About Coma
I stumbled across Coma when I was hunting for something a little off the beaten path, and it instantly grabbed me with its eerie, atmospheric vibe. You play as Daniel Park, a guy who wakes up in this strange, deserted medical complex with barely a clue as to how he got there. Right away you realize that something’s seriously wrong: the lights flicker, the hallways twist into impossible angles, and you keep hearing whispers that you just can’t place.
Gameplay is pretty straightforward but surprisingly engaging. You roam around in that isometric view, poking into every room, fiddling with locks, and solving puzzles that feel organic to the setting—no random tile-sliding here. It balances exploration and resource management nicely; you’ll find yourself debating whether to use that last bandage now or save it in case things go sideways a few corridors down. And believe me, they often do.
What really sold me was how the story unspools in fragments of cell phone recordings, scribbled notes, and eerie flashbacks. There’s a real sense of creeping dread as you piece together Daniel’s backstory and figure out what role this creepy facility plays. The pixel-art style surprised me with how effectively it conveys dread—shadows stretch in weird ways, and suddenly a corner that seemed empty just two minutes ago holds a face you’d rather not stare at.
All in all, Coma might not be a blockbuster spectacle, but its tight design and unsettling atmosphere stick with you long after you’ve put your headphones down. It’s the kind of game that invites you to stay just “one more room” late into the night, which is exactly when you realize you probably should have gone to bed an hour ago. If you’re into indie horror with a low-key but creepy twist, give it a shot—you might be surprised at how much it keeps you on edge.