On top of that, there is no generous signposting in the complex instead, each player shares a map that can be drawn on it with their cursor, as if they're stewing over a midnight D&D session. It’s exemplified by the fact that, just to get oriented in each zone, one party member will need to jump onto one of the terminals littered around the compound, log in, and use a DOS command prompt to, say, locate health packs or uncover a keycard. GTFO is a loud, proud step in the reverse direction, and that is perhaps its greatest strength among those of us who appreciate it.
We’ve watched games become increasingly streamlined over the years, with even the likes of Monster Hunter losing some of its trademark impenetrability. It is one of the most frustrating trials I've endured in a co-op video game – but the more GTFO breaks my heart, the more I've developed a dangerous taste for its unwavering cruelty. I have watched a number of pick-up groups disintegrate by the forth or fifth attempts as it became abundantly clear that our coordination simply wasn't up to snuff. I have watched a friend get trigger happy and wipe the group with an errant team kill in a narrow hallway.
I have watched my comrades crumble at the 98th percentile as a final wave proved too much for our dwindling ammunition. An absolute onslaught of horrific aberrations lays siege to your defenses as GTFO demonstrates just how mean it can be. The circle lazily paths through the damp corridors and stairwells, and the party of four crams together in its borders, staring down iron sights, shooting at anything that moves.
An orange circle appears on the floor, and everyone needs to stand in it at the same time to fill up a bar at the top of the screen. At the end of C1, one of the many brutal missions currently available in GTFO, your expedition team will be trapped at the bottom of a long-forsaken botany lab.
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