I remember the first time I booted up Hellblade 2, expecting to be transported to a rich Norse-inspired world where I'd feel every swing of my sword and every solved puzzle as a personal victory. Instead, what I discovered was something far more perplexing—a game that seemed determined to hide its gameplay beneath layers of cinematic presentation. Let me be clear from the start: I'm someone who appreciates both story-driven experiences and challenging mechanics, but Hellblade 2 left me questioning where the actual "game" part had gone. This isn't just about personal preference; it's about a fundamental tension in modern game design that I believe deserves closer examination.
As I played through Senua's Saga, I couldn't help but notice how the experience kept pulling me in opposite directions. On one hand, the visual storytelling is absolutely breathtaking—the way light filters through cave openings, the detailed facial animations during emotional moments, the haunting sound design that places you directly inside Senua's troubled mind. These elements work together to create what might be one of the most immersive audio-visual experiences I've encountered in recent memory. But here's where the problem emerges: this incredible presentation constantly overshadows the actual gameplay. I found myself spending what felt like 70-80% of my playtime simply holding the analog stick forward as Senua crawled through narrow cave passages or walked along desolate beaches. These segments, while beautiful, began to feel less like meaningful interaction and more like extended loading screens disguised as atmospheric moments.
The combat, when it finally appeared, provided brief flashes of engagement before revealing its limitations. I counted approximately 15 combat encounters throughout my 8-hour playthrough, which averages to less than two fights per hour. Each encounter followed a strikingly similar pattern: lock onto an enemy, dodge their telegraphed attacks, and strike during openings. While the visceral impact of each hit is undeniably satisfying thanks to superb sound design and animation, the system never evolves beyond this basic structure. There are no unlockable skills, no weapon variations, no tactical decisions beyond the initial pattern recognition. After the third identical encounter, I found myself rushing through fights not because they were challenging, but because I knew exactly what to expect and how to dispatch each enemy with minimal effort.
Puzzle sections offered slightly more engagement, particularly the environmental puzzles that required aligning perspectives to form symbolic patterns. These "vision puzzles," as I've come to think of them, genuinely captured the theme of perceiving the world differently—a core aspect of Senua's character journey. However, they were spaced so far apart that by the time I encountered a new one, I'd almost forgotten the mechanics from previous puzzles. The most frustrating aspect was the lack of progression in puzzle complexity; solutions remained at roughly the same difficulty level from beginning to end, missing opportunities to make players feel like they were growing alongside the protagonist.
What surprised me most was how this combination of elements created an experience that felt less like playing a game and more like watching an interactive movie where someone had removed most of the interaction. I'm not opposed to walking simulators or narrative-focused games— titles like What Remains of Edith Finch and Firewatch rank among my favorites—but Hellblade 2 occupies an awkward middle ground. It introduces combat and puzzle mechanics that suggest deeper gameplay is coming, only to consistently pull back just as these systems begin to show potential. This created a peculiar disconnect where I felt simultaneously over-guided through the narrative and under-engaged by the mechanics.
The comparison to Zelda games mentioned in the source material is particularly revealing. If you strip down The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild to its core activities, you'd indeed find walking, puzzles, and combat—the same three pillars that support Hellblade 2. Yet Zelda provides systems that interact in emergent ways, creating unexpected moments of player-driven storytelling. In Hellblade 2, these elements feel segregated, like different applications running separately rather than components of a cohesive whole. The walking doesn't inform the puzzles, the puzzles don't enhance the combat, and the combat doesn't change how you approach exploration.
From a game design perspective, I believe Hellblade 2 represents what happens when presentation priorities overwhelm gameplay considerations. The developers clearly invested tremendous resources into creating a cinematic experience, but somewhere along the way, the balance tipped too far toward spectacle at the expense of engagement. This isn't necessarily a fatal flaw—the game has clearly resonated with many players who prioritize narrative immersion—but for someone like me who looks for meaningful interaction alongside storytelling, the experience fell short of its potential.
What I discovered through my time with Hellblade 2 is that there's a delicate balance between cinematic storytelling and interactive engagement, and when that balance tips too far in one direction, the experience can feel unsatisfying despite its technical accomplishments. The game's strengths in presentation and performance are undeniable, but they ultimately highlighted the absence of deeper mechanical engagement. For future titles walking this path between game and interactive movie, I hope developers remember that true immersion comes not just from spectacular visuals and sound, but from making players feel that their actions—whether solving puzzles, engaging in combat, or simply moving through the world—carry meaningful weight and consequence.