Bottom Line: SOMA trades the fleeting thrill of jump scares for a persistent, philosophical dread that burrows into your psyche and refuses to let go. It is a masterclass in narrative-driven horror, held back only by gameplay mechanics that feel vestigial.
SOMA is one of the most important science fiction stories of the last decade, in any medium. Its central tragedy isn't the fall of PATHOS-II, but the horrifying success of its ultimate project: the ARK. The idea of saving humanity by uploading digital copies of every person into a simulated paradise is a classic sci-fi trope, but SOMA scrutinizes it with a philosopher's rigor and a hangman's coldness. The game’s most brilliant and gut-wrenching moments come when it forces the player to grapple with the "continuity problem." When you copy your consciousness to a new body, the original you doesn't magically transport. The copy awakens, believing it has. The original is left behind.
The Agony of the Coin Flip
This concept, which characters refer to as losing a "coin flip," is the engine of the game's dread. Early on, Simon must transfer his consciousness to a new diving suit. He is strapped into a chair, a button is pushed, and he awakens in the new suit. For a moment, there is relief. Then, a horrifying realization: the original Simon, still strapped to the chair, is also awake, confused and terrified. You, the player, are now the copy. The game gives you a choice: do you mercy-kill the person who, moments ago, was you? This is not a simple good-or-evil choice; it's a philosophical test with no right answer, and the game is littered with them. It’s an unflinching examination of selfhood that is more disturbing than any monster.
A Gameplay Mismatch
For all its narrative genius, SOMA's greatest weakness is its gameplay. The sections involving monster encounters often feel like an unwelcome interruption. You are forced to sneak past lumbering, shrieking abominations that can kill you in an instant. While these sequences generate a raw, primal fear, they feel disconnected from the more sophisticated, existential horror the game excels at. They are a mechanical obligation, a holdover from Frictional's previous work that clashes with the contemplative pacing the story demands. The tension of hiding from a creature is visceral, but it pales in comparison to the intellectual and emotional tension of deciding the fate of a digital mind begging for its life. The puzzles, likewise, are often too simple, serving mostly as gates to the next story beat rather than engaging challenges in their own right. Frictional seemed to recognize this, later adding a "Safe Mode" that renders the monsters harmless, a tacit admission that for many players, they were an obstacle to the game's true purpose.