THE WORLD BEHIND THE POSTER
A towering, windowless building rises from the middle of New York City, disappearing into the night sky as if it were only partially anchored in our reality. It has a single glass-door entrance on the ground floor. Inside, a massive sign reads Federal Bureau of Control. Beyond it lies a maze of dark offices and empty corridors: the Oldest House.
You are Jesse Faden, and you appear to be alone. A strange entity has guided you here—something that has lived inside you for years, communicating telepathically. You don’t fully understand what it is, only that you’re searching for your younger brother, Dylan, who was taken from you as a child after an “Altered World Event.” Whatever brought you here, however, seems to have even bigger plans for you.
An extradimensional force known as the Hiss has infected the Oldest House, taking control of people, objects, and even entire rooms. Its purpose is unknown. The director of the Bureau lies dead in his office—an apparent suicide—and you are thrust into his role. You pick up his smoking gun and set out to restore order, hoping to find your brother along the way.
Control is a deeply fascinating game, clearly inspired by some of the most alluring mystery-driven TV series ever made: The X-Files, Lost, and Twin Peaks. Like them, it thrives on unanswered questions, dangling revelations just out of reach, compelling you forward through sheer curiosity. It has that same magnetic pull—the refusal to let go until you get answers, even as it withholds them.
Visually, it also evokes Inception: brutalist architecture bending and folding in on itself. Remedy Entertainment creates a striking identity through warping office spaces and hyper-real lighting. Mechanically, the game is familiar—you run, jump, shoot, and eventually levitate through the Oldest House from a third-person perspective—but the execution elevates it. Combat unfolds in kinetic, almost balletic shootouts reminiscent of The Matrix, where desks, concrete slabs, and enemy bodies are flung through the air with telekinetic force.
Combat stays engaging thanks to a steady stream of new abilities and enemy variations. Powers are upgradeable and flexible: defensive abilities can become offensive tools, and vice versa. With control over gravity itself, you can hurl debris, shield yourself with floating rubble, or suspend enemies mid-air before tearing them apart.
All of this is supported by an excellent control scheme—especially in performance mode—that makes even complex encounters feel fair. Deaths feel earned. At its best, Control resembles a John Woo action film filtered through supernatural paranoia, only more captivating.
Nearly every system feeds into another: combat, exploration, lore, weapon mods, character progression. Very little feels extraneous. The few exceptions—generic crafting and repeating Bureau Alerts—fade into the background compared to the overwhelming sense of cohesion. In fact, Control earned me my first “legitimate” platinum trophy, requiring mastery of its systems rather than simple completion.
Several late-game boss encounters are genuinely demanding. One optional rematch stands out as my favorite duel of the year: a prolonged test of stamina, positioning, and timing, where both combatants wield their full arsenals. It’s a thrilling back-and-forth that demands total focus.
Dark Souls’ influence is also present. The checkpoint system is unforgiving, and dying costs you upgrade currency. As a Souls fan, I welcomed this—it reinforces tension without tipping into frustration. Control is not brutally difficult, but it demands attention, and it rewards skillful play.
The Oldest House itself is divided into distinct sectors, with clear navigation, fast travel, and optional DLC areas in the Ultimate Edition. Along the way you encounter friendly survivors—mostly functional rather than memorable, with a few notable exceptions.
The most unforgettable is Ahti, the janitor. He speaks English (and occasionally Swedish) with a thick Finnish accent and seems to understand far more than he lets on. Early narration hints at a hidden reality “behind the poster,” and Ahti’s portrait—showing only his back—subtly reinforces this idea. He stands with his face to the wall, staring into whatever lies beyond.
Ahti bridges the gap between two other standout characters: Dr. Darling, the scientist whose theories are conveyed through eccentric video logs, and Zachariah Trench, the deceased former director who continues to issue cryptic guidance from beyond the grave. Together, they form a trio that anchors the game’s surreal tone.
What truly elevates Control is how seamlessly it blends mysterious storytelling with confident mechanical execution. Nothing here is radically new, yet everything feels fresh. Mundane office spaces fracture into impossible geometries, and it feels natural—inevitable, even.
The weapon design exemplifies this philosophy. Instead of multiple guns, you wield a single sentient firearm that reshapes itself into familiar archetypes: pistol, shotgun, sniper. Mechanically conventional, yes—but narratively elegant.
Scattered throughout the Oldest House are lore documents describing ordinary citizens around the world ensnared by the Hiss. Everyday objects—rotary phones, CRT televisions, staplers, rubber ducks—become conduits for extradimensional horror. People vanish, explode, or transform. Entire departments exist solely to contain these artifacts.
It’s endlessly inspiring. Years ago, when I dreamed of becoming a writer, I often felt stifled by the ordinariness of my surroundings. Chairs, tables, appliances—nothing seemed worth writing about. After playing Control, I’m grateful I never uncovered the secret life of a tangerine on my kitchen counter—but I’m equally grateful that a game dared to imagine such hidden absurdities for me.
Control is not deeply philosophical, but it doesn’t need to be. Like Inception, it’s a meticulously crafted action-thriller that feels personal, unpredictable, and stylish to the core. It invites you into a mystery that could end anywhere, in any form—and that sense of boundless possibility is what makes it so unforgettable.
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