Despite sharing a name, survival and survival horror are two very different genres. In survival horror, th💙e threat comes from outside the player – a Xenomorph stalking the corridors of a ship, or a killer with giant scissors chasing you thrꦓough a clock tower. In survival games, the tension is more internal, as you race against your own needs before you succumb to the harsh environment.

And yet, one game manages to take these two very different genres and combine them perfectly. It has the conquering⛎ nature aspects of survival, but also the abject terror of survival horror. Subnautica is the best survival game, and the best survival horror game.

Your fiꦇrst few dives into the oceans of Planet 456B are simple enough. Oceans are inherently creepy, but with farting manatee-things an𝓰d adorable cuddlefish, there’s nothing too scary going on. You swim around, slash some outcrops with your knife, and start the usual survival grind of finding food and water.

The survival in Subnautica is simple, but as deep as its ocean. On top of hunger and thirst, you also have to tackle your l💟imited oxygen supply, viral infection, and even water pressure by upgrading your equipment to descend deeper into the depths. Go too deep too soon, and your air will run out a lot quicker. That, or you’ll be eaten by something awful.

Before long, though, you become a master of the seas. You build ꦯa complex tree of air pipes to breathe as you delve deeper into caves and tunnels. Yꦬou build flippers and enhanced oxygen tanks. You even set up an underwater base.

It spreads quickly, filling up with a fleet of vehicles, ob🗹servation de🌳cks, and even aquariums to store the planet’s native life for research. Subnautica doesn’t just challenge you to survive, it eggs you on to thrive, like a modern-day Captain Nemo. To build out, to see how far you can push the environment, to lull you into a false sense of security.

But then you need💝 to head over into another biome, and things take a sharp turn for the worse. Your first encounter with a hostile enemy flꦬips a switch for Subnautica.

You’re no longer gallivanting around a pretty Frutiger aero-type seascape,♒ you’re in alien territory and at risk of becoming some sea-monster’s lunch. Layered on to🅠p of your hunger and thirst is something much, much more horrifying. All the confidence you gained in the early hours is stripped away and replaced with the real horror of the game.

At first, it’s just a little stalker in the kelp forests. Blinded by the vines, you’re surrounded by snapping jaws and thinking it’s the worst thing that has ever happened to anybody ever. But they’🧸re the slamming vent in Alien: Isolation, or the spooky jumpscares in Alan Wake 2. Thꦯey’re harmless, designed to get your heartrate up before the big boys enter the fray, and you have no idea just how bad things are going to get.

I’ll never forget my first encounte༺r with a Reaper Leviathan. I thought I’d seen everything, and decided to stray a little too close to the gigantic crashed spaceship. The muted groaning of the reefbacks gaꦚve way to distant roaring. Then louder roaring.

Then, as I was picking some debris off the seafloor, a shadow passed over me. The reaper was about to kill me, and I’ve never come so close to soili𒊎ng myself and polluting the water as I did then.

The genius♉ of Subnautica is that it makes you forget two key facts. By having the ga💝me be set entirely underwater, you become acclimated to it even though water levels in any other game are terrifying.

And because you’re often 🌟swimming through compact tunnels in shallow water, your first few hours also numb you to the potential scale of the game. Subnautica loves throwing mind-bogglingly big things at you as its main source of horror, and the Reaper Leviathan is your first, but by no means only, harsh awakening to just how small you are on Planet 456B.

Now firmly disillusioned that you’re not the big dogfish, even the things you were doing before become terrifying. A new cave system could be hiding a swarm of Ghost Leviathans – or the skeleton of a Gargantuan Leviathan to show that even the monsters you’re facing today are noth෴ing compared to what could be out in the void. The ship is a radioactive nightmare of crabs and reapers. Everything is awful, and it’s utterly brilliant.

Subnautica marries survival and survival horror together in a way no other game has managed. Survival games can be scary, but they’re fleeting moments – an encounter with a spider in Grounded, or the panic of a distant gunshot in DayZ. Subnautica is horror. It’s a creeping, gut-wr⛎enching ꦚfear that never lets up, and only gets stronger the bigger the enemies get and the deeper you swim.

But it teaches survival horror a thing or two, as well. Subnautica never goes for the cheap scares. There’s no scripted jumpscares, everything that happens to you is just part of being part of this ecosystem where you firmly don’t belong. The hoౠrror is organic and natural, having faith enough in the fright of its own subject matter to speak for itself.

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