If you know me personally, you’re probably somewhat aware of the latest hurdle I’ve had to overcome in gaming. To my own surprise, it didn’t fall under the creative end of the medium. Instead, it was S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky (S:CS), the single most demanding game experience I’ve ever had. The one I came closest to giving up on over a dozen times.

At a point, the game peaked to an emotional train-wreck for me. Half-way across the Zone (what the affected area of the Chernobyl disaster, the theatre of S:CS, is referred to as in-game) and I was stripped of my arsenal. Notorious game-breaking bugs began to surface, enemy AI grew too accurate, and friendly AI fell too inaccurate. With few means for controlling my own fate, I learned to travel one save at a time for every step taken, tip-toeing around eggshells I couldn’t even see.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I was victorious: I beat Clear Sky. I was slightly baffled at coming upon such certainty in a game underscored by ambiguity. All that certainty was then swiftly washed away by the most concentrated dose of ambiguity S:CS had to offer with its ending. “Am I actually done?”, I thought. Was that it for me and Clear Sky? Are my adventures (nightmares) in the Zone stories worth telling, as opposed to crafting them?

Yes, to all of the above. So what was there to put up with, and why did I put up with it for so long?

I’m running low on people to trust. In the Zone, there’s too many sides worth taking, and somehow I remain indecisive unless it results in me being on my way that much faster. I don’t impose on others because that takes even more time, and more trust. I carry too much weight on me because I need something worth selling when I get into town. Sometimes that means a loaded gun, previously used to keep bandits and smugglers at bay. Where I found the weapons isn’t any of your business (it will be later on in this post). All means of defense have become a form of currency at this point.

I can’t see more than a few feet ahead of myself at nighttime. This makes hoarding first aid supplies only possible before it gets too dark to go on such scavenger hunts. The more I carry, the slower I travel. I get the feeling that I shouldn’t stop moving, so I don’t.

Stopping all movement is an important moment in Clear Sky, because it means one of few things. 1. Your eyes are arrested by the view, 2. you’re looking for something to keep you from dieing in the future, or 3. you’re already dieing, and scrambling for a fix. Sometimes this means keeping your head down, ducking for cover, and running into a herd of mutants, but most common of all it will mean reloading your last save. Because guess what, Stalker: you’re already dead.