SQUEAL LIKE YOU MEAN IT
In creating the second major entry in the Amnesia series, Frictional Games handed the reins to The Chinese Room, best known for narrative exploration titles such as Dear Esther and Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture. Originally conceived as a shorter, experimental spin-off, Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs grew into a full standalone release—one that ultimately feels far more like a Chinese Room production than a traditional Frictional one.
This is less a survival horror game and more an interactive horror tale. Exploration and storytelling take center stage, while systemic survival mechanics are largely stripped away. That omission is controversial, but A Machine for Pigs compensates with other qualities that make for an almost equally unsettling first playthrough. And I have to admit: the title itself is excellent—blunt, grotesque, and loaded with implied disgust.
Like its predecessor, the game uses sound design and environmental detail with surgical precision to torment the player. But where Amnesia: The Dark Descent drew heavily from the cosmic horror of H. P. Lovecraft, this sequel charts a more intimate descent—into the fractured psyche of its protagonist. The result feels closer to Edgar Allan Poe: obsessive, claustrophobic, and relentlessly inward-looking. The atmosphere is suffocating, and the slaughterhouse imagery vividly described, making the experience disturbing even in the absence of complex gameplay.
You assume the role of Oswald Mandus, a wealthy and deeply flawed industrialist who awakens in his mansion on New Year’s Eve, 1899, after having deliberately erased his own memory with a sweet drink. Something unspeakable has occurred. His twin sons are missing, believed to be trapped deep beneath the house, where his meat-processing facility sprawls into the earth. To reach them, Mandus must restart a sabotaged machine—one that seems to reflect his own moral decay.
The story unfolds through diary fragments and phonograph recordings, chronicling Mandus’ descent into alienation, despair, and loathing in the final years of the Industrial Revolution. At times, the writing skirts the edge of unbearable pretentiousness, but voice actor Toby Longworth rescues it with a commanding performance. His delivery grounds Mandus’ grandiose monologues in genuine psychological collapse rather than theatrical excess.
The protagonist’s deteriorating mind is mirrored by the environment itself. Weak electric lighting does not banish the darkness—it intensifies it, casting deeper, more oppressive shadows. The Chinese Room fills the spaces with disturbing set dressing: hunting trophies, grotesque artwork, prosthetic limbs, and omnipresent pig masks, each placed with deliberate malice.
A disembodied voice guides you via telephones scattered throughout the complex as the setting descends far deeper than architecture should allow. The genteel Victorian aesthetic gives way to a nightmarish steampunk slaughterhouse of rusted pipes, wheezing machinery, and suffocating corridors. Eventually, this industrial hellscape becomes populated by squealing, deformed creatures stalking the dark.
Unfortunately, these encounters represent one of the game’s greatest shortcomings. Compared to the emergent hide-and-seek horror of Amnesia: The Dark Descent, the creatures here feel underutilized. The cramped level design limits meaningful evasion, and the game instead relies on scripted chases and false scares. You remain unarmed, but can outrun most enemies with ease, and injuries heal automatically. Sanity management is gone, resources are infinite, and tension dissipates accordingly.
The removal of lantern oil and tinderboxes in favor of an unlimited electric torch further undermines exploration. Flickering lights now signal nearby danger—a functional warning, but one that replaces dread with convenience. Puzzles fare no better: they are simplistic, clearly signposted, and rarely challenge the player beyond locating a nearby valve or machine part. Despite the underlying physics engine’s sophistication, it is barely used.
Yet the narrative remains deeply disturbing. While loosely connected to the broader Amnesia mythos, A Machine for Pigs stands firmly on its own and could even serve as an entry point to the series. Its thematic exploration of guilt, industrial cruelty, and moral self-justification is unsettling enough to carry the experience, even as the interactivity falters.
Much of the backlash surrounding the game stems from expectations. By bearing the Amnesia name, it invited direct comparison to its predecessor’s systemic horror. Discussions often focus on what is missing rather than what is achieved. Perhaps it would have been better received under a different title.
For my part, I find that the writing, voice acting, and visual storytelling represent a clear improvement over The Dark Descent. The game demonstrates that horror does not always require intricate mechanics—engagement can stem from atmosphere alone. When a player is consistently disturbed by implication, imagery, and sound, that can be more than sufficient. A Machine for Pigs may lack teeth, but it leaves a lasting aftertaste.
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