Every action you take drains it, and drains it quickly, so keeping the lights on or the doors closed for half of your shift means the power to the whole place gets killed about 20 seconds before you do, in one of the most sudden and terrifying jump scares ever executed in any medium. The trick of it all is the battery bar at the bottom of the screen. Close the doors, turn on the lights outside your office, and wait for Freddy or one of the others to wander away. When they're not-and the fear instinct that comes with realizing that will serve you well here-your job is simply self-preservation.

Your job is to flit back and forth between the security cameras, ensuring all the wacky animatronic characters are where they're supposed to be, which is in the back room.

And even then, this man's reasonable tone when talking about people being stuffed into the metal suits, or when describing a disturbing incident called 'The Bite of '87,' puts you on edge.īut then his message is over, and the real game begins. But for a few minutes, all is well, thanks to a recorded message left for you each night by your predecessor, a guy with a business-casual midwestern lilt who gives you a basic rundown on your duties and the morbid history of the place. Before anything out of the ordinary even happens, every synapse in your brain is sending the message that you do not want to be here. The game is well aware of just how unsettling the bright multicolored fantasy objects we hoist onto children on a regular basis are in the right light, and your first look around at Freddy Fazbear's Funtime Palace-empty, dimly lit, and derelict-is a little chilling. It's nerve-wracking even before the real terror starts. (And that's if you decide you're safe enough to keep open the metal doors that you can lock down if you detect any threats.) This is Five Nights At Freddy's in a nutshell, but even that explanation doesn't begin to express just how nerve-wracking an experience it is. Cheese called Freddy Fazbear's that has just enough electrical power to keep the desklight and the security cameras running between the hours of 12 a.m. And instead of having all of Disney's power and money to shut down any attempted Electric Parade uprisings posthaste, you're working at a second-rate Chuck E. Now imagine your job is to watch over those creepy mascots at night. Imagine that underneath Mickey Mouse's exterior was nothing but a soulless, poorly programmed automaton, and that it might toss the first person it sees into an empty cartoon suit full of grinding metal and gears. At least there's an actual, live, profusely sweaty human under Mickey's cool exterior. A parent attempts to sue some family establishment (like a theme park or a restaurant) because a child was traumatized when he saw a wandering mascot not wearing its massive cartoon head.

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