Roman Sands RE:Build presents a singular, often obliterating, experience by intertwining a resort management simulation with an alchemical ritual and an engineering horror game. The game masterfully balances two distinct, yet thematically linked, experiences within a collapsing binary orbit, offering a gorgeous, albeit grim, artistic vision.
Each of the two core games within RE:Build stands as a short, exquisitely crafted masterpiece. The first is a time-looping hotel job simulator where players manage cartoonishly awful guests in a fantastical resort threatened by an encroaching sun. Activities reset with the moonrise, a spectacle of swirling stars and solid darkness, in this place devoid of memory. The second component is a detailed, but deteriorating, ocean base exploration sim steeped in cybernetic horror and existential dread. Players navigate a radioactive, honeycomb-like infestation, repurposing machinery while listening to reports of decay from another base.
Aesthetically, the two halves share a striking palette of pinks and purples, described as a blend of "breakcore meets vaporwave." Despite the contrast between the first game's spacious, frenzied resort and the second's dense, murky base, both exhibit a meticulous approach to pastiche and allusion. They also share a penchant for baroque interface design and a fascination with alchemy and arithmancy, marked by planetary symbols, magic circles, and an emphasis on the number three. Echoes between the environments are frequent, such as a pile of discarded pipes mirroring a heap of luggage.
At their core, both games explore themes of maintenance and transcendence. Players embody ground-down workers within rigid, doomed structures, essential for their existence yet contemptuous of their well-being. The goal in each is to labor to keep the environment intact while seeking an exit.
The resort simulation, occupying the bulk of the game's approximately 10-hour playtime, is the more overtly hostile environment. Guests, depicted as spaghetti noodle caricatures and anime portraits, present a barrage of demands that shift with time and location. Fulfilling these requests earns XP, unlocking new features and options, a progression system that the game critiques as encouraging players to become subservient.
"Work harder! ...motherfucker" begins each day in the hotel simulation. The HUD is a constant barrage of quest tabs, interaction counters, and objective reminders, designed to distract from the environment's actual purpose. Every action is accompanied by a cacophony of sound effects, tuned to be obnoxious yet compelling. Requests are generally simple to fulfill, often guided by visual cues. As players repeat days, a melodic speed-boost accompanies following these cues, a temptation to succumb to the game's progression-driven loop.
Players can get lost in the hotel's various systems, from mastering cocktail recipes to acquiring rare plushies or chasing timed XP bonuses. High-level unlocks include the status of "NPC" or the ability to check guests into the hotel, hinting at alternative, undesirable endgames. However, the intended path involves deciphering the environment's symbology to bypass time mechanics and uncover an underlying occult mystery, leading into the second half of the game.
The ocean base chapter shifts the player's superiors to chunky handheld terminals and control room displays spouting technojargon. The objective is to stop whatever is consuming the base reactor. While a sense of a time loop persists, the design becomes more elegant and diegetic, rooted in the realm's technology. Actions like redirecting oxygen, pumping handles, unscrewing bolts, and replacing fuses provide a tactile sense of mastery, a stark contrast to the infantilizing reward systems of the hotel.
Despite this shift, players remain laborers, with unseen managers indifferent to their survival. This chapter could be seen as more predatory, disguised by the unpretentious vernacular of an engineering sim. Redacted terminal logs hint at larger apocalyptic events involving biological experiments, though much of the world-building is fragmented and decays into symbols as players repeatedly fight to purge the base of infection.
Unlike the resort's febrile exploitation, the base simulation represents a reckoning with the personal stakes within the simulation. The escape involves terror and a leap of faith, underscored by warnings not to trust the facility's life support systems. It remains ambiguous whether this is the system resisting self-preservation or an encouragement to let go.
Roman Sands RE:Build offers a wealth of details worth further discussion, including its writing, which makes the hotel guests become more sympathetic as their demands are met and they realize their own limitations. The audio design evolves throughout the game, from the percussion of the gacha machine to the dulling soundscape as oxygen depletes. Parallels to the climate crisis and numerous references to cows in both alchemy and experimentation also enrich the experience.
Ultimately, Roman Sands RE:Build is unlike anything else available, a compelling and devious two-part experience. It functions as much a ritual as a game, a sacrificial dagger aimed at itself and other, more conventional video games. It is witty, expressive, doom-ridden, and cathartic—a hideous, nightmarish, and essential experience that demands immediate play.