In the last few years, survival horror games haven't scared me. They've become a series of equations. A series of maps to clear. How many resources am I willing to spend on this threat? Have I got all the items in this location? This is not the case with Silent Hill. When outside, a wall of impenetrable fog clouds your vision, only allowing you to see a few metres ahead of you at any time. While a technical limitation, your poor range of vision supports the game’s main vehicle of fear. You.
Silent Hill’s horror is what you see in the corner of your mind's eye. It is what’s behind the locked door. Silent Hill delves into what could be. Whatever is scariest to you. The low resolution of the game’s textures and environments confuse you as to whether the walls are rusting or bleeding. You hear a monster before you see it, through the crackling static of a radio. An air raid siren blares as your role changes from explorer to intruder and the town morphs into a twisted facsimile.
The game’s initially opaque plot mirrors how the town treats you, something is going on and you are not a part of it. It’s arguable whether you even drive the plot forward outside of a single specific moment, most of the game, you’re doing your best just to find a plot thread and hold onto it. The locations you explore are reminiscent of childhood, a school, an amusement park, a hospital, places where core memories are formed. Eventually, the geometry of the world begins to break down, familiar doors lead to unfamiliar rooms. It all becomes ethereal. Silent Hill is not a town; Silent Hill is a dream. Sorry for being pretentious.
The sound design and soundtrack harmonise perfectly with the game’s aged visuals, you can never quite tell what makes the sounds you’re hearing, they seem to permeate through the walls, always slightly out of vision. Devil’s Lyric, a track on the game, still haunts me even after finishing it. An almost melodic synthetic cry is soon drowned out by the metallic clanging of an unidentifiable machine or monster, ramping in volume and tempo and rhythm, suffocating your eardrums until you’re sure that whatever it may be, it is definitely behind you.
I wish more praise could be given to the game’s combat. It feels shallow and uninteresting, I found myself simply running away from enemies in the final hours, out of mild disinterest rather than abject terror; it was a shame to zip past the nightmarishly designed enemies. There just isn’t much to say about the Resident Evil-inspired gunplay, it felt like a means to an end, the bland satisfaction of clearing a room, rather than winning a fight for my life. I enjoyed the game’s six bosses, one of which is skippable in its entirety, and two more which are five minutes apart from each other. They all felt unique and pushed me to master the 1999 tank controls to overcome them, even though mastery of tank controls looks like an unenthusiastic dad playing Dance Dance Revolution.
Silent Hill is considered a totemic figure in the wider game-o-sphere for good reason. I’m looking forward to playing the rest and seeing how the series develops and evolves.
Silent Hill’s horror is what you see in the corner of your mind's eye. It is what’s behind the locked door. Silent Hill delves into what could be. Whatever is scariest to you. The low resolution of the game’s textures and environments confuse you as to whether the walls are rusting or bleeding. You hear a monster before you see it, through the crackling static of a radio. An air raid siren blares as your role changes from explorer to intruder and the town morphs into a twisted facsimile.
The game’s initially opaque plot mirrors how the town treats you, something is going on and you are not a part of it. It’s arguable whether you even drive the plot forward outside of a single specific moment, most of the game, you’re doing your best just to find a plot thread and hold onto it. The locations you explore are reminiscent of childhood, a school, an amusement park, a hospital, places where core memories are formed. Eventually, the geometry of the world begins to break down, familiar doors lead to unfamiliar rooms. It all becomes ethereal. Silent Hill is not a town; Silent Hill is a dream. Sorry for being pretentious.
The sound design and soundtrack harmonise perfectly with the game’s aged visuals, you can never quite tell what makes the sounds you’re hearing, they seem to permeate through the walls, always slightly out of vision. Devil’s Lyric, a track on the game, still haunts me even after finishing it. An almost melodic synthetic cry is soon drowned out by the metallic clanging of an unidentifiable machine or monster, ramping in volume and tempo and rhythm, suffocating your eardrums until you’re sure that whatever it may be, it is definitely behind you.
I wish more praise could be given to the game’s combat. It feels shallow and uninteresting, I found myself simply running away from enemies in the final hours, out of mild disinterest rather than abject terror; it was a shame to zip past the nightmarishly designed enemies. There just isn’t much to say about the Resident Evil-inspired gunplay, it felt like a means to an end, the bland satisfaction of clearing a room, rather than winning a fight for my life. I enjoyed the game’s six bosses, one of which is skippable in its entirety, and two more which are five minutes apart from each other. They all felt unique and pushed me to master the 1999 tank controls to overcome them, even though mastery of tank controls looks like an unenthusiastic dad playing Dance Dance Revolution.
Silent Hill is considered a totemic figure in the wider game-o-sphere for good reason. I’m looking forward to playing the rest and seeing how the series develops and evolves.