You know that prickle on the back of your neck when you clip through a wall in a video game and end up in a gray, endless void? It’s a glitch. Usually, it’s just a mistake. But sometimes, that feeling—the sense of "you're not supposed to be here"—is exactly what the developer wanted you to feel. It’s a specific brand of digital dread.
Honestly, it's one of the most powerful tools in a game designer's kit because it breaks the fourth wall without saying a single word. You’re looking at the "seams" of the world. In the early days of gaming, seeing the edge of a map was just a technical limitation. Now, it’s a subgenre. It's an aesthetic.
When we talk about the phrase you're not supposed to be here, we aren't just talking about a line of dialogue from an angry NPC in Skyrim. We are talking about the "Liminal Space" movement, the "Backrooms" phenomenon, and the intentional use of out-of-bounds exploration to create psychological horror. It’s about the discomfort of being where the "rules" of the simulation stop working.
Why We Are Obsessed With Out-of-Bounds
Humans are naturally nosy. If you put a "Keep Out" sign on a door, that door becomes the most interesting thing in the building. Games work the same way. When a player finds a way to jump over an invisible wall or use a "rocket jump" to reach a rooftop that hasn't been textured, they feel like they've won a secret victory over the creators.
But then the mood shifts.
You’re standing on a flat plane of unrendered polygons. The music stops. The wind sound loop cuts out. Suddenly, the power dynamic flips. You aren't a hero exploring a world; you're a bug in a program. This specific type of "you're not supposed to be here" energy is what fueled the rise of the Source Engine ghost stories. People spent years wandering empty Garry's Mod maps like gm_construct, swearing they saw a dark figure in the distance.
There wasn't one. The engine was just... empty. But the human brain hates a vacuum. We fill the silence with monsters.
The Architecture of Digital Dread
Developers have started leaning into this. Look at The Stanley Parable. It’s a game entirely built on the concept of doing things you aren't "supposed" to do. If you manage to climb onto a desk and jump out of a window into a white void, the Narrator doesn't just let it happen. He sighs. He gets annoyed. He tells you, quite literally, that you're not supposed to be here and then restarts the game because you "broke" his story.
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It’s meta-commentary.
Then you have the more sinister version found in games like Kane & Lynch 2: Dog Days. That game uses a "lo-fi" digital camera aesthetic that makes everything feel like a leaked snuff film. When the camera glitches or the pixels tear, it creates an atmosphere of deep-seated wrongness. It feels like you are watching something forbidden. That's the core of the you're not supposed to be here vibe—it's the feeling of being an intruder in a space that wasn't meant for your eyes.
Breaking the Map: A Brief History of Glitches
- The Minus World in Super Mario Bros.: This is the granddaddy of them all. By performing a specific wall-clip in World 1-2, you enter World -1. It’s an endless underwater loop. It’s a graveyard for players. It’s a mistake that became legend.
- The Blue Hell in Grand Theft Auto III: If you fell through the road, you ended up in a watery abyss beneath Liberty City. You could see the entire city floating above you like a dream. It was lonely. It was terrifying.
- The Emerald Forest in World of Warcraft: For years, players tried to find ways into unreleased zones like Mount Hyjal or the Quel'Thalas ruins before they were "finished." Seeing the half-built geometry felt like seeing a movie set before the actors arrived.
The Backrooms and the Rise of Liminal Spaces
We can't talk about this without mentioning the Backrooms. It started as a single image on 4chan—a grainy photo of a yellow-carpeted office space with fluorescent lights. The caption described it as a place you "noclip" into if you aren't careful.
This is the ultimate evolution of the you're not supposed to be here trope. It took a technical term from 1990s shooters (noclip) and turned it into a modern urban legend. It’s why Poolrooms videos get millions of views on YouTube. There is something inherently disturbing about a functional space—a hallway, a mall, a swimming pool—that is completely devoid of people.
It feels like the world is "off." Like you've walked backstage at a theater and found out the walls are made of plywood.
The Psychology of the Forbidden
Why does it creep us out so much?
According to environmental psychology, humans look for "affordances" in a space. We want to know what we can do there. In a well-designed game level, the affordances are clear: you can walk on the path, open the door, and talk to the shopkeeper. When you enter a "not supposed to be here" zone, those affordances vanish.
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The floor might not have collision. The door might just be a texture painted on a wall. The shopkeeper might be a T-posing model with no face.
This triggers a "mismatch" in our brain. It’s the Uncanny Valley, but for architecture. We expect a world that reacts to us, and when it doesn't, we feel a primitive urge to get away. It’s the digital version of being lost in the woods at night. You know where you are, but you don't know the rules of how to survive there.
How to Lean Into the Feeling (For Creators and Players)
If you're a developer or a digital artist, you can actually manufacture this feeling. It’s not about making a scary monster. It's about the absence of things.
- Kill the Audio: Total silence is more unsettling than a loud jump scare.
- Repeat Textures: Use the same wallpaper or floor pattern for a little too long. It makes the space feel artificial.
- Break the Scale: Make a hallway that is slightly too wide or a ceiling that is way too high.
- Remove the Exit: If a player enters a room and the door they came through is suddenly a solid wall, they will immediately feel that "not supposed to be here" panic.
For players, the best way to experience this is through "Boundary Breaking." There are entire communities, like the one led by YouTuber Shesez, dedicated to taking the camera where it shouldn't go. Seeing how P.T. (the Silent Hills teaser) works behind the scenes—realizing the ghost is always right behind you even when you can't see her—is a masterclass in this concept.
What This Means for the Future of Virtual Reality
As we move into more immersive VR, the you're not supposed to be here sensation is going to get a lot more intense. In a 2D game, you're looking at a screen. In VR, your brain thinks you are actually there.
Imagine "noclipping" through a wall in VR and standing in a void where the floor is missing. The vertigo isn't just a game mechanic; it’s a physical biological response. Developers are going to have to be careful. Or, if they’re making a horror game, they’re going to have a field day.
We are entering an era where the "glitch" is the point. We are no longer afraid of the game breaking; we are afraid of what we'll find when it does.
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Real-World Action Steps for the Curiously Terrified
If you want to explore this weird niche of digital culture, you don't need a degree in game design. You just need a bit of curiosity and a willingness to feel slightly uncomfortable.
Start with "Walking Simulators"
Play games like Proteus or LSD: Dream Emulator. These aren't about winning; they are about wandering. They often use dream logic where the world shifts when you aren't looking. It’s the "light" version of the feeling.
Study the "Backrooms" Lore
Look into the original "Level 0" of the Backrooms. Don't get bogged down in the later "levels" with monsters and complex rules—those actually ruin the effect. Stick to the early stuff where the only threat is the infinite, empty space.
Use Photo Modes to Peak Behind the Curtain
Next time you play a big AAA game like The Last of Us or Cyberpunk 2077, use the photo mode to fly the camera as far as it will go. Look for the "fake" buildings in the distance. Find where the grass stops being 3D and starts being a flat texture.
Recognize Liminality in Real Life
Next time you're in an airport at 3:00 AM or a school during summer break, stop and look around. Notice how the space feels "wrong" because it's not being used for its intended purpose. That’s the real-world equivalent of being out-of-bounds.
Ultimately, the sensation of being somewhere you shouldn't be is a reminder that everything we experience—especially in the digital world—is a construction. It’s a thin veneer of "normal" stretched over a chaotic, empty framework. When that veneer cracks, we see the truth.
It’s lonely, it’s quiet, and it’s deeply, strangely fascinating. Just don't stay in the void too long. The engine might forget how to put you back.