It wasn’t the quivering slab of flesh walking on arterial tendrils that got to me. It wasn’t the elevator door’s momentary lag as boney scythes clawed at the edge, nor the vacant gaze of a woman casually slitting her own throat. The moment of hopeless dread came at the precipice of a breached hull, overlooking the breadth of the Ishimura, the Alaska-sized hole in the planet below, and the light-years of empty space beyond. I was alone in the purest sense of the word, and for a moment, I wondered if letting myself drift into the void could be any worse than facing the creatures that lurked inside.

The USG Ishimura was a space-borne mining vessel capable of stripping and processing entire planets, and a home for thousands of workers. By the time Isaac Clarke and his two companions were stranded by a crash landing, the Ishimura had become a drifting coffin for the stretched, disfigured, and reanimated corpses of its former occupants. With bones forced into grisly blades and faces haphazardly contorted into mockeries of humanity, they poured from the ventilation shafts in a tidal wave of entrails. Gunfire and screams rang through Isaac’s ears as he did the only thing a sane man could – he ran like hell.

Isaac isn’t a warrior by any means, and his suit of armor is a functional (with a little day-glo flash) coverall to protect him from the cold and rocky debris of space. Even the eight weapons eventually acquired were designed with utilitarian concerns in mind. I wholly believed in the practical applications of a handheld Plasma Cutter for slicing rocks, the telekinetic saw blades of the Ripper for those hard-to-reach spots, and the slow-motion uses of the Stasis charge. Ironically, the only military-grade weapon, the Pulse Rifle, felt utterly useless. As for the believability of a flamethrower as an everyday tool, there’s nothing wrong with a welcome dose of gratuity.

Despite his working-man demeanor and clunky boots, Isaac is more nimble than you might expect. While he doesn’t do back flips or wall-runs, he moves and aims with fluid ease, and he’ll need every ounce of precision possible. Most of the Necromorphs don’t care about headshots. Just because you recognize a face, hand, or coil of intestines doesn’t mean they serve their familiar functions. Instead, shoot for the limbs, perhaps starting with the legs, and then the arms that continue to drag the mass of liquefied remains across the floor. Some Necromorphs, like the Pregnants, require more finesse, lest you split the belly and free the spidery globules of skin inside. Toss a dozen Necromorphs into the same room and you’ll understand why the plodding movements of other horror protagonists wouldn’t cut it.

Dead Space has been endlessly marketed as a “survival-horror” game, but it bears more in common with the action-packed likes of BioShock and Resident Evil 4, than the languished environments of Silent Hill or Fatal Frame. Faint whispers of the damned meandering through the empty corridors and last words scrawled in blood beneath the radial glow of abandoned monitors craft an intrinsic aura of constant unease, but those are moments of cherished respite, not the norm. When the Necromorphs find you, they come in droves, scampering along ceilings, crashing through vents, and charging at full bore.