Reviewed on PC
Also on Xbox Series X/S, Xbox One
Publisher: Raw Fury
Developer: Lunar Software
Release Date: December 4, 2025
There was a 20-minute stretch early in my playthrough of Routine where I wandered aimlessly through its abandoned lunar station, retracing my steps through sterile hallways and dimly lit rooms in search of one simple thing: my own ID number. Notices plastered on the walls reminded station personnel—me included—that ID badges must be carried at all times. Progress required inputting that number into a terminal. I searched desks, lockers, clipboards, and corners of rooms with mounting frustration.
Crucially, I never thought to look down.
Hanging plainly on my chest, swaying gently with each step of my moon suit, was my ID badge. The solution to my problem had been with me the entire time.
That moment of embarrassment wasn’t a failure of design; it was Routine teaching me how to think. From that point forward, the game transformed from an opaque, hostile maze into one of the most compelling and tactile puzzle experiences I’ve played in years—an eight-hour descent into dread, logic, and the quiet horror of a work shift gone catastrophically wrong.
Not a Game of Puzzles, but a Place of Logic
Routine isn’t a game filled with puzzles in the traditional video-game sense. There are no abstract riddles, color-matching contraptions, or contrived mechanics that exist solely to slow your progress. Instead, Routine feels like an elaborate sci-fi escape room—one governed by internal logic, spatial awareness, and a respect for the intelligence of its player.
Codes appear where codes should logically be. Keys are stored where someone would actually leave them. Instructions are present, but rarely spelled out in neon. This design philosophy forces you to abandon decades of gaming muscle memory and instead inhabit the role of the protagonist: an engineer sent to investigate a decaying lunar station filled with analog terminals, aging technology, and unsettling silence.
Once I stopped thinking like a player and started thinking like a worker—someone trying to do their job in a deeply unsafe environment—Routine clicked. Every puzzle became less about “what does the game want from me?” and more about “what would I do if this were real?”
That shift in mindset is Routine’s greatest triumph.
A Bad Shift at Work, on the Moon
At its core, Routine tells a simple story: you’ve been sent to a lunar station to figure out what went wrong. The station is malfunctioning, abandoned, and clearly hostile to human life. What begins as a straightforward investigation slowly spirals into something older, stranger, and more unsettling than broken machinery.
There are hints of something maternal, something ancient lurking beneath the surface of this station, contrasting sharply with the retro-futuristic technology inspired by late-1970s and early-1980s visions of space travel. Cathode-ray monitors flicker. Terminals hum. Physical switches clack into place with weight and resistance. The environment feels lived-in, industrial, and utterly believable.
Yet despite the cosmic undertones, Routine never loses sight of its most relatable horror: this is still just a shift at work. A terrible one, yes—but one defined by procedures, tools, and problem-solving. That grounding is what makes the supernatural elements so effective. The impossible feels more frightening when it intrudes upon the mundane.
The CAT Tool: Tactility as Design Philosophy
Nearly everything you do in Routine is mediated through the Cosmonaut Assistance Tool, or CAT—a square, gun-like device that functions as your primary interface with the station. Early on, its capabilities are limited. You use it to project interface tabs onto marked walls, pulling up save options, objectives, or stored media.
Even this simple interaction requires intention. You must look down at the CAT, press a physical button on it, then aim it at the correct surface. Nothing is automated. Nothing happens instantly.
As the game progresses, the CAT becomes more versatile. New modules allow you to access secure doors, shock robotic stalkers, uncover hidden messages, and interface with increasingly complex systems. Each upgrade adds functionality without sacrificing the tactile nature of the tool. You slot in cassette-like modules. You pull triggers. You press buttons. Every action feels deliberate.
On paper, this sounds exhausting—an unnecessary layer of friction between the player and basic interactions. In practice, it’s the backbone of Routine’s immersion. The CAT isn’t just a tool; it’s a physical object you must manage under pressure, often while something dangerous lurks nearby.
A Love Letter to Physical Interaction
There is no abstraction in Routine. To interact with the world, you must physically do the thing. If you want to access a terminal, you approach it, read its instructions, and input the required information manually. If you need to defend yourself, you must ready the CAT, select the correct module, and time your action carefully.
This commitment to diegetic interaction gives every moment weight. Solving a puzzle isn’t just about knowing the solution; it’s about executing it correctly under stress. I often found myself fumbling with controls—not because they were poorly designed, but because panic makes even simple tasks difficult.
This friction is intentional, and it’s brilliant.
Puzzle Solving Without Celebration
Completing a puzzle in Routine doesn’t reward you with triumphant music, flashing lights, or achievement pop-ups. Instead, you’re met with the low hum of electricity, the soft beep of a monitor powering on, and the quiet satisfaction of progress.
The reward is access. A new room. A deeper layer of the station. Another fragment of understanding.
That restraint makes each success feel earned. Progress is slow, methodical, and deeply personal. The game trusts you to find joy in understanding rather than validation.
And it works.
Horror as Atmosphere, Not Obstacle
Despite the presence of hostile robots and grotesque creatures, Routine is not a combat-driven survival horror game. Enemies exist to apply pressure, not to dominate the experience. You can zap robotic stalkers or flee when necessary, but these encounters are infrequent and rarely punitive if you’re saving often.
Their true purpose is psychological. Knowing something is out there—watching, waiting—adds tension to every puzzle. Solving a code while listening for distant mechanical footsteps transforms even mundane tasks into nerve-wracking experiences.
The monsters aren’t the point. The fear comes from vulnerability, from the knowledge that you are ill-equipped to handle whatever this station has become.
Sound, Style, and Suffocating Atmosphere
Composer Mick Gordon’s score weaves seamlessly into the experience, blending ominous musical flourishes with industrial ambience. Often, silence is the loudest element. Your own breathing echoes inside your helmet. Machinery groans. Lights flicker.
Visually, Routine is stunning in its restraint. The late-’70s vision of the future—complete with film grain, chunky interfaces, and utilitarian design—feels authentic rather than nostalgic. Every room tells a story through clutter, decay, and subtle environmental storytelling.
The tactility of the world—the weight of buttons, the resistance of switches—grounds the horror in something tangible. When a creature stalks you from just beyond your field of view, forcing you to manipulate your CAT under pressure, the fear is visceral. My mouse hand genuinely grew slick with sweat.
Failure is grotesque. Sudden. Punishing. But never unfair.
Survival Horror in the Lightest Sense
Calling Routine a survival horror game feels slightly misleading. While it borrows elements from the genre—limited defenses, hostile entities, oppressive atmosphere—it’s fundamentally a puzzle experience drenched in tension.
This is a game about thinking clearly under duress. About noticing what’s right in front of you. About respecting systems and procedures even when fear demands haste.
With the CAT in your hands and only your wits to guide you, Routine becomes a seductive Pandora’s box of escape rooms, each more unnerving than the last.
Final Verdict
Routine is not for everyone. It demands patience, observation, and a willingness to feel uncomfortable. It refuses to hold your hand, and it expects you to meet it on its own terms.
For those willing to do so, it delivers one of the most unique, immersive, and rewarding puzzle experiences in modern gaming—a haunting reminder that sometimes the scariest thing isn’t the monster in the shadows, but the realization that the answer was with you all along.
Routine is a sublime descent into logic, terror, and the quiet horror of doing your job when the universe has other plans.