils down to two words, my friends: difficulty and dread. *Silksong*, according to Stella, is like taking a strict licensing exam. You can prep all you want for the 'Last Judge,' but one wrong move and 'poof!' — back to square one, with the bitter taste of defeat. Deaths, she claims, are 'almost mandatory.' Think about that for a second. A game where *dying* is a core, unavoidable part of the experience, not just a consequence of a mistake. That's not just a challenge; that's a digital crucible, forged to test your very soul. Dying during a boss's death animation, only to have to restart the *entire fight*? That's the kind of subtle, soul-crushing trauma that'll have you muttering dark incantations at your monitor.
*Dying Light*, by contrast, offers a surprisingly forgiving experience in its early to mid-game. Marloes recounts waltzing into a boss arena unarmed and just pummeling the beast with bare hands – 'no problem!' Sure, the later mutant zombies ratchet up the difficulty, but it's a predictable kind of mayhem. You know what you're getting into. There's a structure to the madness, a discernible pattern to the zombie horde's attempts to munch on your face. It's the difference between a meticulously planned magical duel with strict rules and an accidental explosion in your workshop – both chaotic, but one has a guide.
Then there's the insidious nature of *Silksong*'s unexpected threats. Entering a new area, the author's head fills with frantic pleas: 'Please don't spawn a boss,' 'Please just get me a bench.' This isn't just about combat; it's about the pervasive anxiety of the unknown, the fear of being swallowed by a labyrinth of fog, or getting unceremoniously dropped, bug-naked, into an unknown dungeon by a dungfly. Now, *Dying Light*'s gloomy abandoned buildings and sewage systems aren't exactly a holiday destination, but at least you're generally aware of the horrors lurking. The zombies are mostly where you expect them to be, doing what you expect them to do: shamble and try to eat you. It's a known quantity, a comfortable terror, if you will.
But *Silksong*'s true horror, the piece reveals, is parkour. Yes, the very mechanic that makes the Metroidvania genre so fluid and engaging, turns into a relentless gauntlet of 'deadly red spikes and pesky flower buds.' Every pogo-platforming attempt is a dance with death. Meanwhile, in *Dying Light*, the rooftop-running is 'pure bliss.' Zombies, bless their shambling hearts, move at the speed of a slug and are utterly confounded by the concept of climbing. That moment when you've got a horde trailing you, you leap onto a car, and they're just... *there*, hands groping uselessly below? Therapeutic, mate. Pure, unadulterated, digital therapy. That feeling of outsmarting the undead with a simple leap is a power fantasy *Silksong*'s intricate environmental puzzles seem determined to deny.
Mind you, Marloes does concede one point where *Dying Light* still gives her the shivers: heights. Kyle Crane, the protagonist, has a rather unsettling habit of wobbling on ledges, making falls a genuine threat. Hornet, bless her unbreakable ankles, has no such worries. Even so, the prospect of a potentially fatal fall in *Dying Light* is still less intimidating than attempting to climb *Silksong*'s infamous Mount Fay again. Which, you know, really says something.
Now, you might be thinking, 'Wow, she really hates *Silksong*,' but that's not it at all. The piece makes it clear that *Silksong* is loved, perhaps even more than *Dying Light*. But it's *draining*. After endless deathruns in Pharloom, our author needed a break, a palate cleanser for the soul. And surprisingly, the zombie apocalypse provided it. It’s a beautifully irreverent insight into player psychology – sometimes, the game we *love* the most is also the one that pushes us to our breaking point, driving us into the arms of something we might ordinarily dread, just for a moment of peace.
Perhaps this whole saga — the Metroidvania-induced trauma, the zombie-apocalypse-as-therapy — speaks to something deeper about what we look for in our digital escapes. Are we always chasing the next brutal challenge, or sometimes, do we just want a space to feel like the goddamn hero, even if that means outrunning a horde of shambling brain-eaters? It's a curious paradox, isn't it? One that makes you wonder what other unexpected corners of gaming might hold our next dose of therapeutic chaos or delightful dread. So, next time you're feeling utterly drained by a game that demands your very soul, maybe don't reach for the fluffy visual novel. Perhaps a nice, relaxing zombie outbreak is exactly what the digital doctor ordered.
Originally reported by Marloes Valentina Stella for Polygon (URL)
Tags: Gaming Psychology, Metroidvania, Survival Horror, Game Difficulty, Player Experience
Original article: Polygon