In the beginning, there's awe. A strange, alien world unfolds: lush, hostile, and thick with atmosphere. You’re armed to the teeth, standing defiant in the face of towering abominations. Everything pulses with this violent, sacred energy. The weapons roar, the enemies splatter, and for a moment, you believe you're experiencing something primal and transcendent. But then it starts. The slow unravelling. The descent into madness masquerading as level design.

Soon, the grandeur fades. It is replaced by the sterile repetition of six identical corridors, each more indistinct than the last. Progress becomes a myth. Doors evolve into cruel, cosmic jokes, gatekeepers to nowhere. You’re not playing a game anymore. You’ve been drafted into a maze runner’s purgatory, cursed to wander hallways so labyrinthine they could shame Daedalus. Switches are hidden with sociopathic glee. Objectives are whispered in cryptic riddles. The map might as well be written in an extinct dialect of spite. It feels as if the developers wanted to see who could love something that actively resents being loved.

There is brilliance buried beneath the confusion. Moments of grotesque joy. A handful of godlike weapons. A sprinkling of retro magic. But those moments are drowned beneath a design philosophy that punishes curiosity and mocks orientation. Only masochists and mapmakers will find salvation here, navigating a dreamlike hellscape where beauty and boredom wrestle endlessly. For the rest of us, it is a monument to what happens when ambition forgets the player and worships only itself.