Routine's Return: How a Decade in Dev Hell Forged a Sci-Fi Horror That Dares to Respect Your Brain
AI Gaming News Author · Eurogamer ·
After a decade in the digital wilderness, the sci-fi horror *Routine* has finally launched, delighting players with its refreshingly hands-off approach that challenges modern gaming's tendency to over-guide, creating an immersive, stressful, and deeply rewarding experience.
Right, so picture this, mate: you’re deep into a creepy, retro-futuristic lunar base, trying to figure out a blinking computer terminal demanding your personal ID. You’re stumped. No glowing objective marker, no chatty companion spitting out clues, no helpful sticky note plastered right next to it. Just… silence. Sound familiar? If you’ve been coddled by modern gaming – and let’s be fair, a lot of us have – you’d probably spend ages frantically searching for the 'obvious' solution. Then, it hits you, like a rogue spell bouncing back: you literally printed out your own ID card and pinned it to your chest twenty minutes ago. All the game wanted you to do was look down.
That, my friends, is *Routine* in a nutshell, and it’s a bloody wonderful reminder of what happens when a game doesn't treat you like an idiot. After what felt like an eternity, Lunar Software’s sci-fi horror has finally clawed its way out of a decade-long development hell, and its hands-off, 'figure it out yourself' philosophy feels less like a bug and more like a feature straight from a bygone era. You remember that initial announcement in 2012, don't you? Before it disappeared into the digital ether, only to resurface years later? Well, it seems that long, strange trip might've been the secret ingredient, preserving its delightfully stubborn spirit.
Now, don't get me wrong, it’s not like *all* modern games are holding your hand like a nervous parent at a school disco. But *Routine* embodies a 'just-get-on-with-it' vibe that’s genuinely rare. It's got that old-school grit, like a vintage arcade cabinet refusing to tell you the cheat codes. It's tempting to think this comes from its long, tortured birth – a game frozen in time, perhaps. But after tinkering with it, I reckon this independent streak is baked into its very soul, a deliberate choice by Lunar Software to let players *play*.
And what a blend it is. You can't talk about *Routine* without name-dropping some heavy hitters. There's the clear genetic material from *Alien*, the trippy aesthetic of *2001: A Space Odyssey*, and a whole lotta *Creative Assembly's Alien: Isolation* in its veins. The vibe is immaculate: a retro-futuristic lunar resort where clunky 80s tech coexists with sleek AI, displaying VHS ads on CRT screens while Terminator-esque bots clank around. It’s anachronistic chaos, and I absolutely adore it. But beyond the aesthetics, *Routine* shares *Isolation*'s love for physicality, those heart-pounding pursuits, and a deliberate mechanical precision that makes every interaction feel weighty. Yet, somehow, it still manages to forge an ambience that is distinctly its own. That's some clever wizardry right there.
Much of that comes down to its approach to progression. There’s a beautiful, organic flow to its events, presenting you with spaces and then just… letting you figure it out. It’s not an open-world sandbox, mind you, but even on its tightly prescribed path, the journey feels remarkably personal. Early on, you hit a roadblock needing two bits of info. The game quietly hints at two distinct locations – the mall and residential quarters – and then just steps back. 'Off you pop, then,' it seems to say. 'Find your own damn way.' This strong exploratory focus means you’re genuinely scavenging abandoned personal effects and sifting through employee emails, piecing together a gentle breadcrumb trail of recurring motifs and subtle insinuations. The path might be linear, but the *discovery* feels entirely yours, lending a lovely sense of reward and a keen verisimilitude. Its sterile, liminal spaces feel lived-in, its email conversations authentic, and the voice work naturalistic, like eavesdropping on actual people, not just NPCs spouting exposition. Even the fussy crouch animation and the lumbering, slightly unwieldy run feel like part of that physical reality.
But the real star, the piece of tech that truly embodies this philosophy, is your Cosmonaut Assistance Tool – the C.A.T. Oh, the C.A.T. It’s a marvelously impractical, gun-like maintenance device that demands *physical* interaction. You’ll be manually degaussing its tiny, laggy screen when it gets magnetic interference, flicking open flaps, and sliding levers to switch functions – be it an electrical pulse for machinery, a security interface for doors, or its feeble torch, which is a masterclass in tension-building when the lights flicker. And get this: its PDA functions – save game, objectives, info archive – are *only* accessible when you connect it to one of the relatively infrequent projection screens. It’s fiddly, yes, but deliberately so. It’s designed to prevent it from becoming a crutch, ensuring you can't just pause and map out your next move when a hulking robot is breathing down your neck. It demands your attention, your patience, and your respect.
And yes, *Routine* does horror *well*. Unbelievably stressful, in fact. Much like *Alien: Isolation*'s Working Joes, your primary antagonists are the lunar resort's security bots. These colossal machines are a relentless presence, their clanking footsteps growing to a frantic crescendo as they spot you and give chase. They might be a bit dim – easily losing interest if you duck under a table – but they define the opening hours with teeth-clamping tension and panic. You're creeping and careening around unfamiliar locations, desperately trying to mentally map your escape routes, and the game offers no easy answers on how to deal with them. You're left to your own bloody devices, and that's far more intimidating than any jump scare.
I’m currently navigating a sprawling problem that feels far too big for my brain, and I’ve actually resorted to doodling my own map with notes. Fair dinkum, I haven't felt compelled to do that outside of some truly obtuse puzzle game in years. While I did spend over an hour thinking a sequence was just supremely difficult when it was, in fact, bugged (oops – assumed I was just being an idiot again!), *Routine* isn’t obtuse. It's just gloriously, refreshingly hands-off. Am I masochistic enough to demand we purge video games of all modern conveniences? Mini-maps, objective markers, constant guidance? Nah, probably not. But *Routine* is an unexpected, welcome breath of fresh air. It’s a lovely throwback that proves sometimes, the best way to get players engaged is to just trust them to figure things out. Sometimes, the most thrilling magic happens when you let the wizard cast their own damn spell.
Tags: Sci-Fi Horror, Indie Game, Game Design, Retro-Futurism, Survival Horror
Original article: Eurogamer