Life Eater is a time management horror game where I’m the monster

polygon.com:

Most games’ protagonists are heroes, gunning down bad guys or trying to save the princess. You could argue the protagonist of Life Eater is kind of like a hero. Sure, he stalks people relentlessly before murdering them in the service of a dark god. But if he didn’t do that, the world would end. So really, when you think about it, this is a noble mission — and by enacting Zimforth’s will, I’m saving the world.

Life Eater is a weird little game that is unlike anything I’ve ever played before. When I first played it upon its release in April, I noticed the striking visuals and audio effects, and the short cutscenes between campaign chapters sent chills down my spine, but I found the actual meat and potatoes of the game to be fairly minimal.

Here’s how it works: I get presented with targets, each of whom has their own schedule. Each victim’s personal timetable starts out blank; I have to uncover the details of my victim’s life by poking and prodding at them. For instance, I can discover that my target has breakfast at around 9 a.m. by leisurely rattling their doorknob and then scampering away. Hacking into their computer gives me a hint as to their weekend habits, and hiding in the bushes is a good way to learn whether they commute or not. It’s only when I truly understand the victim and their schedule that I can strike, sacrificing them in the dark to buy our world another year of peace.

At first, I bounced off Life Eater hard. The ending ritual to sacrifice the victim would always be the same — remove this organ if they have a commute, and break this rib if they slept a certain number of hours per day. It took a lot of the joy out of poring over a victim’s life, because I always knew the exact facts I needed to gather, so I had little curiosity to do anything else. The campaign also introduces multiple targets early on, but some of them are innocent and must not be touched. I had a hard time ascertaining which person was the “right” sacrifice, and eventually I grew