When it was time to build a base on my second attempt at Subnautica, I picked a location near the Blood Kelp Zone. Its cliff walls spread in front of me into the endless blue, and deep down I could see the pale bloodvines reaching up toward me like the claws of a forgotten demon. As if by cue, scary dramatic music started playing, and my PDA’s AI announced that the zone “matches 7 of the 9 preconditions for stimulating terror in humans.” I was thankful the game creators didn’t include the two other ones, whatever these may be.

Auto-generated description: A futuristic underwater vehicle is navigating through a marine landscape, as viewed from inside another submersible, displaying various on-screen controls and information.

The reason I chose this location for my home was because of fear. Subnautica is a game about fear, and it was teaching me to face it one step at a time. The first time I played, the game had the element of surprise. I remember my first reaper: it came out of nowhere and grabbed my Seamoth like a plaything. I yelped, slammed the Alt+F4 keys, and stomped out of my room as white as the hallway wall I was leaning against, mumbling “oh my god” over and over. Now I know better. I know where they are, I can see them in the distance, and… I’m still scared. But I go ahead anyway. The fear is not pushing me away; it’s teaching me to be prepared. The only thing that’s really scary is fear itself.

Now the base is furnished, complete with a Moonpool for my Seamoth, which I call “Discovery.” It is powered by a nuclear reactor I built from fragments retrieved from brave explorations. A single glass corridor connects my living area to a bubble-like observatory room which hovers directly over the dark abyss. There’s a chair in the middle of that observatory, so I can sit and read my PDA’s contents while staring fear in the face.

I’ve found something at the bottom of the abyss. “Something that shouldn’t be there.” It’s a dark, green-hellish-looking place with bones of creatures the size of an apartment building. Each day, I explore further. Each day, I push further, and the game never fails to scare me. Winning these small battles against myself bit by bit becomes addictive. I look back at what scared me before and I know I’ve conquered it. I know that now if one of these monsters chooses to attack my base, I will fight it. The base hanging over the cliff that once terrified me is now my home, my new comfort zone. I know every fold in the ground, every rock covered with floaters, every hole to the mushroom cave. You can’t be scared of what you know. Subnautica is an excellent teacher of this lesson.