It’s cold. It is so incredibly, impossibly cold. If you’ve ever spent time on a North Sea oil rig in the dead of winter, you know that the wind doesn't just blow; it carves. Now, imagine that rig is screaming. Not the men on it—though they are definitely screaming—but the actual steel structure itself. It's groaning under the weight of something that shouldn't exist. That is the vibe of Still Wakes the Deep, and honestly, it’s one of the most stressful things I’ve ever played.
Most horror games try to get you with a jump scare every five minutes. They throw a zombie in a closet or have a ghost pop up in a mirror. The Chinese Room, the developers behind this nightmare, took a different route. They decided to lean into "body horror" and isolation. You play as Caz McLeary, an electrician who’s basically running away from his problems back in Scotland. He’s on the Beira D rig in 1975. It’s a blue-collar, gritty, cigarette-smoke-filled world that feels entirely too real before it all goes to hell.
When the drill hits something it wasn't supposed to, the game shifts. It’s not just a "monster" story. It's a "the world is folding in on itself" story.
What makes Still Wakes the Deep feel so different?
Let’s talk about the environment. Usually, in games, the floor is just the floor. In Still Wakes the Deep, the floor is a lie. You’re navigating a crumbling, labyrinthine structure where the sea is constantly trying to reclaim the space. The water looks terrifying. It’s dark, oily, and heavy. When Caz falls in—and he will—you can almost feel the hypothermia setting in through the screen.
The voice acting is what really sells it. Because the cast is primarily Scottish, there’s a level of authenticity that most AAA games miss. The dialogue isn't some polished Hollywood script. It’s raw. People swear. They panic. They call for their mothers. Alec Newman, who voices Caz, does an incredible job of sounding like a guy who is genuinely out of his depth. He’s not a space marine. He’s a sparky with a screwdriver and a very bad day.
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The Horror of the Unknowable
The "monster"—if you can even call it that—is basically a cosmic infection. It’s not a guy in a suit. It’s a biological nightmare that absorbs people and turns them into these pulsing, meaty growths that fused with the rig’s architecture. It reminds me a bit of John Carpenter’s The Thing, but weirder. You see your friends, or what's left of them, and they’re still talking. They’re still in there somewhere, begging for help while their bodies are stretched across the ceiling like taffy.
It’s unsettling. Truly.
There’s no combat. You can’t punch the eldritch horror. You can’t shoot it. You just have to run, hide, and pray your flashlight doesn't die at the wrong moment. This helplessness is what makes the game work. You spend half the time crouching in a vent, listening to the wet, slapping sounds of something moving nearby, and the other half platforming over a literal abyss.
Why the 1975 setting was a genius move
Digital technology didn't exist. No smartphones. No GPS. No high-tech sensors. If you wanted to talk to someone on the other side of the rig, you used a physical phone or you shouted. This creates a massive sense of disconnection. When the power goes out, it is dark. Not "video game dark" where you can still see the edges of the room, but pitch black.
The Beira D itself feels like a character. It’s a brutalist, industrial monster made of rusted iron and yellow paint. The Chinese Room clearly did their homework on 1970s offshore engineering. The knobs, the switches, the way the linoleum looks in the galley—it’s all perfect. It makes the supernatural elements feel way more intrusive because the mundane world is so well-realized.
A different kind of pacing
I’ve noticed a lot of people complain that the game is "walking sim" adjacent. I think that’s a bit unfair. While the mechanics are simple—climbing, turning valves, sneaking—the pacing is tight. It’s a short game, maybe six hours if you’re taking your time. But those six hours are dense. There’s no filler. No "collect 50 hidden packages" to pad out the runtime. It’s a focused, narrative-driven experience that knows exactly when to turn the screw.
The sound design deserves its own award. Seriously. The way the wind howls through the pipes, the distant clanging of metal, the muffled thuds of the sea hitting the legs of the rig—it’s a masterclass in atmospheric dread. If you play this with headphones, you’re going to be looking over your shoulder every time your fridge makes a noise.
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Dealing with the "Deep"
There is a psychological layer to Still Wakes the Deep that hits harder than the gore. It’s about regret. Caz is on that rig because he messed up his life on land. Most of the crew are there because they need the money or they’re running from something. As the rig falls apart, so do their identities.
One of the most effective scenes involves a character named Trots. I won't spoil the specifics, but the way the game handles his "transformation" is heartbreaking. It leans into the tragedy of body horror rather than just the gross-out factor. You aren't just scared of getting caught; you’re sad for the people who were.
Technical Performance and Visuals
Running this on Unreal Engine 5 was the right call. The lighting is incredible. The way the emergency flares cast long, flickering shadows against the shifting walls of the rig creates a constant sense of motion. Even when you’re standing still, the world feels like it’s vibrating.
The water physics are particularly impressive. Water is notoriously hard to do well in games, but here, it feels viscous and dangerous. It’s not just a flat texture; it’s an obstacle. It's a predator.
Actionable Insights for Players
If you’re planning on diving into this one, keep a few things in mind to get the most out of the experience.
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- Turn off the UI prompts. If you want the full immersion, go into the settings and minimize the HUD. The game is intuitive enough that you don’t need a giant glowing arrow telling you which ladder to climb.
- Play it in the dark. This sounds like a cliché, but the lighting in this game is designed to play tricks on your eyes. Daylight ruins the effect.
- Listen to the background chatter. A lot of the world-building happens in the quiet moments before the chaos starts. Pay attention to the relationships between the crew members; it makes the later parts of the game much more impactful.
- Don't try to "game" the AI. The enemies follow certain patterns, but trying to exploit them breaks the tension. Treat the threats as real, and the game stays scary.
- Check the accessibility settings. The Chinese Room included some great options for people who might struggle with the platforming or the high-stress chase sequences. There's no shame in using them if you just want to experience the story.
Still Wakes the Deep isn't just another horror game. It’s a claustrophobic, wet, and miserable journey through a very specific kind of hell. It’s about the fear of the unknown and the crushing weight of the ocean. Most importantly, it's about a man trying to find a way home when the world is literally tearing itself apart. It’s a grim, beautiful achievement in interactive storytelling that stays with you long after the credits roll.
To truly appreciate the game, you have to accept that you aren't the hero. You’re just a guy trying to survive. Once you embrace that vulnerability, the true horror begins.