DYING LIGHT

There's something wonderfully romantic about watching the sun rise over an unfamiliar city. The rooftops glow golden, the streets slowly come to life, and somewhere in the distance, somebody is screaming for help. Wait. What?

Welcome to Harran, a once-thriving fictional city where a mysterious viral outbreak has transformed much of the population into flesh-hungry monsters. The authorities have imposed a quarantine, civilisation has largely collapsed, and the remaining survivors have developed a rather unconventional relationship with their neighbours. Most of them would prefer to eat you.

Not exactly the kind of destination you'd find in a luxury travel magazine. But here at THE MAG, we believe in discovering places beyond the usual tourist hotspots. So naturally, I've brought my two favourite partners in crime: Hailee, our resident fashion emergency waiting to happen, and Joelle, who has the unfortunate habit of being the sensible one.

I look across the rooftops. The sun is shining, the city is beautiful in that slightly ruined, post-apocalyptic way, and a group of infected people are enthusiastically attempting to dismantle a parked car.

Famous last words.

Originally released in 2015 by Polish developer Techland, Dying Light took the familiar zombie-survival formula and gave it something extraordinary: freedom of movement. Instead of shuffling through corridors or cautiously exploring abandoned streets, you run, climb, leap and scramble across an enormous urban playground. Rooftops become highways, balconies become stepping stones, and a perfectly respectable drainpipe suddenly looks like your best friend.

She launches herself across the gap between two buildings with the confidence of someone who has never considered gravity a serious opponent. For one glorious second, she looks magnificent. Then she misses the landing. A hand shoots up from the edge of the roof.

I love these girls.

Once you learn to move, Harran transforms. Streets that initially feel like death traps become routes to navigate, obstacles become opportunities, and every rooftop promises a new perspective. The movement system is wonderfully physical, giving weight and momentum to every climb and leap. You don't merely travel through the city. You learn its architecture. And that's important, because the streets below are not especially welcoming.

Infected wander between abandoned cars and market stalls. Some are slow, some are aggressive, and others respond to noise with the enthusiasm of people who have just heard that the bar is offering free cocktails.

A distant explosion interrupts our conversation. We turn toward Sarah.

One of Dying Light's greatest pleasures is turning everyday objects into wonderfully impractical instruments of survival. Pipes, blades, electrical components and assorted scavenged materials can become weapons and equipment. As you progress, your options expand, encouraging creativity, experimentation and the occasional spectacular mistake. A wrench is useful. An electrified wrench is considerably more persuasive. Unfortunately, improvised weapons don't last forever: they wear down, break and require maintenance, meaning every encounter forces you to balance aggression with resource management.

Behind the exhilarating movement and gloriously messy combat lies a story about people trapped between impossible choices. Crane's mission places him in a world of conflicting loyalties, where survival often depends less on heroics than on trust, sacrifice and cooperation. The supporting characters give Harran its humanity. Every safe house, every desperate request for supplies and every small victory reminds you that this city was once home to ordinary people.

And while the main story is designed around Crane, the game also supports cooperative play for up to four players after its opening section. Exploring Harran with friends changes the rhythm of the adventure. One player distracts the infected, another searches for supplies, and somebody inevitably decides that jumping off a roof is a perfectly reasonable shortcut. In our case, that somebody is usually Hailee.

But when things get serious, something lovely happens. We stop arguing about routes, outfits and who used the last medkit. Joelle watches our backs, Hailee rushes toward anyone who needs help, and I realise that even in a world determined to tear us apart, friendship remains our most reliable survival tool.

I check my watch. The smile disappears from my face.

The sun slips behind the buildings. And somewhere deep inside Harran, something answers with a scream unlike anything we've heard all day.

Here's the thing about Dying Light: during the day, you can almost convince yourself that you're in control. You learn the streets, master the rooftops, improve your weapons and become increasingly confident in your ability to survive. Then night falls. And the game reminds you exactly who owns Harran.

The darkness introduces a far more terrifying class of infected, including the notorious Volatiles: fast, powerful predators capable of turning even a skilled survivor into a very brief cautionary tale. Your comfortable rooftop routes suddenly feel exposed. Familiar streets become labyrinths of danger. Every noise matters, every shadow becomes suspicious, and the distance to the nearest safe zone starts looking considerably longer than it did five minutes ago. Nighttime exploration offers additional rewards, but the risks are enormous. It's a brilliantly simple design decision: the same city, the same buildings, the same player – yet an entirely different emotional experience.

A guttural scream erupts behind us.

What follows is not our finest moment. Hailee vaults over a railing, lands on a narrow ledge and immediately regrets every decision that brought her to Harran. I scramble up a wall while something enormous crashes into the metal fencing below. Joelle reaches the next rooftop, turns around and realises that neither of us is moving quite fast enough.

Safe zones. Beautiful, glorious safe zones. Those precious islands of security become almost spiritual destinations once the Volatiles start hunting. We sprint toward the distant glow.

Something lands behind us with a wet, metallic thud. I don't look back. Nobody looks back. Because that's the real genius of Dying Light's night sequences. The game doesn't merely make enemies stronger. It changes your behaviour. It turns confident exploration into instinctive flight, replaces curiosity with fear and makes every successful escape feel like a genuine achievement.

We reach the safe zone just as a creature lunges from the darkness. Joelle grabs Hailee, I slam the gate, and all three of us collapse against the wall. Silence. Breathing. Then laughter. The kind of helpless, exhausted laughter that comes when you've been terrified out of your mind and somehow survived together.

The original game grew well beyond its 2015 launch through updates, additional content and expansions, including The Following, which traded Harran's dense rooftops for a more open countryside and introduced drivable buggies. Its successor, Dying Light 2 Stay Human, released in 2022, expanded the parkour-driven formula into another infected city, Villedor, with a greater emphasis on player choices, factions and an evolving urban environment. The tone and structure differ, but the central appeal remains: movement is freedom, daylight is precious and the infected are rarely interested in fair play.

Both adventures offer plenty to explore, though the first Dying Light retains a special place in survival-horror history. Its combination of tactile parkour, cooperative mayhem and genuinely frightening nights remains remarkably distinctive. And unlike some games that become less intimidating as your character grows stronger, Dying Light has a wonderful way of reminding you that confidence and safety are not the same thing. Particularly after sunset.

Morning arrives quietly. The first sunlight spills across Harran's rooftops, painting the broken city in shades of gold. From our safe house, we watch the streets slowly emerge from darkness. The infected are still out there, the quarantine hasn't ended, and our chances of receiving a positive review from the local tourism board remain extremely limited. But we're alive. Together.

Joelle has somehow managed to find coffee. Hailee has recovered her missing dignity, although the whereabouts of her shoe remain a mystery. And I have learned a valuable lesson about planning girls' trips.

Hailee looks at Joelle. Joelle looks at me. A moment passes. Then Hailee smiles.

We laugh. Three friends, one impossible city and enough stories to last a lifetime. Below us, the sun climbs higher. I take one final look across Harran.