There is a primal instinct buried deep within us, a fear that claws at our insides, one that dates back to the earliest days of humankind. It’s the fear of the unknown, of what lurks in the shadows, waiting just out of sight. Horror games, when crafted well, tap into this dark well of terror, pulling it to the surface in visceral, heart-pounding ways. But the art of writing horror for games isn’t simply about monsters or gore—it’s about creating an atmosphere, a tension that lingers long after the screen goes dark.
To make players scared, truly scared, you need to craft an experience that haunts them. Fear is not something you simply sprinkle into a story. It must be built, piece by piece, like a house of horrors where every creak in the floorboards makes your skin crawl. Alex Ostrovskiy believes that in a well-written horror game, fear is the air the player breathes. It’s the heartbeat they feel in their ears as they step deeper into the unknown. The key to writing horror games that make players scared lies in the delicate balance between what is seen and what is hidden, what is told and what is left unsaid.
The Art of Atmosphere: More Than Just Darkness
When players enter a horror game, they aren’t just stepping into a story—they’re stepping into a world. And that world needs to feel alive in its dread, whispering secrets that make the player feel uneasy before they even know why. The atmosphere is the foundation upon which fear is built, and in a horror game, it is as important as any character or plot twist.
Take the world you’re creating, and think about how you can make it feel oppressive, suffocating, like the walls themselves are closing in. Visuals play a crucial role here, of course—dim lighting, decaying architecture, claustrophobic spaces. But beyond what is seen, it’s the unseen that often instills the most terror. Silence is your friend. The absence of sound can be more terrifying than any jump scare, as it forces the player to fill the void with their imagination. When the game’s environment pulses with an eerie quietness, every faint noise—a distant footstep, a whisper carried by the wind—becomes magnified, feeding the player’s growing sense of dread.
And yet, a world must be more than a visual spectacle. It must be interactive in its terror. Doors that creak but won’t open. Shadows that flicker but don’t reveal their source. Objects that seem to move on their own. The environment should feel like it is watching the player, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. As a writer, this means not just describing the world but making it a living entity, a character in its own right, one that lurks behind the player’s every move.
Building Tension: Fear Lies in the Waiting
Horror is a slow burn. It’s not the monster itself that scares us—it’s the anticipation of its arrival. Writing a horror game that makes players scared means mastering the art of pacing. You need to know when to give players a moment to breathe, only to yank it away from them when they least expect it. Tension must be constant but subtle, like a tightrope stretched just a little too far. The player should feel that something is always about to happen, even when nothing does.
One of the most effective ways to build tension is through restraint. Don’t show the monster right away. Don’t reveal every secret. Instead, let the player’s mind work against them. The unknown is always scarier than the known because our imaginations are far more creative—and more horrifying—than any creature you could design. The fear of what could happen is often more powerful than what does happen. Think about how you can drop hints, little breadcrumbs of terror that lead the player deeper into the darkness. An unmade bed with claw marks on the headboard. A bloodstained note that cuts off mid-sentence. Let the environment tell the story of something that went horribly wrong, but don’t explain it all at once. Let the player’s imagination do the rest.
In games like Silent Hill or Amnesia: The Dark Descent, the monsters aren’t always in view, but their presence is felt everywhere. It’s the slow, agonizing wait for the inevitable encounter that keeps players on edge. To create that tension in your writing, consider how you can stagger the player’s experience. Build up to the horror through smaller moments—glimpses of movement in the corner of the screen, distant sounds that grow louder as they investigate, flickering lights that go out just when they need them most. Every moment of stillness should be charged with the possibility of terror.
Creating Vulnerability: The Power of Powerlessness
True fear comes from vulnerability. To make players scared, you must make them feel helpless, like the world around them is dangerous and uncontrollable. In many games, players are empowered—they have weapons, abilities, and strategies to combat threats. But in horror, that sense of control needs to be stripped away. Players should feel that they are always one step away from danger, that no matter how prepared they think they are, something could come along and shatter their sense of safety.
This can be achieved in multiple ways. Limited resources—scarce ammunition, health that doesn’t regenerate—create a constant feeling of desperation. The player knows that every bullet, every med kit is precious, and wasting them could mean the difference between life and death. But vulnerability goes beyond the physical. It’s psychological. When writing horror games, think about how you can attack the player’s mind. Hallucinations, unreliable narrators, shifting environments—these all create a sense of instability, where the player can no longer trust what they see or hear. The world around them becomes a maze of uncertainty, where every corner hides a potential threat, and even their own senses can betray them.
In games like Outlast, where the player is unable to fight back, the only option is to run or hide. This creates a feeling of constant peril, where survival depends on evasion rather than confrontation. As a writer, consider how you can craft situations where the player is forced to make impossible choices, to run when they want to fight, or to hide in the dark, knowing that something is hunting them.
Character as Catalyst for Fear
In a horror game, the characters are not just vessels for the player to control—they are the emotional core of the experience. The fear the player feels is often filtered through the characters they embody or encounter. Whether it’s the protagonist or supporting characters, their reactions to the world around them help shape the player’s fear. When a character is scared, the player is scared. When a character is uncertain, the player feels that uncertainty.
But characters in horror games should not be fearless heroes. They should be flawed, vulnerable, haunted by their own pasts. Their backstories, their fears, should bleed into the world they inhabit. Maybe they’re not just fighting external monsters but inner demons as well—guilt, trauma, grief. The more human and relatable these characters are, the more the player invests in their survival, and the more terrifying it becomes when they are placed in danger. When the player cares about the character, every close call, every narrow escape, becomes a gut-wrenching ordeal.
In games like The Last of Us, the relationship between characters like Joel and Ellie deepens the emotional impact of the horror. The player isn’t just scared of what’s lurking in the shadows; they’re scared of losing the people they’ve come to care about. As a writer, this emotional attachment is key. Make the player fear not just for their own life but for the lives of others, and the horror will hit that much harder.
The Payoff: Terror That Lasts
When all the elements of horror writing come together—atmosphere, tension, vulnerability, and character—the result is a game that doesn’t just scare players in the moment but leaves a lasting impression. The best horror games are the ones that linger in the player’s mind long after the credits roll. It’s the feeling of dread when they turn off the lights, the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, something is still out there, watching them.
Writing horror games to scare players is an art that demands patience, subtlety, and a deep understanding of human fear. It’s not about the jump scares or the monsters—it’s about creating a world that feels alive with terror, a story that crawls under the player’s skin and refuses to let go. Fear, after all, is a deeply personal emotion, and in horror games, the best fear is the kind that makes players question not just what’s in the game—but what’s lurking in the corners of their own mind.