Imagine walking into an exhibition and immediately being thrown into a post-apocalyptic world where society has collapsed into factions — each convinced they’re the only ones who got it right.
Red, blue and yellow lights buzz against your skin like they’re trying to reprogram you. The artworks seem to watch you back. You can’t tell if it’s their breath adjusting to yours or yours to theirs. Everything feels too honest, too close. You stay away, but you want more — to understand why the so-called “quiet room,” at the back of the gallery, meant for rest and reflection, feels like the set of a sadomasochistic ritual.
At one point, I half-expected a procession of latex-clad prophets to crawl out from behind the screens and start giving orders. I’m not sure if I liked it. Thinking about it now… if that performance had happened, I probably would’ve stayed. Apparently, the exhibition unlocked a part of my brain I didn’t know existed.
Instead of quietly staring at art, you end up playing it — debating, negotiating, and occasionally arguing with strangers about who to trust, what to censor, and how to survive together. It’s part video game, part performance, part social experiment. Satirical, absurd, and uncomfortably close to reality.
In the end, you realise it’s less about the games and more about the people next to you — all of us NPCs pretending to have main-character energy.