The Fear of the Familiar
Words by Karol Dunne
Those who love horror games want to be scared. Many may remember roaming the desolate halls of Bioshock’s Rapture, desperately scavenging for supply and rations. Or perhaps the constant tiptoeing around the Baker’s Manor in Resident Evil 7, making sure not to get noticed by the family’s patriarch. It’s this feeling of possible doom that makes video games an ideal setting for horror. That is not to say that video games themselves are far superior to film or books, however they have the benefit of being an interactive medium where players have an active role in the narrative. The faith of the reluctant protagonist and plucky sidekick is literally in the players’ hands, as they are the ones holding the controller. PlatinumParagon wrote an excellent article explaining people’s attraction towards horror games and compared them to a rollercoaster. The player will experience an array of emotions, followed by this immediate surge of adrenaline, despite being in no true danger. At a certain level of engagement, it’s very easy for people to sink into the role of the player character and empathise with them as they both share the same goal and obstacles.
Unfortunately, this high does not always last. While most horror games have a strong opening that illustrates this overall theme and sows the seeds of despair, they rarely blossom into anything that remains for the entire playthrough. There is often a point where the fear factor drops and plateaus and it is very difficult to get back to that original height. Even Ken Levine, creator of Bioshock, apologised for his game’s anti-climactic ending, admitting that it was a let-down that contrasted with the game’s initial tone.
There is no single reason why this is the case, especially when discussing something as subjective as fear. That said, whenever I do play a horror game, I find that the feeling of dread immediately evaporates the moment I become wise to the mechanics at play. This is of course inevitable for all videogames, however such a precalculated way of playing is particularly detrimental to horror games, as it eliminates fear from the equation. The number of bullets needed to take down zombies can be learnt and it is possible to understand enemies’ habits with enough careful observation. This issue is most jarring in action-oriented horror games such as Dead Space and Resident Evil. There, you are dropped into this alien landscape, armed only with the most standard of peashooters. As time goes on, you build up your resources, find elaborate weapons, and are put in scenarios where an offensive strategy is encouraged. For skilled players, it’s not that difficult to become a powerhouse and by the third act the roles are reversed and it is you who are chasing down enemies. On the other side of the spectrum are games such as Outlast and Amnesia which pit the player against these unfathomable juggernauts, forcing them to focus on evasion. The idea of getting caught or seen can be anxiety-inducing at first, but I feel it doesn’t infuse actual dread. Death is a normal outcome when playing videogames, regardless of genre, and creatures such as Slenderman lose all weight once you realise that they pose the same threat as the Goombas from Super Mario.
Pyramid Head in the iconic Silent Hill 2.
Nevertheless, there are many games which challenge these traditional conventions and there is no better example of this than the Silent Hill Series. Specifically the first four entries, which were created by a small in-house development team within Konami, aptly named Team Silent. The games are set in the titular New England village, a picturesque (albeit quaint) resort town that wouldn’t stand out in a Stephen King novel. Player characters are lured here for some reason and soon discover that it is the host to an alternate reality, draped in the grotesque imagery reminiscent of Jacobs Ladder or Hellraiser. With hesitation, they thread through the fog-laden streets and infiltrate the abandoned landmarks, unearthing truths of both the town and themselves in the process. The series is often lauded for being a trendsetter within the genre, and baked in its DNA are mechanics that are still being used in horror games today. But what makes Silent Hill truly excellent is its use of subversion. Early on, you are given the oppurtunity to explore your surroundings, create a mental image and make note of key features. Without any prompt, the game pivots to its alternate reality, which mirrors the town just enough to bait you into thinking that the change is only aesthetic. Eventually, you’ll realise that the layout has been gutted of all notable traits. Pathways are now littered with obstruction. Doors once open have been forced closed. Creatures with no real distinguishable features have manifested and now roam the hallways. You are back to square one and must learn what has changed. Even narratively, the games lean into this concept of familiarity as many of the player characters have a connection to the town in some manner. James Sunderland of the second instalment constantly reminds himself (and us) that he has been to Silent Hill beforehand, thus only amplifying the tension when the true town manifests.
Unfortunately, upon writing this, the Silent Hill series has become very difficult to obtain. With the exception of ‘The Room’, there is no convenient way of experiencing them as intended (and memories of P.T. are far too painful to revisit right now). While Silent Hill’s future remains foggy as the games themselves, their inspiration shines like a beacon for others to follow.
Independent developer Kitty HorrorShow has created a plethora of horror games that focus on the psychological and surreal. Many have this grimy low-res coating, making them indistinguishable from an early PlayStation game. Arguably, it is Anatomy that best exemplifies her style, a brief and simple narrative where you rummage through a barren house looking for cassettes. You adapt very easily to the task given, get into a nice rhythm, only to have the game halt itself and drag you back to the starting point, just to repeat the process. By the end, Anatomy devolves in typical horror fashion in such a way that writing about it wouldn’t do the game justice. It’s best experienced with as little information as possible and it is just another example of how a game can lull you into a false sense of comfort, only to then pull the rug from underneath.
One of the cassettes from Anatomy.
Going back to Resident Evil, this game normally focuses on action and gore as opposed to cerebral thriller; however its latest addition, Village, is a standout with gameplay that waxes and wanes for the majority of its runtime. Its greatest set piece, House Beneviento, is a personal high mark for the series, let alone the game itself. This does not mean that the gameplay was underwhelming prior to this, but rather that it rocked my perception of what type of game I was playing. After my first encounter with Angie, my fight-and-flight response were on high alert and for the entire session I was never one-hundred percent sure what the game had to offer.
Finally there is Darkest Dungeon, a management/dungeon crawler soaked in eldritch horror from start to finish. There is no subtlety in its design, Darkest Dungeon drops you into its Lovecraftian nightmare from the moment you press start. In every session you are asked to organise a small band of tormented adventurers to pillage labyrinthian levels that are randomly generated. I mentioned earlier that understanding the structure of the game is counterintuitive for horror games, and yet this is not true for Darkest Dungeon, which remains a demanding game that expects a lot from its players. Understanding levels and enemies is key for progression, yet the further I dissected the game, the more I questioned my actions. Is this the best strategy to take down the necromancer? Should I let my strongest fighter rest in a brothel? Will I battle the crow demon and get my stolen loot back now or later? By the end, my head was so heavy with the game’s lore that I was dreading each raid as I knew it was always going to be a tough one riddled with casualties and mental scars.
Former Rock Paper Shotgun editor, Adam Smith, wrote that it was the “Fear of the Familiar'' which made Anatomy truly terrifying. This statement is one I often reflect upon when I look back at horror games. I want to be scared. To be eternally on edge, constantly shifting from room to room in distress, overanalysing every mundane object. The familiar is often a sought-after place when it comes to videogames, a haven for both reflection and recuperation. However, when it comes to horror, nothing should be off the table. Levels can be treacherous and take a toll on the player. While you may be relieved to have found that safe room or exit, great horror will make you second guess yourself. Because even the familiar has the ability to dissolve, contort, or deceive.
Karol is a clinical scientist based in the city of Cork, Ireland. Ever since a young age, he has been obsessed with breaking down things in order to understand how they work (both literally and metaphorically). While this passion may have led him down a path of physics and data analysis, it was kept ignited by his first love of gaming, be it on the computer or tabletop. In his down time, Karol can be found with his head in either a fantasy book or in the clouds, sandwiched between his beloved headphones. You can find him on both Twitter and Instagram.
