DEAD SPACE

“In space, no one can hear you scream.” Ridley Scott’s Alien made that promise back in 1979. A few decades later, the gaming industry apparently decided to test the theory. And, well, let’s just say the results weren’t particularly encouraging.

For centuries, humanity has gazed at the stars, dreaming of distant worlds, extraordinary discoveries and boldly going where no one has gone before. Beautiful ambitions. Unfortunately, we seem determined to take our worst habits along for the ride: corporate greed, questionable management decisions and an almost supernatural talent for ignoring warning signs.

Okay, Sarah, honey. You are SO going to pay for this. 💋 I was promised a little adventure, perhaps some futuristic fashion and a fabulous view of the stars. Instead, you’ve sent me to a floating slaughterhouse with terrible lighting, questionable hygiene and absolutely no room service. Darling, I love you, but your idea of a girls’ getaway needs serious work.

I’ve barely stepped aboard when my holographic briefing flickers to life. MISSION: REPLACE ENGINEER ISAAC CLARKE. Excuse me? Replace him? I was told this was a fashion assignment with a little adventure on the side. Fine. Whatever. I’ve survived Berlin Fashion Week. How bad can it be? The ship’s automated equipment system begins scanning me. IDENTITY CONFIRMED. INITIATING ENGINEERING SUIT TRANSFORMATION. Excellent. Finally, some professional service. A bright blue light flashes, my body tingles, the screen goes black and suddenly… BUNNY MODE ACTIVATED.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m standing in a deserted spaceship corridor wearing one of my Halloween party outfits. The computer makes a cheerful little noise. OUTFIT COMPATIBILITY: 3%. Three percent? Sweetheart, that’s still a better score than some of the men I’ve dated. Something growls inside the ventilation shaft. A pair of claws slowly emerges from the darkness. Oh, wonderful. My first admirer. And he’s clearly never heard of personal boundaries. I grab the nearest metal object, swing wildly and make a mental note to leave this establishment a devastating review. One star. No atmosphere. Terrible clientele.

RECALIBRATING. SEARCHING FOR APPROPRIATE COMBAT ATTIRE. The computer flashes again. For half a second, I can feel heavy armour forming around my shoulders. Finally! Then the lights flicker and I’m wearing another Halloween costume. Seriously? I don’t know who’s responsible for this software, but they clearly downloaded my party wardrobe instead of the engineering database.

WARNING: PROTECTIVE COVERAGE INSUFFICIENT. Thank you, Captain Obvious. Meanwhile, the Ishimura has decided to introduce me to its residents. They’re called Necromorphs. Apparently, somebody thought taking dead human bodies, rearranging their limbs into horrifying new configurations and sending them crawling through ventilation shafts would be an excellent way to improve morale. I’ve seen some terrible cosmetic surgery. But this? Darling. Find another surgeon.

TRANSFORMATION ATTEMPT THREE. This time the system promises something called advanced tactical adaptation. Oh, I like the sound of that. Maybe a sleek armoured bodysuit, a little metallic detailing, something powerful, futuristic and flattering. The light flashes. Another Halloween look. I stare at my reflection in a broken medical cabinet. You’ve got to admire the commitment. The software may be completely insane, but at least it understands my colour palette.

Unfortunately, the monster behind me doesn’t seem particularly impressed. It raises two enormous blades. I raise one perfectly manicured finger. One moment, darling. I’m having a technical difficulty. Then I run. Not elegantly. Not gracefully. But with the kind of speed normally reserved for the final pair of designer boots at a 90-percent-off sale.

By now I’ve discovered that the Ishimura isn’t merely a haunted spaceship. It’s a floating monument to corporate stupidity. The ship was supposed to extract valuable resources from distant worlds. Instead, its crew became entangled in a nightmare involving a mysterious alien artifact known as the Marker. Hallucinations, paranoia, violence, dead people refusing to remain respectfully deceased. And somehow, the company still thought everything was under control.

I’ve worked with difficult management before, but at least nobody at our editorial meetings has ever tried to eat the photographer. RECONFIGURING EQUIPMENT. Oh, here we go again. Another flash. Another completely inappropriate party outfit. I look down, then up, then directly into the nearest security camera. WHOEVER IS RUNNING THIS TRANSFORMATION SYSTEM, WE NEED TO TALK. The computer responds: ERROR 404: PROFESSIONAL DRESS CODE NOT FOUND. I swear, if I survive this, I’m sending the entire IT department back to kindergarten.

By the fifth transformation, I’ve stopped asking questions. The system has apparently confused survival horror with Halloween afterparty. Every time it promises industrial-grade protection, it delivers another glamorous disaster. At this point, I’m beginning to suspect the ship has been hacked by a particularly enthusiastic fashion influencer.

Meanwhile, I’m learning the rules of Dead Space the hard way. First: never trust a quiet corridor. Second: if something looks dead, don’t assume it intends to stay that way. Third: conventional headshots aren’t always the answer. Against Necromorphs, strategically severing their limbs with an industrial plasma cutter is often far more effective. A somewhat unconventional approach to workplace safety. And fourth? If the lights go out, don’t scream. Save your breath. You’ll need it for running. SYSTEM ALERT. TRANSFORMATION MATRIX UNSTABLE. FINAL RECALIBRATION REQUIRED. Oh, fantastic. Maybe this time I’ll turn into a handbag.

The corridor turns orange. My holographic suit begins to shimmer. One boot disappears, then reappears. My arm becomes a cartoonishly oversized mechanical claw. My hair briefly turns into a floating cloud of pixels. For one horrifying second, I appear to have three legs. Three! Even I don’t own enough shoes for that.

TRANSFORMATION ERROR. RETRYING. My body stretches like a badly animated cartoon character. I bounce off the wall, spin around, land on my feet and somehow end up wearing the exact same Halloween outfit again. Oh, COME ON! I slap the control panel. Hard. The screen flickers. LEGACY HALLOWEEN PROFILE DELETED. ENGINEERING SUIT INITIALIZED.

A deep mechanical hum fills the corridor. Armour plates lock into place around my body, heavy boots hit the floor and blue lights illuminate the spine of my suit. And in my hands? A plasma cutter. I look down, look up and grin. BANG. NOW THAT’S MORE LIKE IT. Finally. Proper engineering armour, functional equipment, excellent silhouette. And no helmet, obviously. I’ve spent far too much time on my hair to disappear inside a metal bucket. Besides, the Necromorphs deserve to know exactly who’s about to ruin their evening.

Now that I’m dressed for the occasion, it’s time to appreciate what makes Dead Space so extraordinary. This isn’t a glamorous space opera full of heroic captains and inspirational speeches. Isaac Clarke is an engineer, not a supersoldier. His weapons are repurposed industrial tools. His environment is a maze of damaged machinery, failing systems and corridors that seem specifically designed to make you regret leaving Earth.

And the sound? Oh, the sound. Metal groaning somewhere deep inside the ship. A distant scream. Something scraping against the ventilation system. The sudden silence that makes you wish somebody would scream again. Even your health indicator is integrated into the illuminated spine of your suit, keeping the screen remarkably free of conventional interface clutter. It’s clever, immersive, horribly effective and deeply unfair to anyone who enjoys sleeping.

The combat is another reason this series became legendary. Instead of simply firing at anything that moves, you learn to dismember enemies strategically. Limited ammunition forces you to think, stasis technology can slow threats down and kinesis lets you manipulate objects. Every encounter becomes a deliciously unpleasant calculation. Do I fight? Do I run? Do I have enough ammunition? Or should I simply resign? Unfortunately, Human Resources remains unavailable.

The 2023 remake brings all of this into a spectacularly modern presentation, with enhanced visuals, redesigned areas and expanded storytelling while preserving the oppressive spirit of the 2008 original. It’s one of those rare horror experiences where the environment itself feels alive. And, frankly, not particularly pleased to meet you.

Well, I’ve survived the Ishimura. I’ve fought monsters that look like the aftermath of an extremely unsuccessful medical experiment, crawled through corridors that haven’t seen a cleaning crew in approximately forever and been transformed into five different Halloween costumes by a computer with the fashion instincts of a malfunctioning disco ball.

But I’ve learned something important. Humanity may one day conquer the stars. We may build extraordinary ships, discover new worlds and unlock the secrets of the universe. And somewhere along the way, somebody will still decide that saving a few dollars on maintenance is an excellent idea. I open the communications channel.