The hotel is closed for the winter. You have the keys.

A seaside hotel on a coast nobody visits between October and March. The owner is away until spring. Her rules are pinned above the desk in her own handwriting: no guests, no exceptions, the boiler runs at four. The season still has an instalment to make and the boiler eats oil, so an empty house goes bankrupt. The first thing this game tells you is that obeying the rules loses.

Somebody knocks.

Off the last bus, in the rain, with cash and no booking, and a reason they would rather not give. Nobody comes to this coast in winter without one. You can ask, but you are a stranger behind a desk at night, and every question you ask tells them what you wanted to know.

Four answers at the desk

• Give a key. They are in the house tonight. Their money is in the box, and so is whatever came with them.
  
• Refuse. The last bus has gone. Refusing costs something, sometimes before morning.
  
• Give a particular room. The one that matters.
  
• Take the money and leave the night out of the book. The cash is yours, not the house's, and the register never says they were here.

The rooms are not interchangeable, and the house teaches you that slowly.

3 looks over the road: you can see who arrives, and so can they. 7 and 8 share a wall, so whoever sleeps in them hears each other. 12 is the only room with a line out. 19 is top floor, at the end, where nobody hears anything at all. A refusal is one bit of information. A room is a sentence: the man who asked about the road went in 19, and the woman who kept looking at the door went in 12, so she could call someone.

A full house is bad.

You cannot take every night's money and stay safe, and you cannot turn everyone away and stay solvent. The more a stranger pays, the more it is worth asking why. The rules above the desk were written in September by someone who will not be here in February.

Room 24

Pages are missing from the book on the desk. The town's list and the register disagree about who was here last winter, and the disagreement is legible if you keep both. The board still has the key to 24, the previous caretaker's room. You can open it on the first night. What is in there does not stop the season; it changes how you read every knock after it.

The season

• A season of nights: arrivals, rooms, money, and the morning the ledger closes.
  
• A hotel you walk in first person: the desk, the corridor, the rooms you let.
  
• Guests stay. A key given is a key out; the board fills up, and the quiet room may already be holding someone.
  
• Consequences arrive late, and they come back at the house.
  
• A thread you assemble from the register, the town's list, and the room nobody has opened since last winter.
  
• One season, one thread. It closes the way it was always going to; what changes is the last page of the register, who wrote it and what they left out.
  
• No death and no failure that erases a run. You can be dismissed, or the season can end with a room you never opened.

The Off-Season's scene art, character art, music and most sound effects are pre-generated with AI tools and then curated and edited by the developer; the remaining cues are synthesized by code. Its narrative text is human–AI co-written and human-edited under the author's direction. Nothing is generated while you play.