It’s funny how sometimes the most beautiful games can leave you feeling strangely hollow. I’ve just finished playing Senua’s Saga: Hellblade II, and while I’m still turning its haunting visuals over in my mind, I’m also wrestling with a lingering sense of disappointment. The game is, without question, a technical and artistic marvel—a masterclass in motion capture, sound design, and environmental storytelling. But here’s the thing: I spent a lot of my time just… walking. Walking along bleak, gorgeous shores, trudging through oppressive darkness, crawling through narrow caves. And in those quiet moments, a question began to form: when does a video game stop feeling like a game?
Let’s break down the core loop, because on paper, it sounds perfectly solid. Hellblade II is built on three pillars: walking through breathtaking landscapes, solving environmental puzzles, and engaging in its distinct, intimate combat. If you strip down a classic like The Legend of Zelda, you’d find a similar skeleton—exploration, puzzle-solving, and combat. It’s a proven formula. Yet, in practice, the experience here is wildly different. The balance feels off, heavily skewed toward the passive act of traversal. I’d estimate that a solid 60% of my playthrough was dedicated to these walking segments. They are stunning, yes, but they often lack meaningful interaction. You’re mostly holding the stick forward, absorbing the atmosphere, while the game funnels you down a meticulously crafted path. It creates a powerful cinematic tone, but it comes at the cost of player agency.
The puzzles, primarily the "Lorestone" challenges where you align symbols with environmental shapes, are clever in concept. The first few times I encountered one, I appreciated the mental shift. But their frequency is a problem. There were stretches of over 45 minutes where I encountered no puzzles or combat whatsoever, just an uninterrupted cinematic trek. When a puzzle did finally appear, it felt less like an engaging break and more like a sporadic obligation. The relief and satisfaction that should come from solving it were muted because the pacing had lulled me into such a passive state. I wasn’t actively seeking clues; I was just waiting for the next scripted walking sequence to continue.
Then there’s the combat, which is perhaps the most divisive element. It’s visceral, brutal, and incredibly simplistic. Each encounter is a one-on-one duel, a dance of parries, dodges, and a few heavy attacks. For the first hour, I was captivated by its raw intensity. But by the tenth nearly identical encounter, the magic had worn thin. The combat system lacks progression. You don’t learn new skills, face more complex enemy types, or engage in larger-scale battles. It remains a static, repetitive loop throughout the entire game. I found myself wishing for just a bit more depth—a skill tree, perhaps, or even just a second enemy to manage at once—to create some sense of growth and escalating challenge. Its infrequency and simplicity ultimately prevented me from forming any real connection with the mechanics. I wasn’t getting better; I was just going through the motions.
This is where the central problem of Hellblade II truly rears its head for me. The brilliant storytelling, Senua’s compelling internal journey, and the world-class presentation are constantly at odds with the gameplay. The game wants you to feel Senua’s determination and struggle, but the interactive parts often fail to mirror that emotional arc. I felt more like a spectator in a stunningly rendered movie than an active participant in Senua’s saga. There’s a dissonance there. In a game like God of War (2018), the combat and exploration directly feed into the narrative’s themes of fatherhood and struggle. In Hellblade II, the walking, puzzles, and fighting sometimes feel like separate entities awkwardly stitched between cutscenes.
Don’t get me wrong, I deeply respect what Ninja Theory has achieved. The audio design alone, with its binaural voices constantly whispering in Senua’s—and by extension, my—ears, is a phenomenal achievement in immersive storytelling. The graphical fidelity is arguably the best I’ve seen on any platform to date. But respect doesn't always translate to enjoyment. I found my mind wandering during those long, quiet walks. I started checking my phone, something I almost never do during a focused gaming session. The game, in its pursuit of a cinematic, atmospheric tone, had disengaged me from the interactivity that is the very heart of our medium.
So, what did I discover? I discovered that a game can be a masterpiece in several disciplines—art, sound, narrative—and still falter as a cohesive game. Hellblade II is an unforgettable audio-visual tour de force, a piece of interactive art that I will remember for years. But as a piece of interactive entertainment, as a challenge for my mind and reflexes, it left me wanting. It’s a powerful reminder that in game design, balance is everything. You can have the most beautiful set pieces and the most profound story, but if the moment-to-moment interaction doesn’t consistently engage the player, you risk creating a passive experience disguised as a game. For some, that will be enough. For me, a player who craves that sense of agency and growth, it was a beautiful, often frustrating, journey that I admired more than I loved.