![]() Things like “oh no” or “they don’t know the mudraptor has burrowed into the ballast pump”. If there is more than one of you in this phantom realm, you’ll probably spend the rest of the game typing things to each other. You can listen in to the security officer’s sorry muttering as he tries to fix a leak that just won’t go away. You can scroll out and see the extra-terrestrial crustaceans nibbling at the airlock. The usual shroud that limits your vision to your character’s line-of-sight is peeled away. On the flip side, you now get to zoom out and see everything on the ship. You’ll be relegated to a ghostly chat channel, where you can only type to fellow deadmates. When you perish (drowned, exploded, devoured by an undiscovered species) your voice will cut-out permanently. Couple this with your vision being more or less limited to the room you’re in, and you’ve got a claustrophobia simulator where something always feels like its going wrong. If your battery runs out, you have no way to speak to your fellow crew members remotely until you get a new battery from an equipment cupboard, or refill your electricless brick at the nearest recharge station. ![]() When I describe the captain worrying about his headset battery, this is not a mundane concern. Just in-game chatter through the little headsets all our characters were wearing. I played a game recently where my friend (and sweet captain) Dan, suggested we use only the voice comms of the game. You will get wet, and you will probably be killed.īut at least you aren't doing your underwater helldive alone. You might have to find artifacts hidden in a flooded alien ruin, or destroy a large sea creature, or simply deliver your cargo without becoming a flooded metal sausage. It’s a multiplayer panic 'em up set in a sunken world, where you and the rest of the crew must pilot a submarine from one end of a cavernous ocean to the other. You might remember 2D sub sim Barotrauma from Nate’s sub-aquatic clowning around. As the submarine’s engineer, I should probably warn them. I can see all this, but my crewmates have no idea their shrimpy death is clawing towards them. Two decks below them a ravenous trio of giant, shrimp-like sea creatures are burrowing from crew quarters to medical bay, flooding the ship room by room, and twitching around its innards like furious parasites. The captain is calmly discussing the battery life of his headset radio with the ship’s doctor, who is standing still on the upper decks fiddling with his inventory. The submarine is filling with seawater and nobody left alive is doing anything about it.
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