
Find the key. Find the door. Go down. Something is already here.
The Backrooms is a first-person, grid-step raycaster lost in the endless yellow maze. Every level is a fresh, procedurally generated warren of damp corridors under buzzing fluorescent tubes. Hold forward and you keep walking. The first five doors are unlocked — find them and go down; from level six they carry a lock and you need the key. One person is stranded on every floor, and anyone still following you when you reach a door gets out with you. Something else is down there too. You will hear it before you see it. (v1.0 — Released; game build I.)
There is no way up, only down. Each door drops you into another layer, and the walls are always the same damp humming wrong. Depth is the only measure of how long you lasted.
Shades drift the halls. They cannot be fought — only avoided, lost around a corner, or outrun. And every so often the lights simply cut out.
Movement is grid-step: one tile at a time, turning in 90° steps, deliberate rather than free-look. Holding a direction now keeps you going — forward and back chain with no pause between tiles so a corridor is one smooth glide, while a held turn is gated a little wider so it reads as deliberate instead of spinning you. W A S D and the arrow keys — both, always, all four directions on each; on a phone the portal's Console Shell D-pad does the same thing, hold included. Let go, or click away from the window, and you stop immediately.
Level 1 is a 20×20 Threshold: a handful of corridors, no shades, nothing hunting you. It is there so the first time you hear one it means something. Levels 2–3 are 30×30, then 48×48, then 72×72, then the claustrophobic Trapped preset. Past level 15 the size is rolled fresh every floor and the odds of the sprawling 128×128 Colossal climb the whole way down — one in ten at level 16, about half the time by level 60 — so there is no depth at which the game settles into a shape. How many shades a floor holds follows its actual area, one per 1400 tiles, plus another every eight levels: none on level 1, one on a Small, two on a Large, four on a Giant, and up to nine once you are deep enough that the ceiling on it has risen that far.
A random carve produces a usable maze most of the time and something miserable the rest of it — a warren of one-tile stubs with no way round, or a floor so sparse the exit is six tiles from where you spawned. So the level is built, measured, and rebuilt if it is a bad floor to be chased around: up to eight attempts, kept only if enough of it is reachable, there are at least two places the door could go, and it is not mostly cul-de-sac — otherwise the best of the eight, so it never hangs on a hard case. Extra links are cut between random rooms because a pure tree means every wrong turn is a dead end with something behind you, and the worst of the one-tile stubs are filled back in over two passes. In practice about half of every floor is walkable, one to three per cent of it is a dead end, and even a Small level has a few hundred distinct loops to go round. The exit is then placed at the candidate FURTHEST from your spawn, so the walk there is the level: sixteen steps on level 1, sixty by level 8, close to ninety by level 40.
Nothing about the game settles down. Every dial is one curve of the level number, and each of them keeps moving past the last named step: how far a shade can see you, how fast it steps, how many lights are on the ceiling, how often and how long the blackouts are, how many uses a spray can holds, and how likely you are to find a map at all. At a fixed floor size nothing ever gets easier between level 2 and level 80, and the numbers at 80 are still moving. It is meant to go past what you can play — the score is how deep you got before it did.
Somewhere in the boundary wall of every level is a heavy green fire door with an EXIT sign over it — the only object down here that looks like it was put there on purpose. The first five just open: push the bar and you are through. From level six they carry a bolted-on lock plate with a keyhole, and a key is hidden somewhere on the floor; walk into a locked one without it and it rattles and refuses. The keyhole turns green the moment you are carrying the key, so the door tells you before you reach it.
Shades roam every level from the second one down. Standing, one barely moves — it sways, its head rolls a fraction on its neck, and its arms hang past its knees; you cannot tell from across a room whether it has seen you. The moment it does, it rears up, throws its arms forward, opens a jaw the whole length of its face and lurches at you down the corridor. Break the sightline and it loses you. Step onto its tile and it takes you, and that ends the RUN, not the level — the depth you reached is submitted and you start again at level 1. They can also never make a floor impossible: a shade is fatal to touch, so one wandering back and forth in a one-wide corridor between you and the key would be a level you could not finish however well you played. The game floods the maze from your position twice a second with the shades treated as walls, and if what you need is cut off it works out which shade is doing the cutting and moves it — a nudge first, and if the corridor is long enough that no neighbouring tile helps, out of it entirely. It will not walk straight back into the gap either, unless it can see you. They also cannot see across the building: their sight is a RANGE, seven tiles on level 2 and rising the whole way down, so an early floor gives you room to make a mistake and a deep one does not.
One person is stranded on every level, and they are the only thing down here with a face: a plain smiley, two eyes and a line for a mouth, drawn the way a child draws one. Before you reach them they are slumped and frowning, blinking slowly, having clearly been here a while. Once they are following you they stand up, bounce as they walk and grin with their eyes shut. And the instant anything gets line of sight on you they go rigid — eyes wide with the whites showing, mouth a small O, shoulders up, shaking — which usually tells you something is coming before you have worked out what. Anyone still following you when you reach a door walks out with you, and the death screen tells you how many you got out — which is the only thing you can take with you besides the depth.
Fluorescent tubes run in rows down the ceilings, and in build B you can finally see them: yellowed tubes in dirty diffusers with dead flies in the plastic and a pool of light bleeding out underneath. They hum, they flicker, and every so often the whole maze lurches into a near-total blackout for a heartbeat. Light falls off away from you in every direction, so a hallway dies into black about ten tiles out.
Level 1 is always the canonical mono-yellow damp wallpaper — the room everyone pictures, and the one you were promised. From level 2 the palette wanders through 28 sets, some plausible and some very much not, which only works because you were given the real thing first. The floor and ceiling surface varies independently of the colour — carpet, tile, or bare slabs — so two yellow levels are still never twins — and since the grime is regenerated on arrival, the same preset visited twice is not even the same wallpaper.
Somebody is stranded on every floor, and they will follow you once you reach them. Pick up neon spray paint (SPACE, or the A button) to mark tiles you have already walked — the marks glow, which is often the only way to tell one corridor from another. And if you find the map, M (or the B button) brings up a zoomed plan of the tiles around you.
The view is 72° across with rooms about a room-and-a-half tall, and your eye sits below the middle of the wall, so ceilings read as high. Light falls off away from you across every surface — walls, floor and ceiling all use the same curve — and the ceiling is the darkest of the three, because the tubes shine down. Floors and ceilings carry perspective-correct seams that recede properly. The wall grime is GENERATED rather than picked from a set: every level bakes twelve fresh textures, each one a base of stripes, panels or grid with two or three kinds of damage composed on top from a pool of eight — water running down from the ceiling, a bloom of mould, scuff marks at shoulder height, torn paper, a splash up from the floor. Each wall face picks one from its own coordinates and half of them are mirrored, so a panel is consistent every time you walk past it, different from its neighbours, and no two levels are papered with the same dirt.
You will hear them long before you see them. Every shade breathes every few seconds — quieter and duller the further off it is, and panned to the side it is actually on, so a corridor can be ruled out with your ears. Once one has your scent it screeches from its own position, the dark closes further in from the edges, the colour drains, and a slow pulse rides underneath, all tightening the nearer it gets. Nothing tells you it is chasing. The room just gets smaller.
The menu is not a page about the game — it is the game, running. A corridor is generated and drifts slowly behind the title, with the door, the key, the map, the spray can and a survivor drawn from the same textures you will meet in there. The level it renders is built quietly: it banks no score and fires no achievement. The one thing it will not show you is what is down there with you: that tile is a question mark.
ESC pauses, and so does START on the Console Shell. The pause screen is the SAME screen as the front door — it already carries the controls, the item strip and your record, so a second panel saying the same things would only be another thing to keep in step. The room stays on screen behind it, genuinely frozen: the lights stop flickering, the shades stop moving, and a half-finished step stays half-finished and continues from where it was. Everything scheduled against the clock slides forward with it too, so the level does not fire all at once the moment you come back. Any key, or a tap, and you are in.
Ten of them, and none need explaining: go through your first door, reach level 5, 10, 20 and 50, open a bolted door with the key, walk a survivor out, walk three out in one run, arrive on a Colossal floor, and shake off a shade that had been hunting you for a few seconds — which is the only thing that counts as beating one, since they cannot be fought.
Which preset a level uses depends on how deep you are — until level 15, after which it is rolled fresh every floor with the Colossal odds climbing. How many shades it holds follows the floor area, one per 1400 tiles, plus one more every eight levels.
Every one of these is a function of the level number alone, so the comparison is honest: same floor, four depths. None of them ever moves back the other way.
Neither of them can be fought. Both are animated; only one of them has a face.
The same actions on a keyboard and on the Console Shell. Both movement schemes work at all times.
The lock is a difficulty step, and a way to teach the door before it starts asking for something.
Ten badges. Most of them are things you will do on the way down anyway; two of them almost nobody will get.








