Game description:
Before Close places the player inside a dimly lit laundromat during the final hours of the day. You play as Jared, a cleaner beginning what should be a simple shift. A man named Walt greets you at the counter, offering a few calm but vague instructions. The building is nearly silent aside from the hum of aging machines. At first, there’s nothing demanding your attention. But as time passes, the ordinary begins to feel slightly wrong.
Observing the Familiar Turn Strange
The game doesn’t rush to reveal its intentions. Movement is limited, but every step matters. You notice the flicker of a light that wasn’t flickering before. Walt’s tone becomes colder. And the hallway you’re warned not to enter doesn’t change—but your perception of it does. The more time you spend in the laundromat, the more it feels like the world around you is waiting for something to shift.
Interactive Moments That Shape the Path
Despite its brief length, Before Close creates tension through small interactions:
· Choosing to speak to Walt again or walk away
· Noticing changes in the environment
· Approaching the hallway or keeping your distance
· Observing minor sound design cues
· Deciding when to end your shift—or not
These elements influence how the game progresses, leading to subtle branches in narrative and tone.
Tension Built Through Restraint
The most powerful part of the game is how little it demands from the player. The fear doesn’t come from action, but from stillness. The hallway remains closed, but your mind fills in what might be behind it. Walt doesn’t yell—he simply stops talking. Time moves forward, but it feels like something is behind you. The game uses space and silence to its advantage, allowing you to project your own unease onto the scene.
A Small Story With Open Meaning
When Before Close ends, it leaves space for interpretation. You may leave the laundromat and continue your shift. Or you might decide to see what’s behind the door. The outcome depends not on solving puzzles but on how far you’re willing to go past the warning signs. That’s what makes the experience feel personal. It’s less about what happens—and more about what you choose to believe is possible.
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