Press Start may receive a commission when you buy from links on our site at no extra cost to you.
After originally being unveiled at Gamescom thirteen years ago, Routine’s long, drawn-out gestation period has been well-documented. It’s rare for that kind of creative turmoil to result in something of substance, but they do say pressure makes diamonds, and Routine is just that; it’s a diamond in the rough. At the eleventh hour, in what has been a full year for video games, Lunar Software has delivered a terrifying, isolated tour of a derelict lunar base which confidently riffs on the same blend of survival horror and analogue retro-tech that made Alien Isolation so intoxicating, while plunging players into a world that commands their attention.
After the moon dust settles and Routine’s story comes to a close, I can’t say I immediately took anything away from it. Quite the opposite, I left me rattled, perplexed, and desperately seeking Google. While it uses diary and audio logs to colour in between the narrative lines to give an account of things past and present, its allegorical meaning, once ruminated on, will be what sticks with you. I appreciate Routine’s approach to storytelling so much, and its last act and ending—a truly bold closing statement—feels plucked from the Alex Garland playbook, as it explores chaotic nature and rebirth.
Like so many of the last decade’s horror titles, Routine loves to let players decay, primarily mentally, within small stretches that feel desperate, unwinnable, and claustrophobic. Armed with nothing but a Cosmonaut Assistance Tool, primarily designed to be a work multitool, players wander the minimalist station’s corridors, rife with dread, fearing that a swift end, in the form of a hostile robot, waits around each corner. Violent as they are once they accost you, it’s how they torment you otherwise that I’ll long remember, whether it’s their plodding, patrolling footsteps echoing through the base’s otherwise desolate halls, or their distinctly inhuman whirring that accompanies their area scan function. Their design and function are so inherently scary, I still found myself slowing to a crawl despite their other technical faults.
What I mean by that is the intelligence isn’t quite that switched on, and their patrols appeared random, which led to plenty of tedious moments where, when waiting for a robot to return to its patrol and leave, it’d simply park itself conveniently outside of the room you’re in, leading to an inevitable conflict. The biggest problem here is how many bouts of waiting can undercut the tension that, up until that point, had been hard-earned. If you aren’t a big scaredy cat like me, these patrol bots are simple to avoid, although I do wish the game borrowed from its contemporaries and included more options for hiding. You’ll make do by ducking into a vent or by waiting it out beneath a desk, but a few more options might have helped the stealthier side of Routine feel less controlled.
Routine places such a premium on observation and really digging into every careful detail of a scene that its brand of puzzle-solving is bound to be a bit too obtuse for some people. The whole game is rather unguided, cutting the apron strings to encourage and reward players who are happy not to have their hands held throughout. It’s a large part of what I think people’s mileage with Routine will vary so greatly, because no task in the game is a simple fix; it has the potential to be a three-hour game, and it also has the potential to be a twelve-hour game.
The gameplay’s great hook is the aforementioned Cosmonaut Assistance Tool, or the C.A.T. for short. It’s a modular tool that looks like a cross between a barcode scanner and a camcorder; its analogue appeal is undeniable, but its greatest strength lies in its tactile nature. I can’t overstate how pivotal the tool’s functions are to the game’s brand of panicked horror. Its every mode, including the backlight, has a real-world function that neatly ties into its use case within the context of Routine’s riddles, and each of these functions, which can be seen when looking at the side of the unit, must be toggled individually by the player. Right down to the degauss button, the C.A.T. is a special, soon-to-be-iconic, quasi-weapon that will immediately and unmistakably be linked, like a crowbar to Half-Life, to Routine forever.
Of the qualms I have with the C.A.T., at least one is acceptable. The thing chews through batteries, and for some unexplainable reason, we’re never able to pocket a spare. Considering it’s an essential and unavoidable means to progress, having to sift through countertops for a mislaid battery can be a bother. With that said, they are plentiful in most areas, and it’s an easy way for the team to ratchet up the tension through simple withholding. The one thing I couldn’t quite reconcile is the character’s inability to address the C.A.T. without standing bolt upright. For a game that respects stealth so much, even going as far as to implement a tremendous lean mechanic, this choice feels like a bit of a misfire.
I can’t speak to how Routine performs on console as yet, but I did experience some impossibly long load times playing on my ASUS ROG Ally. More specific to the game itself, I did manage to get caught in a level’s geometry more than once, often courtesy of a robot tossing me aside into a wall, which caused me to get lodged in it. This often led to cheap deaths and the loss of decent chunks of progress. The only thing scarier than the Type-05 robots themselves is the game’s less-than-generous checkpointing. Another thing I do hate is the inability to pause; there’s no justifiable reason to deny a player’s option to seek a brief reprieve.
With art design philosophies that speak to the game’s narrative roots within the seventies, Routine beautifully encapsulates the retro, lo-fi aesthetic that has, for fifty years, defined this particular era of horror. Hundreds of thousands of kilometres from Earth, untouched by half a century of progress, Routine’s lunar base is a time capsule, fixed in time and space. Its liminal spaces would seem completely harmless were it not for the robots and other nightmares manning the halls. It’s a nitpick, but I do think the enemy design is excellent; however, it’s often hindered by wonky animation.
I couldn’t possibly fault the sound design, though. It’s as near to perfect as possible and demands the use of a good set of headphones. There’s a certain nostalgia that’s attached to the chirping and grinding of the station’s dated terminals; it scratches the part of my brain that fondly recalls slow but so reliable dial-up modems and CRT monitors. As I’ve waxed on already, the robots are nerve-shredding in their presentation, but it’s what follows them that’ll truly haunt you. Like Jerry Goldsmith’s score for Alien, N.J. Apostol’s score harnesses flightful wind instruments and brandishes them with ominous intent, creating a soundscape that feels most unearthly.
Once you settle into its rhythm and experience its world and story on its terms, Routine is a genuinely gripping, slow-burning kind of horror game that we don’t see enough of. With no support of any kind, it throws you into its harsh world unaided, and if you’re able to tread water long enough to come to terms with what it is, you’ll enjoy the swim. With that said, if you’re not wired in and absorbing everything, its puzzles can be a tad obtuse, which, along with minor problems with the A.I. and the controls, might turn people off before the game is able to get its hooks in.
The PC version of this game was played for the purpose of this review. A digital review code was provided by the publisher.