RE7 Has Revealed To Me That I Am a Massive Pussy

It has been a scant 24 hours since Resident Evil 7 biohazard was unleashed on the general populace, and even less than that since I realised I am in fact, a spineless digital wuss.

Prior to 2017, I thought of myself as somewhat of a well-rounded gamer, cutting a swathe through many a manufactured realm and emerging triumphant – the Resident Evil series being no exception. I have played and beaten basically every genre and format you could imagine, and the spooky Umbrella-fucked worlds of Racoon City and its many child disaster zones were no match for my testicular fortitude. A long-ass time ago, I managed to play and complete the original Resident Evil on a PlayStation 1 console that was unfortunately forced to display in black and white because of a PAL / NTSC screw up. This added a little edge to the challenge, because some details were a little harder to pick out without the benefit of colour. A younger me acknowledged this feeling of dread, and it quickly became synonymous with the series for me. Never again could I see a window without some kind of thought that perhaps a skinless dog was going to rocket through it and help me shit myself. I could always enforce a mental disconnect on myself thanks to the games third-person nature – because any horrifying things that happened were presented as some semi-amusing blood show, as I slumped the controller in my hands and let out a croaky pseudo-chuckle at what was happening to my dude on screen.

Years passed, and indeed, so too did many a Resident Evil sequel. I had a grand total of THREE games in my possession during my short time as a Dreamcast owner – one of these games was Resident Evil: Code Veronica, that’s how much I dug trying to shit myself. Over time, the Resident Evil games slowly graduated away from true survival horror, and entries like Resident Evil 5 (played with a friend, of course) felt more like a crazy zombie-filled action game. When Resident Evil 6 hit the scene I smashed through it and felt more like I was in an action movie, rather than a deeply screwed-up body horror/bio-mess. Part of me was convinced that I had become such a hardened zombie-killing badass, that I had conquered the ‘fear’ genre of games. I just wasn’t scared anymore! Surely it had nothing to do with the shift in tone that the games had undergone. No, it was definitely my manly set of iron balls that had developed, right?

Then promotional footage for Resident Evil 7 started to surface. This dark, claustrophobic, first-person experience was hailed as being a major contender for a serious VR experience. And I hated every minute of it. I had already felt the gut-clenching fear that permeated the Silent Hill ‘Playable Teaser’, but the cancellation of that title meant that my mettle for first-person terror wasn’t due to be tested. Then along comes Capcom, with a reminder that I still had an option for pants-shitting fear if I so wished, with the release of the Resident Evil 7 Teaser Demo: Beginning Hour – like a standing challenge to my colon. The initial hurdle of choosing to download it was challenging enough, let alone booting it up and playing it.

What followed was a solid week of on-off playing. Minutes spent in that creepy house stretched into an eternity as I navigated every foul space that the experience offered me. Particularly in the kitchen (fuck that place and its disgusting pots), I kept discovering new, heinous things that I originally missed, much to my chagrin. A session would effectively last as long as I could stand it, before I discovered some reasoning to stop. The depths of my procrastination knew no bounds, as I paired socks and at one point decided to mow my lawn instead of descending the ladder into the basement (and I fucking hate my lawn).

The game fosters a feeling of dread that sits in the pit of your stomach like a lead brick. Somehow I blundered my way through the experience, reached what I assumed was the ending, and uninstalled the demo to my great relish.

I sank into a wonderful denial as I reinforced to myself that by having completed the demo, I was indeed still the hardass I imagined I was. It was my spooky Everest, and I had made the ascent.

Then Capcom released a fucking update to Beginning Hour.

New Content! Actually escape from the house! Fuck. My testicles shrank like Sunrasia Sultanas at the thought of going back into that grimy world. I actually dodged this bullet, by organising a play date with a friend who wished to play through the experience.

The game fosters a feeling of dread that sits in the pit of your stomach like a lead brick.

“Yeah mate, I’d be happy to help. I have played it already – it’s easy!” I crowed through duplicitous clenched teeth, “We’ll get the true ending together.”

And so the deed was done. We spent the better part of an entire day making our way out of that house – and finally, I was free of this burden. I also now had an ace in the hole: a friend who may play the game instead of me, and I could perch myself on his couch as a looker-on. I could effectively play by proxy and never have to actually clench my own butthole in fear, his butthole would take the brunt of the work!

Then, the reveal of how many secrets where in the beginning hour. My friend started to bug me about a ‘special coin’ you could get by following a laundry list of entirely random strange tasks, involving a laughing doll and a mannequin hand pointing at things. I was being drawn back in. I made my excuses, and moved on, sticking to the original plan, I’ll play pseudo couch co-op instead.

Which brings us to now. The game has released, and I do not find myself in possession of it through whatever excuse you want to accept (I can’t afford it right now. Might wait until it drops in price. My backlog is too strenuous. I need to mow my lawn). I have taken my place alongside my cohort to play the game, and my arsehole remains thoroughly clenched.

At one point he handed me the controller while he took the time to urinate, and he returned scarce moments later to the game paused, me idly hanging out in his kitchen, pretending to look for a glass (I know where the glasses are) because I decided I was done. We were less than an hour into the game, and I had already been stabbed, tried to hack my girlfriend’s head off with an axe and then had my hand taken off with a chainsaw. As I felt my heart rate start to dip back to an acceptable level, of course that key moment that always ruined me in the beginning hour made its glorious return, and I was done.

Welcome to the family son.

Epilogue: I have watched more of the game since, and I hate to admit it but the puzzles I have seen so far have drawn me in something fierce. I *WANT* to play this game. I want to conquer it. I just need to somehow come to terms with the newfound fact that I am perhaps a horror game pussy.

I also need to make sure my good friend forgets that this game is VR compatible, and leaves his headset in a dusty corner of his living room, more for the sake of his couch’s upholstery than anything else.