Sons of the Forest (255.9 hours)

You know, there’s a special kind of zen you can only achieve by dedicating a significant portion of your finite existence to a task that is, objectively, a complete and utter waste of time. I’m talking, of course, about my 255.9 hours spent playing digital lumberjack in a cannibal-infested hellscape. And as I placed the final stone on my magnificent, pointless fortress, Linkin Park, plays in my head with a moment of clarity: “I tried so hard and got so far. But, in the end, it doesn’t even matter.” Never has a whiny, over-produced lyric so perfectly encapsulated the feeling of becoming a master architect in a world that fundamentally does not give a shit about your floor plan. So, let’s celebrate this masterpiece of architectural addiction and narrative neglect.

Act I: The Premise & The Promise

The promise was so seductive, wasn’t it? A sequel to The Forest that would be bigger, scarier, and smarter. We were promised a gripping survival-horror experience. What we got was Extreme Home Makeover: Cannibal Island Edition, hosted by a mute guy, his weaponized simpleton of a helper, and a weird, stalkerish girl with more limbs than a bucket of chicken. I, of course, befriended the three-armed and three-legged woman five minutes in, because when you’re stranded in hell, your standards for companionship plummet to “anything that doesn’t actively try to eat my face.”

Oh, look! A glider! Designed by someone whose only experience with aerodynamics was throwing a brick off a roof. It makes nosediving off a cliff the most frustrating mechanic. My partner and I, needing to cross a continent-sized canyon, to get to the next mission so we prepared for a brilliant tactical maneuver that would make the Wright brothers weep with shame. I launched myself into the void and achieved something resembling flight and subsequent dove towards the beach but cleared the mountains. My partner, however, launched himself directly into the loving embrace of a single, strategically-placed tree. He went down faster than a developer’s promises on launch day. I landed on the other side of the mountain, alone. He was super thrilled to now have to trek out and meet me by the beach. Needless to say, he was angry at how clunky it really was and how did I manage to get it off the ground and almost glide with no problem.

Act II: The Mechanical Heart

This game’s design is a masterclass in psychological warfare. First, it gives you the Architect Simulator. It lets you spend a hundred hours building a stunning lakeside log cabin, a monument to your own rugged competence. Then, winter hits. And the game casually informs you, “Oh, did you know mutants can walk on frozen water? And that logs have the structural integrity of wet toilet paper? SURPRISE!” What a fantastic, non-infuriating teachable moment, forcing you to tear it all down and start again with stone. It’s not bad design; it’s a profound metaphor for the futility of all human endeavor. Deep. Kelvin, come fix this now!

Then there’s the Survival Game. This is a survival game for people who find the concept of ‘consequences’ a bit too stressful. Don’t worry if you ate all your snacks or used all your meds! The magical fairies of convenience will restock every single suitcase on the beach the next time you load in. Scarcity is for suckers. Here, you’re never more than a short jog away from a feast of ramen noodles, MRE’s and sprinkle in some ammo. The only thing you’re truly surviving is the crushing boredom.

Act III: The Narrative Soul (or Lack Thereof)

Oh, the story! It’s a gripping tale of… uh… well, there are some bunkers. And a cube, I think? Look, the plot is a series of cryptic emails and radio locations that are a one hit wonders. It’s a story so deep and compelling that I routinely forgot it existed until I accidentally stumbled into a cave and interrupted the local “Fingers” mutant’s interpretive dance practice. The real narrative is your slow descent into madness as you realize you’ve spent actual days of your life perfecting the aesthetic of a treehouse that will be seen by no one but the screaming cannibals who want to wear your spleen as a hat.

Act IV: The Krazed Verdict

As a game about escaping reality to engage in Sisyphean construction projects, it is an unparalleled success. As a survival horror game, it has the tension and narrative depth of a pop-up book. The endgame is its most honest moment. Once your impenetrable, mutant-proof castle is complete, the game has the decency to just give up. The suspense is gone. The challenge is gone. You are a king with no subjects, a god in a world of respawning candy bars. Congratulations. You’ve won. Your prize is a beautiful, empty, monster-proof monument to your own wasted time. You are promised eternal youth by the plot, but delivered eternal boredom by the game design. Enjoy the crippling ennui.