Played on an LG C3 55” OLED Display via Steam, AMD 7900 XTX and i9-10900k.
Publisher: Frictional Games
Developer: Frictional Games
I’ve played many kinds of horror games, each with its own way of getting under your skin. Some thrive on the immediate — monsters that lurch from the dark, the sharp crack of something breaking the silence, the frantic scramble for survival when you’re out of ammo and options. Others take a slower route, letting dread seep in as the truth unravels, forcing you to confront not just what haunts you, but who you are underneath it all. SOMA manages to do both, merging the fear of what lurks outside with the horror of what lies within.
It took me a few tries to really get what makes SOMA special. The first two times I played, I bounced off pretty quickly. It lacked a lot of what I’d come to expect from traditional horror. There’s no inventory system, no scavenging for healing items, and certainly no weapons to defend yourself. You won’t be stockpiling ammunition or strategizing your next safe room. In fact, there are barely any enemies to speak of. On the surface, it feels like one of those so-called “walking sims” — a game where the focus is purely narrative, and everything else feels… almost nonexistent.
But that couldn’t be further from the truth. What SOMA does have — what I hadn’t realized the first time around because I hadn’t given it my full attention — is some of the finest sound design, pacing, and atmosphere I’ve ever experienced in a horror game. Beneath its quiet exterior lies a story so steeped in existential dread that I found myself stopping multiple times just to process what I’d seen. Few games make you sit back and question your own sense of self — SOMA does that constantly.
Looking back, I think part of why it didn’t click at first was when and how I played it. My first attempts were during the day, using my TV’s built-in speakers. The subtle soundscapes — the faint creaks of metal, distant echoes, and electronic hums — all faded into the background. I even turned the gamma up to combat glare from the sun, which washed out the shadows and drained the bioluminescent colors of their punch. The whole thing felt flat, lifeless.
So this time, I decided to do it right. I turned off the lights, closed the blackout curtains, and put on my Meze 99 Classics. Immersed in total darkness, I started fresh — and that was the moment SOMA finally came alive for me.
Once I approached it this way, the game’s design finally revealed itself to me — quiet, deliberate, and deeply human. From the very beginning, as you gain control of Simon Jarrett, everything feels grounded and tangible. The opening dream sequence, blending fragments of Simon’s trauma with his mundane morning routine, eases you into a life that feels painfully real. His apartment tells you everything you need to know: dishes stacked in the sink, trash piling up, clothes scattered across the floor. It’s not disgusting, just lived-in — the space of someone who’s surviving, not thriving. Through environmental details and small interactions, you get a picture of who Simon was before everything changed — a man with hobbies, friends, and regrets.
One of the earliest things you can do is explore Simon’s computer. It’s a clever bit of design — you’re not only learning how to interact with terminals throughout the game, but you’re also presented with your first “choice.” SOMA includes several moments like this, where you make a decision that feels deeply personal. These choices don’t alter the ending or affect the main storyline. Simon’s fate is fixed. The conclusion is inevitable. But the emotional impact of those moments? That’s dependent on your emotional connection to the narrative and characters.
These small acts — decisions that seem trivial at first — quietly shape your connection to the story. Sometimes they appear during a quiet moment of exploration; other times, right after a shocking revelation. And even though they don’t change what happens next, they change you. They color your understanding of Simon, of the world, of what it means to be alive in a place that’s all but dead.
These decisions often appear around the story’s most impactful points — moments when the truth of what happened to PATHOS-II starts to come into focus. Whether it’s early on as you arrive in the facility or deep into the final act, SOMA threads these emotional beats seamlessly into the pacing. You don’t just watch Simon’s story; you live it, and the weight of your choices lingers in your mind long after.
That sense of emotional connection is only heightened by SOMA’s suffocating atmosphere.
You are utterly alone in this alien, decaying place. PATHOS-II rests miles beneath the ocean’s surface — a labyrinth of crumbling corridors, leaking bulkheads, and lifeless machinery slowly being reclaimed by a strange, organic infestation. As you go deeper, the facility becomes darker, tighter, more oppressive. The air — or what passes for it — feels heavier. The walls seem to close in. Every new area brings a stronger sense of claustrophobia, as though the ocean itself is pressing down on you, waiting for the right moment to crush everything into oblivion.
And then there’s the sound — an unrelenting cacophony of dread. The groaning of metal, the distant moans of sea life, the crackle of static, the echo of your own footsteps. Even in the moments when you know nothing is hunting you, the atmosphere keeps you on edge. You can’t shake the feeling that everything could collapse at any moment. You’re a fragile speck of consciousness, wandering through a dying world that doesn’t care whether you survive.
There are still moments of hope — small, fleeting, but powerful enough to push you forward. You meet remnants of those who once lived here, their stories told through audio logs, notes, and echoes of their lives. Each one reveals another layer of tragedy, another reminder of humanity’s desperate attempt to cling to purpose in a world long past saving. You’ll hide from enemies, crawl through wreckage, and press on through the dark because you need to know more — even as that knowledge becomes more unbearable.
Frictional Games understands rhythm — just when the silence starts to feel unbearable, the game gives you something new to fear, or worse, something new to think about. By the end, SOMA doesn’t just scare you. It unsettles you on a deeper level. It forces you to think about what defines us — consciousness, identity, memory — and what remains when those things begin to slip away.
SOMA isn’t about surviving monsters. It’s about surviving yourself.
It’s a game that made me pause countless times, not out of fear, but to reflect. To question. To process the weight of what it was saying. It’s a masterpiece of existential horror — one that doesn’t rely solely on cheap tricks or sudden scares, but on the slow, painful realization of what it means to exist at all.
If you’ve ever wanted a horror game that truly makes you think — one that stays with you long after you’ve turned it off — SOMA is it. It’s a haunting, beautifully constructed experience that stands alone in the genre, and one I can’t recommend enough.
If you are interested in other horror game reviews, please read my review of Silent Hill 2 Remake! You can also follow me on Twitter for updates and Instagram for travel photos and in-game screenshots!
