The first time I saw the glowing fish, I thought my mask was fogging up. There I was, suspended in the deep blue, with nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the gentle hum of the AI companion in my ear. "Unidentified bioluminescent activity detected," it stated, in that calm, robotic tone that somehow made the ocean feel both safer and more alien. I remember thinking how strange it was that this world existed, just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to stumble upon its secrets. You're a new diver accompanied by an AI companion, exploring phenomena of glowing fish, and sometimes you're accompanied by a brash (but actually cowardly) fellow diver named Daniel. Daniel, oh Daniel—what a character. He'd swim up with all this bravado, talking about facing down giant squids, but the moment something shimmered in the distance, he'd freeze up and mutter something about "checking his oxygen levels." It was almost endearing, how transparent his cowardice was, but it also highlighted how solitary this journey felt, even with company.
The story missions, if you could even call them that, were these brief, fleeting things that left me scratching my head more often than not. I'd gear up, dive in, and before I knew it, the mission would wrap up. Sometimes they end so quickly that I was genuinely surprised. One time, I swam for what felt like ages, following a trail of faint lights, only for the objective to complete after a single interaction. It was over in maybe five minutes, and I surfaced feeling like I'd missed something crucial. Other times, they feel like a glorified tutorial, which makes it that much stranger to gate it behind so much free-roaming playtime. I mean, I'd spent hours just drifting, collecting random shells and watching schools of fish dart by, and then the game would throw a mission at me that basically said, "Hey, remember how to use your sonar? Good job!" It felt disjointed, like the developers couldn't decide if they wanted me to savor the exploration or rush through a narrative.
And then there was that one mission—I'll never forget it—where I didn't even get to dive. At least one of them is just a cutscene with no actual diving gameplay whatsoever. I'd geared up, mentally prepared for another underwater adventure, and instead, I was treated to a two-minute cinematic of my character staring at an old map. No swimming, no fish, just... watching. It was a letdown, honestly, and it made me wonder why they'd break the immersion like that. But every so often, the story mode would deliver something unexpected and fun, like a massive or fantastical species of fish, but those moments are few and far between. I recall one dive where I stumbled upon a leviathan-like creature, its scales shimmering with colors I didn't think existed in nature. For a few minutes, I forgot about the clunky missions and just marveled at it, feeling like a true explorer. Those glimpses of wonder kept me going, even when the rest felt like a chore.
Then there's the meta-story, this overarching thread about an ancient relic with 99 slots. It sounds epic, right? Like some grand puzzle waiting to be solved. But in practice, it feels more like a busywork checklist than a real story-driver. I'd spend dives scanning the seabed for artifacts, ticking off boxes, and filling in those slots one by one. After a while, it started to feel like I was doing homework instead of uncovering a mystery. I mean, 99 slots—that's a lot of grinding, and it didn't add much depth to the experience. It just gave me something to do between the sparse, exciting moments. Reflecting on it all, I can't help but feel a bit conflicted. On one hand, the freedom to roam and discover at my own pace is liberating; on the other, the narrative feels undercooked, like a half-told tale that never quite finds its footing. Maybe that's the point—to let the ocean itself be the story—but as I resurface, I'm left with more questions than answers, and a lingering sense of what could have been.