Feeling small, the weight of your body and cargo shifting moment to moment, you wander through landscapes with a real sense of scale and elemental menace. Marking out your favourite routes, you build up memories of the texture of the earth and the incline of the terrain. America has been swallowed by a rift in deep time, emerging as (Iceland?!) a volcanic wasteland haunted by the dead. Tethered to others via ghostly gestures and transient structures, every trip has an eerie loneliness that rises in waves.

The closer this gets to Metal Gear, the more it fumbles, especially with movement a little too clumsy for combat. Spectral and human entities are at their most affecting when glimpsed just out of sight or over the horizon, often throwing off your concentration for a moment, resulting in hilarious mistakes. The deliveries are (mostly) emptied out of significant narrative content or reward, a minimalism that just leaves you alone with the landscape.