Solar System of Arcade Games

Warp out to the belt and it's a mining game. Drop into a warp lane and it's a tunnel shooter. Land on a moon, climb

out of the cockpit, and it's something else again - you on foot, carrying what you brought. Every world you can

reach plays as its own arcade game, built the way a 1981 cabinet would have built it, if that cabinet had voxels

instead of pixels.

What Carries Between Them is You

Not a save slot and not a stat screen. The ship you've been bolting guns onto. The gear you're wearing when you step

out of it. The credits you earned three worlds ago, and the dents you picked up getting here.

Fly Out. Fill the Hold. Limp Home

Mine asteroids for ore. Fight off the pirates who want it. Tow what won't fit. Dock at a station, sell the haul, and

spend it on a better thruster, a bigger hold, or a gun that actually hits things. Then go further out. The good

stuff sits further from the sun, and so does everything that wants to stop you reaching it.

Your ship never explodes.

There are no lives and no game over screen. Take enough damage and systems start failing - thrusters go sluggish,

guns fall silent, shields stop coming back. You don't die. You limp to the nearest station with a broken ship and a

full hold, and that trip is its own kind of tense.

The Solar System is Real

Real planets in their real positions, with their real moons. The distances are honest arcade fiction - you'd be

waiting years otherwise - but where things are is where they actually are.

Everything is Voxels

Every asteroid, ship, station and creature is built from cubes, and they come apart like it. Shoot a rock and it

loses the cubes you hit.

Arcade, without the Quarter Hunger

Built to the rules of a cabinet: two buttons, and three seconds to understand any screen. Built without the part

where the cabinet was trying to empty your pockets.