Cubic Odyssey

They say in space, no one can hear you scream. They lied. I’m certain the developers of Cubic Odyssey can hear me screaming right now. They promised us the infinite creative freedom of Minecraft fused with the boundless exploration of the cosmos. A universe of our own making. What they delivered was a digital black hole, a singularity of incompetence that doesn’t just bend the laws of physics, it sucks the very will to live right out of your body, one bug at a time. This isn’t a journey to the stars; it’s a one-way ticket to a therapy session.

This week’s award for the most soul-crushing, controller yeeting moment comes, unsurprisingly, from Cubic Odyssey. Picture this: you’ve just landed your magnificent, hard-earned vessel on a new world. You press the exit button, ready to stride heroically onto the alien soil. But instead of the ramp lowering, your ship decides it has had enough of your crap. It ascends, banks hard left, and flies off into the sunset, rocketing over 100 meters before unceremoniously plopping down in the middle of a pirate stronghold. It’s like handing your car keys to a valet who immediately joyrides it into a demilitarization zone. You’re left standing there, weaponless, watching your life’s work get pummeled by lasers because the game’s AI suddenly developed a profound sense of abandonment anxiety.

The Autopsy: Cubic Odyssey

Welcome to “The Autopsy,” the segment where we slice open the ribcage of a game to see what diseased organ is responsible for its demise. Today, Cubic Odyssey is strapped to the table, and frankly, I’m not sure where to even make the first incision.

Act I: The Premise & The Promise

The pitch was pure, uncut dopamine for gamers like me: Minecraft in space, but better. The promise was a procedurally generated universe teeming with possibility. We were sold a dream of cooperative empire-building, of mining asteroids with our friends, smelting exotic materials, and constructing interstellar monuments to our own glory. It was supposed to be a sandbox not of blocks, but of entire worlds. The marketing promised cosmic adventure; the reality delivered cosmic horror.

Act II: The Mechanical Heart

The core gameplay loop of Cubic Odyssey should be simple: mine, craft, progress. But in its current state, that loop is less of a circle and more of a flat line on a heart monitor. The game’s co-op experience, which should be its main selling point, is a masterclass in catastrophic failure.
I joined my partner’s game, a hopeful space pioneer ready to contribute. For hours I toiled, breaking rocks, filling my inventory with the promise of future technology. We returned to base, I opened the smelter, and deposited my precious haul. Then… nothing. The materials simply vanished into the ether, an offering to some unseen god of broken code. A feature, apparently, where non-host players are merely ethereal ghosts, their contributions nothing more than a temporary illusion.
You can’t progress. You can’t smelt materials for essential components like batteries. Quests are blocked. NPCs stare at you with the same dead, buggy eyes as the developers who released this thing. It’s a game where the only thing you can reliably build is a profound sense of regret.

Act III: The Narrative Soul (or Lack Thereof)

Is there a story in Cubic Odyssey? Perhaps. But it’s impossible to experience it when you’re fighting the game itself every step of the way. The only narrative that emerges is a tragic one, written by the player. It’s a story of hope turning to frustration, then frustration curdling into pure, incandescent rage. It’s the tale of a pioneer stuck in a space-age purgatory, unable to advance, unable to build, forever punished for the sin of wanting to play a game with a friend. The game’s greatest villain isn’t some alien warlord; it’s the patch notes. The latest “fix” to help non-host players only added more demons, like the aforementioned ship-yeeting bug.

Act IV: The Krazed Verdict

Here’s the sick, twisted punchline at the heart of this cosmic joke: Cubic Odyssey is actually fun… when you’re completely alone. If you treat it as a single-player game, a solitary journey into the void, the core mechanics almost shine. But it was sold as a cooperative dream, and in that, it is an abject failure.
Why would I want to mine for hours just to watch my work disappear? That’s not a game; that’s a metaphor for filing your taxes. Cubic Odyssey could be great. It should be great. But the developers need to get their game together. In its current state, it’s not a co-op experience; it’s a friendship ending machine. It’s a beautiful, sprawling universe with the structural integrity of a wet paper bag. My final verdict? Send this game back to the void from whence it came.