Nothing here is lost. Some of it is simply not running.

A ship came down on a world that keeps what falls into it. Its definitions — the parts that make it a ship — are scattered across sealed Sectors that are still running, long after whoever built them stopped.

You are R-04. You do maintenance. You bring back what is missing.

MNEME is the only voice you will ever hear. He ran the vessel, he runs what is left of it, and he is calm, precise and helpful. He counts. He never says anything untrue.

A world you can watch being calculated

Structures assemble in front of you, piece by piece. Walls dissolve when nothing needs them anymore. Whole stretches of ground run at a visibly lower resolution, because capacity went somewhere else.

This is not a filter laid over a normal world. It is the rule the world runs on — and it is the thing you learn to operate.

The surface has a verb: redirect capacity

Nine zones on the surface. Never enough allocations for all of them.

Resolving a zone means taking capacity away from another one. One place assembles itself while the other comes apart — one action, two places, both directions at once. Nothing is consumed, every choice is reversible, and nothing you need to finish is ever locked behind one.

And the pool does not grow. Every part you install in the ship costs an allocation. Leaving is not free.

Sectors: sealed, self-contained, still running

Each Sector is a place that fell in long before you did and never stopped executing — a greenhouse, a dock, a shaft, a choir. Thirty to forty-five minutes each, built from switches, keys, shootable targets, sequences, and structures you assemble or dissolve on purpose.

Wardens patrol them: maintenance processes that treat you as an unauthorized change to a Sector. One hit ends one. They are pressure, never the point.

If they end you, you start again at the entrance — but every puzzle you solved stays solved. You lose your position. You never lose your thinking.

One arm, three modes

Fire, scan, grapple — one key each, each computing itself into existence when you call it. The arm is a tool before it is a weapon: it triggers things at a distance, shows you what the world is actually made of, and reaches places your legs cannot.

Progress gives you verbs, never numbers

No skill tree. No equipment. No stats, no percentages, no damage values anywhere in the game.

A Simulation Tier gives you a new verb or a new kind of sight — permission to do something, or to read something, that was closed to you before. Sectors carry a recommended tier. It is a recommendation. The door always opens.

A work queue, not a quest log

The Archive is a machine, and a machine has a process queue. Some entries were written for you and marked urgent. Some were written and set aside. Some have no owner at all and have been sitting there for a very long time.

Which one you work on today is your decision — and by the second act, three separate build sites are open at once.

What this is not

No combat balancing, no damage numbers, no loot. No crafting, no carry weight, no hunger, no survival meters. No timers, no failable objectives, no missable content. No multiplayer, no NPCs, no dialogue trees.

A quiet planet, one voice, and a list of things that are missing.

• Third-person exploration and puzzle game in a hand-built, semi-open world — no procedural filler

• Redirect finite capacity across nine surface zones and watch one place build itself while another dissolves

• Six sealed Sectors, each with its own structure, its own character and one piece of the ship

• Build in two places: the ship that takes you off this planet, and a base that says you are staying

• 68 collectibles in five series — logs, fragments, inscriptions and wordless stills

• A narrator who never lies to you, and an ending you will read rather than fight

• Single-player. Full controller support. English and German.