Process

Process is an adventure game set in a cyberpunk subway train that’s hurtling towards destruction. With real-time gameplay spanning exactly 20 minutes, players must explore dimly lit interiors, solve puzzles, and prevent the crash while grappling with themes of predetermination and the subjective nature of perception.

Process: Review

Introduction

In the pantheon of experimental video games, few titles capture the raw, unfiltered tension of impending doom as effectively as Process. Released in 2011 by TrainYard, this brief yet intense adventure plunges players into a doomed subway train car with a 20-minute countdown to annihilation. More than a mere puzzle game, Process is a philosophical meditation on predetermination and the subjective nature of perception. Its stark setting and relentless timer force players into a state of existential anxiety, questioning whether salvation is possible—or merely an illusion. This review deconstructs Process as a microcosm of narrative-driven design, evaluating its place in gaming history through its ambitious constraints, thematic depth, and enduring enigma.

Development History & Context

Process emerged from TrainYard, a small studio operating in the shadow of 2011’s indie renaissance—an era defined by breakout hits like Minecraft and Dark Souls. Its development was constrained by both technological limitations and a deliberate artistic vision. The game was built exclusively for Windows, leveraging the platform’s accessibility for experimental projects. The creators sought to distill narrative tension into a confined space—a single subway car—using a first-person perspective to heighten immersion. This choice reflected the era’s trend toward environmental storytelling, akin to Dark Souls’ minimalist approach to lore, but with a hyper-focused time limit as its central mechanic.

The gaming landscape of 2011 was pivotal. Players were growing weary of hand-holding, seeking experiences that demanded agency and resilience. Process capitalized on this shift, stripping away traditional UI elements and dialogue to emphasize player interpretation. Its release coincided with the rise of “walking simulators” like Dear Esther, but Process differentiated itself through its real-time countdown, turning exploration into a race against inevitability. TrainYard’s vision was clear: to create a game where failure wasn’t a setback but a narrative feature, reinforcing themes of inescapable fate.

Narrative & Thematic Deep Dive

Process rejects conventional storytelling, offering no named characters, explicit dialogue, or traditional plot beats. Instead, it constructs a minimalist narrative through environmental cues and player action. The premise is brutally simple: you are an unnamed passenger in a subway hurtling toward derailment in 20 minutes. Your goal is to “figure out the situation,” solve puzzles, and potentially avert disaster. The narrative’s ambiguity is deliberate—are you a savior, a victim, or merely a witness? The game’s description insists it’s about “predetermination of events and the subjectiveness of perception,” forcing players to confront the limits of their influence.

Thematic layers emerge organically. The 20-minute timer embodies existential dread, mirroring real-world anxieties about mortality and futility. Puns intended: “process” becomes a metaphor for both the journey and the inevitability of decay. The train’s industrial-cyberpunk aesthetic—exposed wires, flickering lights, and oppressive darkness—symbolizes a world where technology both enables and enslaves. Lacking overt exposition, Process trusts players to weave their own theories. Did the crash occur? Did you delay it? The absence of answers transforms gameplay into a philosophical exercise, aligning with the “show, don’t tell” ethos of games like Dark Souls.

Gameplay Mechanics & Systems

Process’s gameplay is a masterclass in constrained design. The core loop revolves around exploration and puzzle-solving within the 20-minute window. Players navigate a series of interconnected train cars, interacting with objects like locked doors, control panels, and emergency levers. Puzzles are tactile and immediate: open a jammed door, reroute power, or decode a malfunctioning console. Each success inches you closer to the engine, but the timer ensures progress feels futile. Movement is described as “skokowy” (jumpy) in reviews, adding to the disorientation, while the inventory—accessed via the “I” key—holds only essential tools, emphasizing scarcity.

Combat is nonexistent, shifting focus to environmental interaction. The UI is deliberately sparse, with no HUD elements beyond the countdown timer. This minimalist approach forces players to rely on observation, but the game’s darkness poses a significant flaw. As Freegame.cz noted, “objekty špatně nacházejí” (objects are hard to find), turning exploration into a frustrating scavenger hunt. Yet this flaw serves the narrative: the darkness mirrors the player’s ignorance and the world’s opacity. The lack of progression systems or character upgrades further reinforces themes of powerlessness, making every interaction feel like a desperate gamble against time.

World-Building, Art & Sound

Process constructs its world through claustrophobic environmental design. The subway car is a marvel of industrial decay, blending cyberpunk neon with grimy realism. Exposed pipes, flickering fluorescent lights, and flickering holographic posters create a sense of decay, while the constant hum of the engine and distant clanking rails amplify the tension. The first-person perspective immerses players in this world, making every turn of a corner or creak of metal feel significant.

Art direction prioritizes atmosphere over beauty. The dimly lit interiors—described as “grim” and “dimly lit” in the MobyGames entry—use shadows and limited visibility to evoke fear. Freegame.cz praised the “tísnivá atmosféra” (claustrophobic atmosphere), noting that the visual design masterfully communicates entrapment. Sound design, while not extensively detailed in sources, likely relies on ambient noise to heighten tension—the screech of brakes, the whir of machinery, and the oppressive silence of impending failure. Together, art and sound forge a cohesive mood, turning the train into a character in its own right.

Reception & Legacy

Process’s reception was polarized, mirroring its divisive design. Critics lauded its ambition but struggled with its execution. Freegame.cz awarded it 83%, praising the “super” atmosphere and puzzle design despite the darkness. Hrej! rated it 70%, calling it a “non-conventional experience” worth 20 minutes of anyone’s time. Yet Indie Game Magazine lambasted it with a 25%, decrying “style over substance” and a “minimal and restricted role” for the player. Commercially, it was a footnote—only three players have “collected” it on MobyGames, and sales data is scarce.

Legacy-wise, Process remains a cult curiosity. It predates the “walking simulator” boom but shares its ethos of environmental storytelling. Its influence is subtle, seen in titles like What Remains of Edith Finch, which use time limits to heighten narrative stakes. Yet it’s remembered more for its unfulfilled potential than its innovations. The debate it sparked—whether games can thrive on ambiguity and constraint—resonates in modern indie darlings like Outer Wilds and Inscryption. For all its flaws, Process dared to ask: can a game be a question, not an answer?

Conclusion

Process is a flawed, unforgettable artifact of indie experimentation. In 20 minutes, it delivers a more potent existential crisis than many sprawling epics. Its strengths—taut atmosphere, philosophical ambition, and minimalist design—are undercut by frustrating darkness and underbaked puzzles. Yet its legacy endures as a testament to the power of constraint. By stripping away narrative excess, TrainYard forced players into a raw confrontation with time, fate, and perception. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s a vital piece of gaming history—a reminder that sometimes, the most profound stories are the ones we tell ourselves in the dark. Verdict: A bold, flawed experiment that lingers like the echo of a train whistle in the void.