At the start of Routine, your progress is blocked by a flashing computer terminal requiring your personal identification number. I was stumped; perhaps because I've been so spoiled by modern games' frequent demands to eliminate all but the most minor points of friction that – without a conspicuous note hidden in close proximity, an obvious on-screen objective indicator beckoning me forward, or (sigh) a chatty companion ready to spit out an answer after four seconds – I wasn't sure how to proceed. And then it dawned on me. Not even 20 minutes ago, I printed out my ID and pinned it to my chest—all the game asked me to do was look down.
I could have was You're an idiot in that moment, but Routine is a great reminder of how enjoyable games can be when you're not treated as such. It's not like there aren't plenty of modern games that trust their audiences. Rather, Routine has a particularly old-school, rustic vibe that seems especially unusual these days; and it's tempting to attribute this to the decade-plus spent in development hell. As you'll recall, Lunar Software first announced Routine back in 2012, before the first-person sci-fi horror title succumbed to frequent radio silence and countless delays. But honestly, his hands-off approach harkens back even further and is so deeply ingrained in his bones, so inherent in his soul, that it's much more likely that it's just the old-school spirit that Lunar Software always had in mind.
However, it's hard to talk about Routine without mentioning some of the things (especially game-related) that happened during its long development. Aside from the film's obvious touchpoints—the occasional psychedelia of 2001: A Space Odyssey and the obvious debt to Alien—it also echoes everything about Frictional Games' 2015 raunchy psychological sci-fi horror. SOMA and above all to the stellar success of Creative Assembly Alien: Isolation.
Part of it is the atmosphere; Routine's familiar story of ancient influences and rogue artificial intelligence takes place on a retro-futuristic lunar resort, where lo-fi '80s technology gives the proceedings an anachronistic edge that feels displaced in time. It's a world where sleek transport trains display VCR ads on massive CRT screens and Terminator-like robots exist next to slot machines. But more than that, Routine shares Isolation's particular love of physicality, its panicked pursuits and deliberate mechanical precision. But we must give the game its due that, despite all its familiarity, it still creates a special atmosphere.
And yes, a lot of it depends on his approach. There's a flow to its events – the way it's willing to present its spaces and then simply allow players to use their initiative to move through it – it feels surprisingly organic. Routine is, to be fair, not a sandbox game or an immersive simulator, but even so, progress along a strictly prescribed path is still personal. For example, early on you encounter an obstacle that requires two specific pieces of information. A little further investigation reveals that you have access to two different locations: the shopping center and the residential areas of the resort. What you do next is up to you.
This gives Routine a strong investigative bent, and gradually, as you search through abandoned personal items and computer terminals loaded with employee emails, you'll hone in on the recurring motifs and innuendos that form an easy trail. Of course, progress remains strictly linear, but choosing an offer over rigid urgency provides a pleasant sense of reward. And what's more, it contributes to Rutin's keen sense of verisimilitude. These sterile sci-fi spaces may be eerily cramped, but they still feel lived-in, while email conversations are authentic and the occasional voice work has a naturalistic feel that brings Still awakens the depth to mind. And his strong sense of physicality goes even further. For example, I adore his convincingly fussy crouch animation and awkward, somewhat uncontrollable running gait. But the real star of Routine is the Astronaut Assistance Tool.
Your CAT is simply amazing: a pistol-like maintenance device whose various buttons and modules require frequent physical manipulation. You'll have to manually demagnetize its tiny screen when it succumbs to magnetic interference, and you'll move levers and open flaps to switch between its functions. On that front, you have an electrical pulse used to overload equipment, a security interface for opening doors, and more, all using a slow, low-resolution viewfinder whose weak flashlight proves ideal for boosting voltage when the lights go out. And this Also serves as a vital – if hilariously impractical – PDA whose save functions, objective reminders and information archive are only accessible when connected to one of Routine's relatively infrequent projection screens. It's awkward in the sense that it feels like it's designed to keep it from becoming a crutch, and also means it can't be abused when the going gets tough.
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And yes, Routine does horror well too. I'll admit, I'm not done yet, and the final installment seems unusual enough that its fear mechanics may well evolve, but its hours are surprisingly, incredibly tense. In another echo of Alien: Isolation, this time in “Working Joes”, your main enemies are the lunar resort security bots. These hulking machines are a constant presence, their clanging footsteps reaching a frantic crescendo as soon as they come into view and begin pursuit. Yes, they're a little lackluster – they'll immediately lose interest if you're hiding under a table – but they contribute to a first half that's absolutely defined by teeth-clenching tension and panic as you crawl and weave through unfamiliar locations, desperately trying to formulate a mental map to explore. And the fact that you're left to your own devices to figure out how to deal with them is even more frightening.
Right now I'm somewhere new, solving a massive navigation problem that honestly seems too big to wrap my brain around, and I've resorted to drawing my own map with notes to keep track of it all—something I haven't felt compelled to do outside of a deliberately obtuse puzzle game in a long time. The routine isn't dumb (though I didn't realize the episode was over an hour long because I assumed I was missing something), but it's a hands-off approach that I admire and miss a little. Am I masochistic enough to demand that we purge video games of all modern niceties? Why are we throwing objective markers, mini-maps and more overboard? Absolutely not, but Routine is a wonderful comeback and an unexpected breath of fresh air.
