Intelligent, stylish, and brutally hands-off, Routine is one of the most terrifying — and at times terrifyingly frustrating — horror games I’ve played for some time. Confident and cruel, it’s a masterclass in show-don’t-tell horror that freaked me out far more than I’d like to admit… and that’s coming from a bona fide horror veteran.
All five of my senses are permanently on high alert. My ears constantly strain for the sound of stomping footfalls and humming electronics. My eyes dance about in the darkness, looking for a place to hide. My hands — misshapen and perma-clawed from clutching the controller so tightly — genuinely ache from stress. And yes, I can almost smell it here, too. Dust. Decay. Decades-old recirculated air lying over an unmistakable note of fried circuits. When I feel this overwhelmed, I’d typically cower behind a Pause screen to bring my blood pressure back down, but I can’t even do that: bringing up the menu doesn’t actually pause anything, which means you can die — and I have — while adjusting your settings. Thanks, Dead Space.
There are only two horror games I’ve never been able to complete: Alien: Isolation and the very first Outlast game. Both scare the bejesus out of me, chiefly because there’s no way to predict when a jumpscare is coming, but also because I absolutely hate being chased by things I can’t kill. Routine delivers all of this and more, ratcheting up the fear through the very clever, very intentional design choices it makes, such as manual save points (NO!), randomized puzzles so you can’t cheese them or look stuff up (ARGH!), and some truly devilish creature design that feels as though it’s been plucked directly from my own nightmares (HELP ME).
Announced way back in 2012 — two years before the release of Creative Assembly’s aforementioned Alien: Isolation, with which it shares much of its DNA — Routine is one of the most atmospheric games I’ve played in ages (and I do mean all games, not just horror ones). You, a software engineer dispatched to resolve a malfunctioning security system, arrive at Union Plaza, a tourist resort on the Moon, although there are no tourists, no staff, and barely even a functioning facility left. And despite the technical accomplishments that apparently got us to the Moon, everything in Union Plaza is gloriously old-fashioned. Like The Jetsons or the original Alien movie, it presents a dated, almost naïve vision of the future, with green-hued CRT terminals, limited technology, and fabulously 70s-esque patterned wallpaper.
Take your trusty CAT, aka your Cosmonaut Assistance Tool. Yes, it lets you overload electronics, track clues, see in the dark, and gain important security clearance, but it’s also a boxy gizmo that kinda looks like an 1980s video camera, complete with a cripplingly bleak battery life. Using it requires manual interaction — modules need to be physically slotted into place, and connecting to the short-span wi-fi requires a manual button press. All of it is delightfully fiddly, right up until you realize you may need to manually change out your modules while a Type-05 (a deeply unpleasant mechanical facsimile of a humanoid) is gunning for you, or you can’t save until you find a wireless access point, which may or may not have a murderous robot patrolling just in front of it.
And Routine gives nothing away. Absolutely nothing. No hints, no clues, no flashing items, no “Stuck? Click here!” lifeline. Admirably reserved, it’s content to leave you fumbling in the dark for hours if need be, utterly unfazed by your frustration until you, say, accidentally spot a vent you somehow didn’t notice before. It’s deliciously cunning game design that I hate every bit as much as I admire, only elevated further by its careful use — or sometimes lack thereof — of sound effects and unsettling bangs and thuds in the distance.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, there’s also no HUD. You never really know what state your health is in, which means you’re never certain how many times one of the creepy automatons can grab you before it’s game over. You only know how many shots you have left in your CAT by “physically” picking it up and looking at the battery life. You don’t helpfully zoom in when you’re reading a dimly backlit screen, which can make reading memos and emails on flickering displays pretty tricky. Logging into things takes time you may ill afford thanks to 1980s engineering and a groaning dial-up system… especially when you learn that, yes, enemies can drag you out of your hiding place if they see you get into it.
It’s those emails and memos that really flesh out the story here, though, which is surprising given how missable they are (and how easy it is to get turned around and think you’ve already explored somewhere that you haven’t). I can’t say I thought it all made sense, or was wonderfully satisfactory or unique at the end — too many loose ends and unanswered questions meant it didn’t quite stick the landing for me — but Routine’s curious story certainly kept me hooked.
But even for me — someone absolutely terrified of being stalked in the dark by unkillable machines — Routine loses a little of its luster partway through its roughly six-hour campaign. What once freaked me out began to wind me up instead. Manual saving is novel right up until, say, your PC crashes, and the hands-off puzzling is impressive all the way until you’re fully, palpably lost and have no idea how to progress. You cannot reacquaint yourself with your current objective unless you are at a save station, or choose when to activate your flashlight, or even carry a spare battery with you. There’s no map which, for someone with the directional sense of a turtle spinning on its back — also me! — is woefully cruel. And not being able to pause is an interesting wrinkle right up until you get an important phone call or the dog stands in front of the TV.
From this point on, even the Type-05s feel a little humdrum. The stomping of their feet means it’s impossible for one to sneak up behind you, and they’re outrageously stupid, often unable to find you even if they chase you into an open elevator and you’re crouching behind a box six inches away. Half the time, all they do is interrupt you, like a puppy with a new ball. That doesn’t mean I don’t often wish I could permanently disable them — knocking them temporarily offline just doesn’t make me feel safe enough, which is obviously why permakilling them isn’t an option — but there’s so much “ammo” around (read: batteries) that you can often neutralize them and slip away without incident. Nor does it mean they don’t freak me out (they do) or that I got acclimated to the tension (I didn’t), but given that the enemies just aren’t that clever, they’re pretty easy to lose. (That said, I can’t help but wish for a SOMA-esque ‘Safe’ mode to allow me to explore to my heart’s content.)
As for the puzzles? Few stumped me for long — it’s fear that held me back, not the puzzle design — but I think some will be confused by them, not least because developer Lunar Software’s lack of signposting means it’s easy to overlook clues. If you take nothing else from my words today, though, you owe it to yourself to try to get through as much of Routine as you can without succumbing to a guide. Most puzzles are logical, sometimes maddeningly so, and it’s always a rush when you realize the solution can be found by fiddling with the settings on your CAT. And that’s what I loved best, I think. Those intelligent puzzles, intuitive tools, and a deeply unsettling atmosphere may not work for all, but they sure did impress me.
