Take the aforementioned titles above. Millions of gamers know the unparalleled dread of being hunted by a Brute or an escaped psychopath, using the shadows as our only weapon and the web-filled confines of an antique armoire as our only shield. It terrifies us to levels we never really experience while watching horror films because we’re completely in control of the protagonist and, thus, their fate.
Playing Amnesia and Outlast is the virtual equivalent of holding your hands up to your eyes in fear, but taking a peak through the gap between your fingers. That sense of scared curiosity is all too inviting, but you are always mindful of your own vulnerability. You can’t attack or defend yourself, and even your ability to run and hide is met only by uncertainty: did the stalker see you crawl under the bed when they burst into the room?
Because the possibility of dying feels almost inevitable and real, you know that your biggest enemy is exposure. Regardless of how beautiful the game looks, how amazing the sound works against you to create such an evocative atmosphere, you are consistently (often against your own judgement) struck by the thought, “no way am I going down that hallway.”
Fantastic horror in the video games does exactly that. There is no going back from that one mistake you made when you decided to make a run for it. You don’t have the firepower or melee skills to Ctrl+Z your way out of a horrifying encounter. Despite what we learn from other games about being the brave hero, about facing our fears head-on, horror games leave us in a vulnerable, whimpering mess. Something that feels all too real when done correctly.
