The Duck’s most dreaded environments are not of the traditional variety.  Sure, I love getting creeped out by a particularly decrepit abandoned asylum or jumping at the mysterious noises one might encounter in the deep, dark woods.  But there is something very important that these locations have in common that prevents them from being especially terrifying for me.  And that is…the ground.  Yeah, there’s a very solid walkable surface, paired with a healthy helping of gravity, that make creaky old buildings and misty woods a walk in the park.  As anticlimactic as this revelation sounds, you’ll understand in a moment why true horror comes in the form of, gulp, open water and outer space.

Although they’re not exactly the most common setting for horror games, there’s something about these overly large, unfathomable environments that turn otherwise non-horror games into absolute nightmare fuel for me.  Take Subnautica, for example, one of the most uncomfortable gaming experiences of my life.   Any doubts I might have had over the existence of my thalassophobia have been completely annihilated as soon as I first became stranded on the ocean planet of 4546B.  (A name that truly rolls off the tongue.)  Sure, I could handle the brightly lit shallows just fine.  The ground wasn’t that far beneath me.  The visibility was high.  And nothing particularly large and menacing could possibly reach me.  Unless you’re afraid of flatulent manatees, this was a relatively decent place to be stranded.

But as soon as I was forced to brave the depths, my heart began racing.  At first, I could only handle skimming about on the surface, either swimming freely or with the help of my Seaglide.  Just don’t look down, Duck.  For all you know, there’s only ten feet of-holy crud, I looked down, and I can’t see the bottom, and absolutely anything could be lurking beneath my flippers!  And whatever is down there, it’s most definitely getting ready to swallow me whole as we speak!

Eventually, I had no choice but to delve beneath the depths.  And as expected, I hated it.  Sometimes it was so deep that I couldn’t make out any light from the surface, and I felt so vulnerable surrounded by all that open water.  Oh, and Reaper Leviathans swam about out there, so I was very happy about that!  Although the Seamoth made underwater travel just a bit less yucky, I still longed for the comfort and safety of my base, where I never had to travel far before bumping into a wall.  Never underestimate the soothing presence of walls.  So secure and stable.  Oh, walls, I could kiss you!

But nothing, and I mean nothing, can compete with the mind-numbing terror that is the dead zone, the incredibly deep and infinitely open water surrounding the playable map.  Just this alone would be enough to prevent me from stepping out of bounds, if only to avoid the panic attack it would most undeniably give me.

But since there are most definitely a number of brave souls who would venture out into open seas, to keep them from leaving the game entirely, the dead zone is also home to massive Ghost Leviathans! So yeah, you better stay outta there!

But wait, I might have spoken too soon.  Maybe there is something even more horrifying than open water where you could sink for miles and still never touch the bottom.  And that honor, dear readers, goes to outer space, the true star of this post (pun intended).

I mean, it goes on forever.  How is that even possible?  Then again, it’s not like it would make sense for outer space to have walls, so…

There is really only one other game that can terrify me the way that Subnautica can.  And that’s Outer Wilds, a game where you travel around a small solar system and get incinerated by a supernova every 20 minutes or so.  There’s a whole new variety of things to make me uneasy in this game, though to avoid spoilers, I’ll just focus on the aforementioned infinite void that is outer space, where you could float for years and years and years and never reach the end.

Sure, don’t get me wrong.  Space is fascinating.  But it’s also horrible and has no right existing.  Plus, it’s a lot like the ocean.  Only infinitely bigger.  But hey, you’ll still suffocate eventually, so…you won’t find yourself floating about in either for very long before perishing.

It’s always good to think positively.

Although Outer Wilds is indeed filled with many terrifying things, many of my scariest moments revolved around floating helplessly in space, whether from falling into a black hole and getting spit out somewhere else entirely or after getting pulled from the surface of a comet by the gravity of a far larger celestial body.  I can see my ship growing increasingly smaller in the distance, but my pitiful jetpack is never going to get me back to it.  Better just aim for that encroaching supernova and end my suffering.

And that, folks, is a long-winded explanation for why I refuse to enter the ocean.  And NASA, I’m sorry, but I don’t ever see me becoming an astronaut in my future, either.