If you’ve ever wanted to stand in a messy garage and have a drunk scientist scream at you while you wash his space-laundry, boy, do I have the game for you.
Honestly, Rick and Morty: Virtual Rick-ality is a trip. Released back in 2017 by Owlchemy Labs—the same folks who made Job Simulator—it basically takes that "mess with everything in the room" mechanic and drapes it in a thick layer of Adult Swim cynicism. You aren't playing as the "real" Morty. That would be too dignified. Instead, you're a Morty clone. A disposable, floating-head-and-hands version of the kid, specifically grown to do the chores Rick is too lazy or too important to handle.
It's weird. It's short. It's often gross. But it captures the show’s energy better than almost any other adaptation out there.
Why Rick and Morty: Virtual Rick-ality is Basically a Playable Episode
Most licensed games feel like a cheap cash grab. You know the ones. They slap a character's face on a generic shooter and call it a day. This isn't that. Because it was built by Owlchemy, the interaction is the point.
You spend most of your time in Rick’s garage. It’s a mess. There are shelves full of "Time Travel Stuff" (which Rick explicitly says he never uses), weird alien artifacts, and a literal Plumbus. If you’ve ever wondered how a Plumbus actually feels to hold—well, the game doesn't give you the haptic texture of dinglebop, but it lets you rub it against a laundry machine, which is close enough.
The "story," if you can call it that, is a series of escalating disasters.
- Rick makes you do laundry.
- You have to fix a computer.
- You end up in a shootout with the Galactic Federation.
- You die. A lot.
Death in this game isn't a "Game Over" screen. It’s a trip to Purgatory. You find yourself in a grey, dull version of the Smith living room where a phone rings and the "devil's secretary" (who is just a bored summer intern) mocks you. You press a button, and you're back. It's a clever way to handle the "try and fail" nature of VR puzzles without breaking the immersion.
The Mr. Youseeks Problem
Since you’re trapped in the garage for a good chunk of the game, the developers had to figure out how to let you reach stuff. Enter Mr. Youseeks.
He’s a legal-safe version of Mr. Meeseeks. You throw a ball, he appears, and he mirrors your exact movements. If you want to grab something across the room, you make him do it. It’s tactile and satisfying, though it gets chaotic when you have three of them out at once and they're all screaming in that high-pitched, desperate tone.
The game really shines when it lets you experiment. There's a "Combinator" machine where you can shove any two objects together to see what happens. Most of the time, you just get "poop" or a useless "thingy." But sometimes? You get a unique item that triggers a specific voice line from Rick.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Platforms
If you're looking for this on the Meta Quest store today, you might be confused.
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Rick and Morty: Virtual Rick-ality was built for the era of tethered VR—the HTC Vive, Oculus Rift, and PlayStation VR. It is not a native Quest game. You cannot just download it onto your Quest 3 and play it while sitting on the bus.
To play it now on modern hardware:
- You need a VR-ready PC.
- You need to use Quest Link, AirLink, or Steam Link.
- You’ll likely buy it on Steam.
A lot of players get frustrated because the tracking can feel "old." Since it was designed for early VR sensors that usually sat in front of you, it doesn't always love it when you turn 180 degrees and hide your controllers from the cameras. Owlchemy added a "floater" mechanic to help you grab things that fall out of your physical reach, but it’s still a bit janky by 2026 standards.
The Secrets Nobody Talks About
The game is packed with more Easter eggs than a Marvel movie. If you’re just rushing through the 2-hour main story, you're missing the best parts.
For instance, there are hidden cassette tapes scattered everywhere. One of them involves a very long, very uncomfortable monologue from Jerry through a bathroom door. If you find his hemorrhoid cream and slide it under the door, you get an achievement called "Love Hurts." It’s peak Jerry.
There’s also a hidden "Troy" mini-game. It’s a riff on the "Roy: A Life Well Lived" game from the show. You put on a VR headset inside the VR game. Meta, right? You live out a life as a creature named Troy, making choices that lead to different endings. It’s a tiny, pixelated distraction that proves the developers actually cared about the source material.
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Is It Still Worth Playing?
Look, the game is short. Most people finish the main "tasks" in about two hours. If you pay full price ($29.99), you might feel a bit stung by the length.
But as an experience? It’s unmatched for fans.
The voice acting is the real deal. You get the authentic stammers, the burps, and the improvised-feeling rants that make the show work. When Rick yells at you for being a "useless meat-sack," it feels personal in a way a TV screen can’t replicate.
Actionable Tips for New Clones
If you're going to dive in, keep these things in mind to avoid a headache:
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- Clear your floor. You will be reaching for the ground constantly. If you have a cat or a coffee table in the way, things will get messy.
- Use the "Giant" mode. When you start, you can calibrate your height. If you're playing in a small space, telling the game you're taller can actually make it easier to reach high shelves without overextending.
- Don't ignore the whiteboard. The garage has a whiteboard with "crap jobs" on it. Checking it frequently gives you a hint on what to do next if you're stuck on a puzzle.
- Check the "Combinator" recipes. There are 10 specific crafting challenges after you beat the game. Completing them unlocks a photo of Rick with the robot from Job Simulator.
The game isn't trying to be a 40-hour RPG. It’s a concentrated dose of chaos. It’s about the joy of throwing a screwdriver at Rick’s head and watching him flinch. It’s about the weirdness of "Real Fake Doors."
Basically, it's a theme park attraction you can own. Just don't expect it to change your life—unless you really, really like doing laundry for a sociopath.