Sorry We’re Closed : Low Poly et Introspection
Sorry We’re Closed is an independent horror game that borrows from both the past and the present. It’s a deeply personal work, in which the themes of love, grief and reconstruction take precedence over traditional survival horror codes. The player takes on the role of Michelle, a young woman confronted by monsters that are direct metaphors for her inner struggles and complex relationships. From the very first minutes, the game strikes with its unexpected blend of intimate emotional exploration, coupled with a retro aesthetic inspired by the first steps of 3D in video games.
This blend of narrative introspection and stylized visuals is not just an aesthetic choice. It reveals itself at the heart of the experience. The art of low poly returns here not as gratuitous nostalgia, but as a visual language in its own right. Raw angles, pixelated textures and minimalist environments blend perfectly into this exploration of human emotions. Here, visual limitations expose the fragility of the game world, resonating with that of its heroine.
This review also takes place in a broader context. In recent years, a resurgence of the PlayStation 1 visual style has taken hold of the independent scene. This movement, often associated with horror games such as Paratopic or the Haunted PS1 Demo Disc collections, reinterprets these graphic limitations as a means of amplifying strangeness, ambiguity and unease. For independent developers, this style is an expressive tool, capable of conveying new ideas.
Sorry We’re Closed is part of this movement, with a clear identity. Where other games exploit the PS1 aesthetic to build deliberately abstract or chaotic worlds, this one focuses on something more real: human emotions. The game doesn’t just recall survival horror classics such as Silent Hill or Resident Evil; it borrows from them a way of building oppressive atmospheres while refocusing on universal, contemporary themes.
In this article, I’ll try to address both the work itself and the times in which it is set. The ever-changing independent video game often chooses to look back in order to reinvent the future. By exploring how Sorry We’re Closed uses low-poly visuals to enrich its narrative and mechanics, and placing it within the broader framework of retro resurgence, we’ll try to understand what this aesthetic really brings, and why it resonates so strongly today.
Narration introductive
The game from à la mode games (ed. note: the name of the studio that developed Sorry We’re Closed) places its emotional stakes at the heart of the experience. Through Michelle, players explore universal themes in a visceral way: love, loss, grief and the wounds left by complex relationships. The game chooses to make these narrative pillars, embodied as much in the dialogues as in the gameplay mechanics. Every interaction, every environment, every monster seems to be a direct extension of Michelle’s emotional state. These creatures are not mere adversaries to be eliminated, but manifestations of her inner struggles, like shadows cast by her fears and regrets.
The role of La Duchesse, a demon both antagonistic and enigmatic, amplifies this exploration. She embodies the idea of a constricting, oppressive love, a relationship where freedom seems compromised in favor of all-consuming affection. In this sense, the game seeks not only to tell a horror story, but also to deconstruct relational dynamics. This approach, both audacious and sincere, gives Sorry We’re Closed an introspective dimension that goes beyond simple storytelling.
Dialogue and side quests reinforce this emotional impact. Each line of text, though concise, resonates with a human truth. These ancillary moments, in which Michelle interacts with characters as varied as angels or demons in search of redemption or love, enrich the universe and deepen the main themes. The game’s inclusivity is affirmed not as a claim, but as a matter of course. Michelle, her relationships and the characters who gravitate around her reflect a diversity that seems natural, almost organic. Queer relationships are presented not as extraordinary elements, but as normal facets of this rich universe. By focusing on these connections, the game explores under-represented relationships while remaining rooted in an accessible narrative.
The link between these representations and LGBTQ+ themes is also significant. The game tackles the complexities of queer relationships with a rare sensitivity, exploring topics such as self-acceptance, power dynamics within relationships, and forms of love outside hetero-normative frameworks. This adds an extra layer to the story, giving queer players the opportunity to see themselves represented in an honest and nuanced way.
In my restless dreams, I see that town
The world of Sorry We’re Closed extends beyond its themes to construct a tangible space, where every visual and narrative element carries meaning. Human, angelic and demonic dimensions are not compartmentalized, but constantly interact. The streets and dungeons through which Michelle passes are reflections of her emotions, distorted mirrors that capture her internal struggles. Interactions with secondary characters reinforce this impression of a coherent world. Angels, often perceived as saving figures, are shown to be ambiguous, while demons, traditionally associated with evil, are shown in a more complex light, sometimes tinged with compassion or doubt. These contrasts give the universe an emotional weight that goes beyond the classic tropes of the genre.
The weight of emotional stakes is present in every aspect of world-building. The environments, though stylized, are charged with symbolism. The rough textures and angular shapes of the low-poly graphics serve to amplify this sense of a world both tangible and fragmented. It’s an aesthetic that, like its themes, explores human vulnerability in all its complexity.
Sorry We’re Closed’s gameplay, meanwhile, is based on a classic survival horror structure, but adds its own personal touches to reinforce its uniqueness. The player alternates between city exploration, environmental puzzles and forays into dungeons populated by monsters symbolizing Michelle’s traumas. This cycle, though inspired by the foundations laid by games like Silent Hill, is enriched by a design where every space seems charged with meaning. The environments are truly places inviting the player to search for clues, solve puzzles and understand the heroine’s internal conflicts.
A key mechanism, that of the “third eye”, fleshes out this exploration. This power enables Michelle to reveal hidden realities, details of the setting that would otherwise remain inaccessible. This mechanism is not limited to utilitarian functions; it is also part of the narrative. Activating the third eye means adopting a different perspective, forcing the player to see beyond appearances to reveal what’s hidden. This mechanical choice embodies the game’s central theme: facing up to your darkest truths, even those you’d prefer to ignore.
Confrontations take a bold but imperfect approach. During battles, the game switches to a first-person view, an abrupt transition that emphasizes the immediacy of confrontations. This perspective accentuates the intensity of combat, but can also be disorientating, especially for players accustomed to the third-person view of the rest of the game. This rupture is both an interesting gamble and a potential source of frustration.
The combat system is based on a very specific mechanic: each monster has a vulnerable “heart” that Michelle must target to defeat. While this idea reinforces the symbolism of opponents as manifestations of emotions, its execution is not always fluid. Vulnerable areas, often difficult to reach, require precision that contrasts with the character’s limited movements. As a result, battles sometimes become endurance exercises, where tension gives way to frustration. This difficulty is amplified by the absence of dodging or counter-attack mechanisms, forcing the player to adopt a sometimes laborious approach to the toughest enemies.
However, these imperfections don’t entirely tarnish the experience. The choice of combining exploration, puzzles and combat offers a diversity of gameplay that keeps the player engaged. Even if the combat system isn’t perfect, it serves the purpose of the game, where facing one’s fears is never supposed to be an easy task.
Retro aesthetics and the resurgence of PS1 aesthetics
The low-poly aesthetic adopted by Sorry We’re Closed acts as a visual language in its own right, a means of expression that takes advantage of the technical limitations of the PlayStation 1 era to produce environments and characters that are both abstract and evocative. Angular polygonal graphics and low-resolution textures, far from being perceived as weaknesses, become powerful tools for building a singular experience.
The minimalist environments, made up of simple geometric shapes and textures that are often deliberately blurred or repetitive, impose a visual reading in which the player’s imagination is constantly called upon. This stylistic abstraction creates spaces that seem both familiar and strange, reinforcing immersion while maintaining an ambiguous emotional distance. In Sorry We’re Closed, these graphics function as symbols, every visual detail becoming a reflection of the heroine’s inner struggles. The places Michelle passes through – from deserted alleyways to oppressive dungeons – are not designed to appear realistic, but to capture a sensation, an emotion.
This aesthetic choice follows in a tradition initiated by classics such as Silent Hill and Resident Evil, where technical limitations were sublimated to become vectors of tension. In these games, the graininess of the textures and the rigidity of the animations created an unease that went far beyond the creatures encountered. In the same way, Sorry We’re Closed uses low-poly aesthetics to amplify the strangeness of the world it depicts, while giving it an identity of its own.
This visual unease is a powerful tool in the arsenal of à la mode games. Where photorealistic graphics might seek to create a world where everything seems tangible and explicit, the low-poly aesthetic leaves room for ambiguity. Here, technical limitations become artistic choices: imprecise shadows, blurred outlines and limited animations are enough to suggest the threat without ever fully revealing it. It’s an approach that relies on what the player imagines, rather than what they see.
At the same time, this style awakens a particular nostalgia, recalling a time when video games were still defining their visual language. Gamers who grew up with consoles like the PlayStation 1 immediately recognize these graphics as familiar, but this comfort is quickly subverted by the way the game exploits this familiarity to provoke unease. This juxtaposition of nostalgia and strangeness gives Sorry We’re Closed a singular identity.
In recent years, the PS1 aesthetic has been making a strong comeback on the independent scene. Projects such as the Haunted PS1 Demo Disc and the Haunted PS1 Madvent Calendar bear witness to the growing interest among creators in this aesthetic, which goes far beyond mere homage. This movement is based on several factors. Firstly, nostalgia plays a key role: today’s developers and gamers often grew up with these games, and the PS1 aesthetic evokes a time when exploration and experimentation were at the heart of videogame design.
Then there’s the question of accessibility. Producing low-poly graphics requires fewer resources than ultra-realistic models, enabling small studios to concentrate their efforts on narrative or mechanical innovation. This economy of means is often compensated for by overflowing creativity, where every visual detail, no matter how minimal, carries meaning.
Finally, this aesthetic is part of a quest for artistic innovation. Where photorealism tends to standardize the visual experience, low poly offers a creative freedom that allows for multiple interpretations. In works such as Paratopic, this aesthetic is used to create an unsettling, dreamlike world, while games such as Faith adopt an even more stripped-down style to evoke the medium’s first steps. These examples show that low poly is not limited to reproducing an era, but has become a tool for reinventing videogame narrative.
Sorry We’re Closed is in line with this trend, but also adds its own voice. Where games like Paratopic or Faith rely on retro visuals to plunge the player into purely abstract or dystopian worlds, Sorry We’re Closed takes a step sideways. The aim is not only to confuse or destabilize the player, but also to move him or her. Low-poly graphics are not just tools for amplifying strangeness: here, they become vectors of intimacy. Angular shapes and simple textures don’t divert the player’s attention, but draw them to the essential: Michelle’s relationships, her struggles and her emotional journey. It’s a kind of retro PS1 minimalism that helps to focus on the story and the human side of Michelle.
This is where the game stands out. It uses the PS1 aesthetic not simply as a framework for telling a story, but as a direct extension of its themes. Where Paratopic plays on oppression and ambiguity, Sorry We’re Closed chooses a more human, introspective approach. This choice gives the game an unusual warmth in a style often associated with coldness or strangeness.