When you’re first thrust into the world of Soma, alone and in an unfamiliar research facility many hundreds of feet below the surface, you’re just as confused as the titular protagonist Simon is. With the help of a quickly acquired companion by the name of Catherine, who guides you through your journey by voice alone, you begin to discover the nature of the world around you and learn of a potential last hope for humanity after a catastrophic event.
During this voyage you traverse numerous research stations and underwater locations, all eerily empty except for the few machines that remain. It’s this somber setting that serves as the backdrop to the real bread and butter of the game, Simon’s conversations with Catherine, both about what the world’s become and more philosophical topics like, “what is consciousness?”, “what does it mean to be you?”, and “when do we cease to exist, really?”. All seamlessly strung together in a way that feels inexplicably natural despite the circumstances in which you’re asking them.
In this interweaving of setting and narrative, Soma does something really special. While both can be admired independently for their contemplative qualities and visuals, there is more to it than just that. The various desolate and rundown locations serve as a perfect fuel for the narrative, adding a complementary dash of loneliness, sorrow, and awe. Of course it helps that the game is legitimately beautiful too, and even allows you to toggle a safe mode option, letting you play the game without fear of dying to potential threats. It’s a nice setting for when you want a cerebral experience as opposed to a more visceral one.
My only lament is that it ended at all, but I am satisfied with its length and message. The longer I played the more enthralled I became in the overarching story of failure, redemption, and hope. All that said, don’t think Soma is a non-stop montage of conversation. The game knows when to cease the chatter and let you take in the world, but you know they've succeeded in hooking your interest when you’re excited for the next time Simon or Catherine open their mouths.
During this voyage you traverse numerous research stations and underwater locations, all eerily empty except for the few machines that remain. It’s this somber setting that serves as the backdrop to the real bread and butter of the game, Simon’s conversations with Catherine, both about what the world’s become and more philosophical topics like, “what is consciousness?”, “what does it mean to be you?”, and “when do we cease to exist, really?”. All seamlessly strung together in a way that feels inexplicably natural despite the circumstances in which you’re asking them.
In this interweaving of setting and narrative, Soma does something really special. While both can be admired independently for their contemplative qualities and visuals, there is more to it than just that. The various desolate and rundown locations serve as a perfect fuel for the narrative, adding a complementary dash of loneliness, sorrow, and awe. Of course it helps that the game is legitimately beautiful too, and even allows you to toggle a safe mode option, letting you play the game without fear of dying to potential threats. It’s a nice setting for when you want a cerebral experience as opposed to a more visceral one.
My only lament is that it ended at all, but I am satisfied with its length and message. The longer I played the more enthralled I became in the overarching story of failure, redemption, and hope. All that said, don’t think Soma is a non-stop montage of conversation. The game knows when to cease the chatter and let you take in the world, but you know they've succeeded in hooking your interest when you’re excited for the next time Simon or Catherine open their mouths.