I remember the first time I thought I'd gotten to the bottom of Yedoma Globula. I was descending through a chasm in my airship - a beautifully ramshackle steampunk vessel, the only homely object in the game's fathomless procgen world, with a charming, leather-bound steering wheel and, as it turns out, seriously inadequate handrails. Disengaging from the wheel, I fired a flare over the side and accidentally threw myself after it.
For the best part of a minute I fell - through coloured light and a confusion of curving distances, the thudding of my ship's engine melting into the mists above. The worst thing about falling in Yedoma Globula is the sound. There is none. No air screaming past your ears, no rattle of loose cloth or equipment. Touching down, you brace for the crunch of bone but it's as gentle as a bubble meeting water. This being a work-in-progress game, it feels like the force of impact isn't so much absent as deferred, waiting to be inflicted by an update – all those fatal tumbles catching up with you simultaneously in a liquefying spacetime implosion.
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