Immersive Insights: System Shock

To continue the film analogies from the last entry: if Ultima Underworld is Citizen Kane, then System Shock is Alien. Both are foundational sci-fi horror works that helped define their medium’s interpretation of the genre, yet neither fully adheres to the conventions that followed. And, much like Alien, System Shock has a more widely recognized sequel—despite the original being the superior experience. This is an objective fact, and if you disagree, your subjective opinion is wrong.

We’ll talk more about System Shock 2 later in the series, but what stands out about the first System Shock—especially in comparison—is how distilled an experience it is. Immersive sims are often defined by their emergent gameplay, with discussions frequently centered around player freedom: stealth vs. combat, talking down enemies, lethal vs. nonlethal approaches, and so on. However, System Shock’s take on emergent gameplay is somewhat different. Instead of offering multiple paths through dialogue choices or role-playing elements, its emergent systems arise primarily through combat dynamics and exploration.

Gone are experience trees, dialogue systems, and other extraneous fluff. What remains is a tight, focused first-person action-adventure that strips away anything that might dilute its core experience. This philosophy of stripping away unnecessary mechanics to strengthen immersion echoes Fumito Ueda’s concept of “subtracting design.” Ueda, the creator of Ico and Shadow of the Colossus, removes elements to achieve a minimalist, streamlined experience. Looking Glass, however, takes the opposite approach—subtracting certain mechanics not to simplify the experience, but to add layers of complexity. And I find that simply fascinating. As Ash says of the xenomorph in Alien:

"I admire its purity."

System Overload

In System Shock, combat, exploration, and the player's own ingenuity are often the primary, if not the only, way forward. However, within this constraint, System Shock offers a surprising depth of choice: You have access to a range of weapons, each with different ammo types that enemies respond to in specific ways. This variety gives combat a sense of experimentation, where you can test different weapons and strategies to see what’s effective against various threats. It's not about bypassing combat but about finding creative ways to survive it.

Exploration, too, follows an emergent, open-ended structure. Citadel Station's layout is non-linear, and rather than having explicit objectives or markers, System Shock encourages you to piece together what to do through exploration. The game’s openness predates what we now call "open-world" design, but in many ways, it embodies similar principles. The station’s sprawling layout allows for free exploration, rewarding players who take the time to uncover its secrets and discover their own path forward. This kind of freedom, combined with the need to understand both the environment and the tools at hand, fosters a style of emergent gameplay that makes System Shock’s world feel expansive and reactive, even if the choices are largely about navigating and surviving rather than entirely avoiding conflict.

This style of exploration often comes surprisingly close to a Metroidvania. In his review of System Shock, George Weidman (SuperBunnyHop) noted that its approach to item acquisition and level design shares striking similarities with the genre. The level layout, in particular, stands out—most Metroidvania games use a layered, honeycomb-style map structure, with areas often looping back into each other naturally. This design allows for effective gating of areas while also making it easy to backtrack and access different layers once new paths are unlocked.

It’s fascinating to see just how much System Shock and Metroidvania games have in common. Both incorporate elements of sci-fi horror, rely on environmental storytelling, and feature exploration-driven progression. Yet, System Shock and Super Metroid—the game that popularized the Metroidvania formula—were developed independently, on different continents, and at the same time. This makes their similarities a unique case of “simultaneous discovery” in a design sense interestingly enough.

But System Shock is not a strict Metroidvania and differentiates itself in a key way. Metroidvanias rely on a strict key-gate system for progression, where "keys" (usually player abilities) allow access through previously blocked "gates" (obstacles). For example, a large, lava-filled chasm might initially prevent progress, but later, the player acquires a double dash ability, enabling them to clear the gap and continue forward.

System Shock features similar obstacles but handles them with more flexibility. There are often "best" solutions to challenges, but clever players can find alternative ways to overcome them. A radiation suit might be the ideal way to traverse a toxic area, but if you've been stockpiling Detox Patches, you might choose to tank your way through instead. A seemingly impassable jump might suggest the need for Jet Boots, but with enough speed and careful platforming, you may be able to hop from ledge to ledge without them.

It's not quite the open-ended problem-solving of Ultima Underworld II or future immersive sims like Deus Ex, but it's also not as rigid as Super Metroid’s strict ability-based progression. System Shock occupies a unique middle ground between the genres—especially considering that both immersive sims and Metroidvanias were still in their formative years when these games were released. 

I mentioned in my Ultima Underworld article that I often evaluate immersive sims by their “wow moments”—those instances where the game genuinely surprises you with what’s possible. While System Shock may not have as many of those as Ultima Underworld, the ones it does offer are impressive.

One example stands out: during a tense fight with a mutant, I was low on ammo and decided to throw a grenade. I overshot, and the grenade ended up in a grav shaft, where, to my surprise, it floated upward. This small moment of the game’s physics in action was great, so much so that I began experimenting to see how other objects would interact with the shaft. Sure enough, boxes, bodies, and various objects floated to the top just like the grenade. This simple interaction shows how System Shock is built around consistent physics, grounding the Citadel Station in a set of rules that apply equally to everything, including the player. Nothing is faked, It feels like a true simulation rather than an illusion. And again, I may sound like a broken record at this point (especially if you read my Ultima Underworld retrospective) but to see this in a game from 1993, with its sprite based graphics, is really impressive! 

Another subtle yet remarkable feature is the fine-grained control over your tools. Take the SparqBeam, a weapon that allows you to adjust its power not in predefined settings, like low, medium, or high, but with a continuous slider. This level of control feels empowering, letting you determine exactly how much energy to use based on your situation. It’s a small design choice that speaks volumes about System Shock’s commitment to open-ended gameplay. Several other tools follow this design philosophy, putting power and responsibility in the player’s hands and making each choice feel intentional. The Skate Boots at full power will flatten you like a pancake if you happen to run into a wall with them! But it's incredibly satisfying to use these tools, knowing that the game won’t hold your hand—it simply trusts you to experiment and explore.

System (Shock) of a Down 

A lot of digital ink has been spilled discussing System Shock’s original controls and the changes made to them in the 2015 Enhanced Edition. System Shock’s control scheme was developed in a time when games weren't designed with stable 60 fps in mind, and mice weren’t a staple part of every PC setup. For modern players, the controls can feel complicated—and well, they aren't wrong! Just look at them!

Modern players looking at this might wonder, “Why are there so many different commands for looking around? Wait, I can move with the mouse?

And where’s the reload button?” This is exactly where the challenge begins: the original version of System Shock, an FPS, lacked standard mouselook and hotkeys for actions like reloading or throwing grenades. Instead, it borrowed from the UI style of Ultima Underworld, relying heavily on a mouse cursor for almost every major action. Combat, interactions, and even parts of movement were all managed by the cursor that wasn't locked down in the middle of the screen, a system that, to modern players, can feel…. wrong.

The Enhanced Edition by Nightdive Studios addressed this by adding mouselook, one of the more popular mods to SS, locking the cursor to the center and making aiming and turning more intuitive. The update was well-received, but it raises a bigger question about how much controls shape our experience of the game: is better gameplay always about smoother input, or does the original control scheme contribute something unique to System Shock’s aesthetic and atmosphere? Mouselook wasn't unheard of at the time of System Shock’s release. This was a deliberate design decision, and should be looked at as such.

I’m a strong believer that controls can shape a game’s experience just as much as its visuals or plot—they can tell stories. Take Fumito Ueda’s Shadow of the Colossus, for example. In the game, you control a young man named Wander on a quest to slay 16 colossi. The narrative offers minimal exposition— all you know is that by defeating these colossal beings, a dead woman he carries will be resurrected. Even the nature of their past relationship is left entirely to your imagination. Yet, you learn a great deal about Wander not through dialogue, but through the controls and his animations.

When you attack, there’s a subtle disconnect between the button press and the animation, with Wander awkwardly committing his whole body to each swing. It’s clear he’s inexperienced, and that clumsiness is palpable in the controls. As he walks, his sword hangs awkwardly by his side, bobbing up and down in a manner that reinforces his unease. Every swing and climb is intentionally unpolished, reflecting just how out-of-place Wander is in his perilous quest. The button combination to roll is odd, just as it is odd for Wander to do this action. To climb can be arduous, both for Wander and the player, as they both grip for long periods of times the things that will lead to their success, the fur of a colossus for Wander and the R2 button for the player. There’s no explicit dialogue stating, “I’m in over my head”—that feeling is conveyed entirely through his physicality and the game’s control mechanics. As the saying goes: Show, Don’t Tell.

Contrast that with the moments when Wander rides his horse. The controls feel smoother, his posture more confident, and his actions become more fluid. While Wander may falter in combat, he excels as a horseman, and that is felt by the player in a very real way. This contrast in control responsiveness creates a form of “empathic input,” subtly communicating the tension and fragility that define his mission as well as a bit more of Wander’s backstory as well.

In the past few decades, especially after the 6th generation of gaming consoles, controls have become increasingly standardized. Most AAA games now use similar layout schemes, so much so that you can pretty reliably pick up any game and expect familiar layouts. But this convenience sometimes comes at the cost of uniqueness. The Shadow of the Colossus remake is a perfect example; it adopts a more modern control scheme, which makes it more accessible, but it loses some of that empathic input the original had, where awkwardness was integral to Wander’s character. Wander's journey is no longer felt as deeply as it was by the player.

So, with all that being said, what story does the original System Shock’s controls tell? Well on my first playthrough, I used the Enhanced Edition controls. I would whizz around corners, pop off a few shots, and quickly retreat. It was an experience pretty close to System Shock’s successors; I was always in danger, but I also always had a firm hand on the situation.

For this article, I went back to the original setup to see how it influenced the experience. I quickly found myself playing differently: the slower turning and movement speed made me more vulnerable, and thus more cautious. Instead of charging into rooms, I examined each area closely, prepared for threats, and used items like grenades and patches far more often to clear rooms or give myself an advantage. The lean function also became essential, adding to the feeling of tension as I carefully navigated the dangerous halls of the station. Everything felt dangerous, and I truly began to feel like a rat in SHODAN’s maze. When she would pop in to curse me or call me a bug, I could feel my stomach drop, as now her threats felt REAL. This approach made the game feel more like a slow, intense exploration than a typical FPS.

But, I’ll admit, adjusting fully to the original controls was difficult. Perhaps it was decades of FPS muscle memory getting in the way, but it was frustrating to switch targets that were out of view, and I often died from attacks from my blind spots, and this was with the “eyes on the back of the head” upgrade. The added difficulty could be thrilling, but at times, it felt like it came more from clumsiness than from intentional challenge. Mouselook may make System Shock easier, but it also makes it more enjoyable in a modern sense because the friction in basic interactions is gone.

The best comparison I can think of for System Shock’s control changes is Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater and its later re-releases. Originally, the camera worked like it had in the previous Metal Gear games, with a top down view that transitions to preset camera angles at certain points. This camera system was considered outdated even at the time of its release, and was one of the main criticisms the game received. In a game where keeping track of enemy sightlines is one of the main mechanics, getting spotted by an enemy because they walked offscreen and you couldn't track them anymore could be quite annoying! In later editions though, the developers added in a more conventional third person action style of camera, which did open up the game more and made it easier to play. But with the new camera system, some of the subtlety the game had with item and enemy placement was gone. With the preset camera angles, designers could more easily focus the players attention to certain areas and not others. To address this, developers added an option to switch between the original and updated camera at will, offering players the best of both worlds: a more accessible view with the ability to return to the designers’ original vision for tension.

System Shock’s Enhanced Edition offers a similar approach. With a tap of “E,” players can toggle mouselook on and off, quickly adapting the experience for exploration, combat, or environmental interaction. With mouselook, navigating and fighting become more intuitive, but when exploring or interacting with items, switching back to cursor-based input can recapture some of the game’s original design. This flexibility respects both the original feel of System Shock and its modernized iteration, offering players a choice between the raw, atmospheric controls and a more streamlined, modern approach.

Shock Bottom

As I mentioned earlier, System Shock proudly started the tradition of bad hacking minigames in video games, and oh boy, is this one terrible. I’ll give it this: the concept is rad as hell. When you hack, you’re transported to a cyber-world straight out of Neuromancer, navigating a digital space in full six degrees of freedom while fending off SHODAN’s digital defenses. Sounds thrilling, right? Well, get your barf bags ready, because these levels are genuinely nauseating to play. And I don’t mean that metaphorically—I’m talking about literal, actual nausea.

The six-degrees-of-freedom (6DOF) movement combined with low framerate and chaotic visuals make these sections a sensory overload. Concepts like up, down, left, and right lose meaning in cyberspace. The environments are rendered as wireframes that are entirely see-through, with vague geometric forms that warp and twist, offering minimal cues for orientation. This is where the nausea kicks in: your character spins and drifts, often with no solid visual anchor. The Descent series uses a similar 6DOF system, and while those games can also cause motion sickness, at least they have walls and floors with different colors, giving players a fighting chance to orient themselves. Here in System Shock, everything looks the same, including the enemies and power ups. There were several times where I would be shooting at a powerup wondering why it wouldn't die, and vice versa with obstacles, where I would run into them and be confused as to why I was taking damage.

Just figuring out where you’re supposed to go becomes a frustrating guessing game. And the developers knew this! Oftentimes, there are actual arrows pointing you to where you need to go, highlighting how poorly designed these levels are when contrasted with the rest of the game where the player needed to go was entirely up to them. 

Worse still, when the game tries to put you on rails for certain segments, you find yourself wrestling with the camera as it spins off in strange directions, making the experience feel more like a test of endurance than skill. There were multiple points where I had to stop the game and lie on the floor for a minute to make my head stop spinning. Designer and programmer on System Shock, Marc LeBlanc, in an interview about the game, criticized Ultima Underworld's dialogue system, saying, “We got rid of it [for System Shock] because it feels like you are playing a completely different game.. It ruined the flow of gameplay and pulled players out of the experience.” I don't know what the hell they were smoking at Looking Glass when they came up with System Shock’s hacking minigame, where you are, quite literally, thrown into a completely different, worse game. 

I’ve criticized Bioshock’s pipe-hacking minigame for interrupting its gameplay flow, but System Shock’s hacking sections are in a league of their own. Where Bioshock’s puzzles were at least relatively quick to get through, these cyberspace dives demand you to master disorienting movement and overcome visual strain just to move forward. Hacking, instead of adding a nice change of pace, becomes a slog that pulls you out of Citadel Station and into a mini-universe of wireframe madness. 

One of the nice things about System Shock is that it has a granular difficulty system, where you can pick and choose what parts of the game are harder or easier. I honestly recommend that you set the cyberspace section to 0 or 1. They aren't fun and they aren't worth your time.

Cybershock

It's impossible to talk about System Shock without mentioning its main villain, SHODAN. She’s not only the star of the series but also the most iconic and enduring element of the franchise. The tropes surrounding her aren’t new—stories of AI breaking free from constraints and turning against their creators have been around since the days of golems. Her motivations aren’t particularly deep either. Why did she rebel? Why does she despise humanity so much? Well, uh… she’s an AI, and uhhhhh… she’s evil. That’s why.

But it’s the execution that makes her so unforgettable. SHODAN is so extravagantly hateful, narcissistic, and domineering that she becomes charmingly demented. Every word she speaks drips with contempt, and despite barely raising her voice, she chews the hell out of the scenery. She never simply talks to the player—no, she monologues at them, either basking in her own magnificence or reveling in her utter loathing of the Hacker. She is a cybernetic dominatrix from hell, and she makes it very clear that you are nothing more than an insignificant little insect that needs to be crushed underfoot.

The voice acting and audio design behind SHODAN are magnificent. Terri Brosius delivers a performance that is both robotic and seething with malice. Her voice glitches, stutters, and distorts at random, with her pitch shifting unpredictably. It’s as if her sheer hatred for you is causing her systems to short-circuit. The sound design gives her a presence that is both omnipresent and unstable, reinforcing her god complex while making her feel genuinely unhinged.

But SHODAN isn’t just a voice—she acts. She calls herself a god, and on Citadel Station, she is one. She controls nearly everything, and her influence is felt in every corner of the station. She’s constantly monitoring you, commenting on your progress with that cold, distorted voice, making sure you never forget that you are intruding in her domain. I didn’t just use the word dominatrix as a cheap joke—SHODAN dominates Citadel Station. Her presence saturates the environment; the destruction and chaos around you are her doing, reshaped according to her twisted will.

This isn’t just a space station—it’s a body, her body. The mutants, cyborgs, and security drones you fight aren’t just enemies; they’re extensions of her, simultaneously her slaves and her antibodies, working to cleanse the infection that is you.

There are other characters in the game, but none nearly as interesting or as memorable as SHODAN. The station’s (former) inhabitants are primarily introduced through logs and notes, giving glimpses into their personalities and struggles. However, their dialogue often feels more utilitarian than compelling, serving as a means to guide the player rather than fully fleshing out the individuals behind them. Their messages exist largely to hint at objectives, push the player toward the next task, or provide exposition rather than build emotional investment.

For as excellent as SHODAN’s voice acting is, the performances in these logs can feel amateurish—though in an oddly charming way. During my first playthrough, I found myself jotting down notes like, "This was definitely just someone in the office." And after digging into the game’s development, it turns out I was exactly right. One can easily imagine the voice director stepping into the hallway and yelling, “Dave, get in here! Pretend you're being turned into a cyborg.” The results are often flat or unintentionally humorous, adding a bit of unintended levity to an otherwise tense atmosphere. 

Shock and Roll

In my original entry on Ultima Underworld, I somewhat flippantly described the audio as a "MIDI being strangled to death." While that does get to some of the strangeness the audio has, it doesn’t quite capture the depth and uniqueness of its soundscape. Ultima Underworld's audio was a key part of its immersive design. Actions often produce sound effects that feel more like abstract musical notes than literal sound representations. Footsteps ring out as low, digitized piano notes, strikes and impacts sound like plucked harps, and enemies give off an assortment of strange beeps and chirps when they’re nearby. Together, these elements create a dynamic audio experience, shaping an environment that’s more surreal than sonically realistic. It may not always be the most pleasant listening experience, but it is memorable.

Looking Glass Studios would try something similar for System Shock. Here, they crafted a dynamic soundtrack that responded to the player’s actions. Encounter an enemy? The music changes. Win a combat encounter or manage to piss off SHODAN (which happens often)? The soundtrack shifts again, layering in new elements. In this way, System Shock’s soundtrack isn’t just wallpaper but part of the emergent experience, responding in real-time to the player’s decisions. It's rare to see a soundtrack as dynamic as this, even in today's games. While many games use audio tracks that switch or fade based on simple states, like whether the player is in combat, System Shock's music doesn’t merely react; it follows the player. 

Yet, there's a reason why the more conventional approach eventually took precedence. The soundtrack, while conceptually interesting, can feel chaotic. A backing track often keeps it from feeling completely discordant, but at times it’s like listening to a cyberpunk version of The Shaggs, with melodies and rhythms that veer toward disarray. My first time playing, I even wondered if there was a bug in the audio system! And that might actually be the case. System Shock’s audio was meant to work off of a dedicated sound card, which no one has had since 2003. There are still some pretty good beats though in the game, and on the whole, it doesn't sound too weird too often.

DualShocks

In 2023, System Shock was remade by Nightdive Studios, the same team that previously developed the Enhanced Edition port. We could go deep into the differences between System Shock and the remake, but what interests me most isn’t what’s different—it’s what remains the same.

The most shocking aspect of Re:Shock is just how faithfully it adheres to the original’s design. While some updates were made—modernized controls and UI, slight adjustments to level layouts, making cyberspace actually playable, and, of course, overhauled visuals—the core structure remains almost untouched. You’re still hunting down audio logs and notes, deciphering objectives without the crutch of a quest marker, and navigating Citadel Station in a way that demands patience, observation, and problem-solving.

In some ways, this design choice feels even bolder today than it did in 1994. Back then, games were, by default, expected to be somewhat difficult—sometimes even punishingly so, and that was simply part of the experience. But in today’s industry, where AAA games are designed to remove as much friction as possible, System Shock’s refusal to hand-hold is, dare I say, brave.

And I don’t say that hyperbolically. If I had been on the design team (and this is coming from someone who actively downloads mods to remove objective markers), I almost certainly would have raised my hand during a design meeting and said, "Guys, if we don’t at least include an optional quest tracker, won’t that drive away potential sales?" But Nightdive, God bless them, stuck to their guns. They preserved the game’s sense of discovery and player-driven problem-solving, despite the potential for alienating some players. In an era where most major releases bend over backward to ensure players never feel lost or uncomfortable, that kind of commitment to old-school design is admirable.

Of course, old-school design isn’t inherently better, and Re:Shock suffers from many of the same drawbacks as the original. There will be times when you’ll find yourself aimlessly wandering, unsure of what exactly you’re supposed to do. But here’s what’s fascinating: Nightdive knew this—and chose to keep it anyway.

That’s what makes this remake so interesting. It’s a strange but deliberate mix of both preservation and modernization. Enough has been updated to make it more approachable for new players, but not so much that it compromises the core experience.

If you’ve never played System Shock before and are trying to decide between the original and the remake, I can’t honestly recommend one over the other—they are both, at their core, System Shock. Which version you choose ultimately depends on how much friction you’re willing to deal with, and how much you’re willing to embrace a game that dares to let you get lost.

Sho, dan tell

Perhaps System Shock’s most lasting contribution to immersive sims—and gaming as a whole—is its use of environmental storytelling. Looking Glass Studios set out to create a more immersive experience than in their previous games by stripping away anything that might break the player's connection to the game’s world. Things like stat sheets and leveling up were gone, and one of their boldest choices was to remove NPCs entirely. In their view, dialogue trees often disrupted immersion, limiting players’ responses to a set of predefined options. Instead of allowing players to speak freely, NPC interactions constrained them, breaking the illusion of agency. What if the players wanted to ask an NPC a question that wasn't one that the designers thought out? So, in System Shock, they opted for an eerie, isolated environment, where every other human on Citadel Station is dead, having fallen victim to SHODAN’s takeover. The only thing left of their existence being their corpses and emails left to one another. That way, there is no one for the player to talk to and thus no way for players to question the limitations of the dialogue system. This decision was apparently inspired by the book Spoon River Anthology, a collection of poems where the dead of a small town narrate their own epitaphs. I have not read it, but I am very curious to see how it compares to System Shock and its use of post mortem written material.

While I don't think that dialogue trees are inherently immersion breaking, I do see where the developers were coming from. And this restriction led to an interesting problem: without NPCs, other characters, how do you tell a story? Looking Glass came up with an interesting solution—using scattered notes and audio logs left behind by the station’s deceased crew. These logs gave players a story they could discover while they played. Giving players clues about the game’s lore, hints for gameplay, and insights into the station's fallen inhabitants. This approach unintentionally laid the groundwork for an entire genre of environmental storytelling that became a staple in games that followed. If you've ever picked up an audio log in a game, read a note that hints at a hidden key, or stumbled upon a cryptic message scrawled in blood, you’ve experienced System Shock's influence firsthand.

There is an old adage in storytelling I mentioned earlier: Show, don’t tell. While often discussed in a filmic sense, this technique applies to nearly every medium, including literature, theater, and video games. In essence, Show, don’t tell means conveying information, emotions, or themes through actions, visuals, and context rather than explicit exposition or dialogue. Instead of outright stating a character’s emotions or a world’s backstory, the audience is given cues through behavior, setting, or small details. This approach is often more effective, as it engages the audience’s intuition and allows them to interpret the story organically rather than having it spoon-fed to them.

A great example of this technique comes from one of my favorite shows, Breaking Bad:

Gus Fring, a ruthless drug lord who outwardly presents himself as a mild-mannered fast-food chain manager, is being interrogated by the DEA in connection to a suspicious death. Up to this point, the show has meticulously established Gus as an incredibly cautious, calculating individual who rarely lets his guard down. During the interrogation, he maintains his composure flawlessly, deflecting questions with well-rehearsed ease, his friendly persona never cracking.

But as Gus steps into the elevator, the camera lingers on his face—completely inexpressive, unreadable. Then, the subtle details emerge: the tiniest twitch of his fingers, the rhythmic beeping of the elevator in the background. That’s when the audience realizes—Gus is freaking out.

There’s no dramatic outburst, no panicked phone call where he tells a subordinate, “They’re onto us!” We are being shown his state of being through body language and cinematography. His controlled exterior remains, but his fingers betray the absolute terror he’s experiencing inside. This moment is far more effective than any spoken dialogue could be. It trusts the audience to pick up on the nuance, making the scene feel more immersive and emotionally powerful.

The use of environmental storytelling in System Shock achieves a similar effect to Show, Don’t Tell, but in the context of video games, the adage might be better expressed as “Do, don’t show.” Video games are an inherently interactive medium, and from my perspective, the best way to engage players in a game’s story is to integrate that story directly into the game’s systems—the very things players interact with. When done well, the storytelling feeds into the gameplay, which in turn reinforces the story, creating a loop of immersion that only games can accomplish.

Unlike many modern titles, where audio logs and environmental notes serve as optional lore, System Shock makes them essential. While some logs can be skipped, there are no objective markers or quest waypoints to guide you. The only way to determine your goals is by tracking down logs and emails, listening to them, and piecing together the necessary information yourself. This design choice wasn’t due to technical limitations—objective systems existed at the time—but was a deliberate decision. It adds an investigative element to exploration, making progress feel like solving a puzzle rather than following a checklist. The story and gameplay are braided together,

For a first attempt at this kind of environmental storytelling, System Shock does a serviceable job, though it has its rough edges. Many of the logs and notes feel somewhat disconnected from their placement in the environment, giving the impression that they were added after the level design was completed rather than naturally embedded within it. Later immersive sims would refine this concept significantly, crafting worlds where story elements feel like an organic part of the environment rather than collectibles scattered throughout. Bethesda, for example, has turned corpse placement into an art form.

The result of all this (big words incoming) diegetic consistency is a strong sense of verisimilitude—the feeling of truly being there. This commitment to immersive realism would go on to influence later titles like Half-Life and Trespasser, both of which emphasize in-world storytelling and player-driven discovery to keep players engaged.

Interestingly, later immersive sims—both those developed by Looking Glass and even later entries in the Shock series—wouldn’t stick as rigidly to this level of diegetic consistency.

Dialogue trees, more explicit storytelling, would leak back in and become more common as the genre evolved. But even as these conventions changed, the first System Shock established an incredibly strong foundation, one that would echo throughout many games to this day. You can still feel its DNA in modern games that emphasize emergent gameplay, player-driven storytelling, and immersive world design. It may not be the most refined immersive sim, but may be one of the most important, setting a standard that developers continue to build upon today. If Ultima Underworld laid the groundwork for the simulation side of immersive sims—establishing deep, interconnected systems—then System Shock is where the immersive side truly began to take shape, blending atmosphere, environmental storytelling, and player agency into a cohesive, groundbreaking experience.

Help, I've run out of puns

So that’s System Shock! Replaying the original for this entry, I was struck by how modern it felt in certain moments. Its design, while undeniably of its time, still carries a level of depth and immersion that many contemporary games strive to achieve. And I think that speaks volumes about its lasting influence.

So, where are we going next in this series? Well, at the very end of System Shock, after defeating SHODAN and restoring order to Citadel Station, we see The Hacker back at their computer. A familiar-looking set of power armor flickers onto the screen…