I remember the first time I booted up Dying Light 2, feeling that immediate rush of power as Aiden Caldwell. With his expansive parkour moveset and combat abilities totaling around 35 distinct skills, I was vaulting over zombies and slicing through hordes with what felt like supernatural grace. That experience stands in stark contrast to my first hours with The Beast, where I found myself playing as Kyle—a character who isn't necessarily less capable, but whose skill tree is noticeably more constrained, featuring roughly 18 core abilities. This deliberate design choice creates a completely different dynamic, one that I've come to appreciate even though it kicked my butt multiple times during those initial sessions.
There were moments in The Beast where I'd round a corner only to find eight or nine basic zombies shambling toward me, and my immediate instinct was to fight. But Kyle's limited stamina bar—draining after just 5-6 consecutive attacks—forced me to reconsider that approach constantly. I can vividly recall one particular encounter where I got surrounded near an abandoned warehouse, my heart pounding as I desperately parried and dodged, realizing I couldn't simply power through like I might have in other games. That panicked retreat to a nearby safe house, barely making it with my health down to about 15%, taught me more about The Beast's design philosophy than any tutorial ever could.
What fascinates me about this approach is how it reshapes the player's relationship with the game world. In many zombie titles, you eventually become an unstoppable force, mowing down enemies with barely a second thought. The Beast rejects that power fantasy in favor of something more grounded and, frankly, more terrifying. Kyle feels vulnerable in a way that makes every encounter meaningful. I found myself actually planning routes through the city, scanning for escape options before engaging enemies, and thinking twice about whether that supply cache was worth the risk when I spotted six zombies guarding it.
The combat system reinforces this vulnerability beautifully. Where Aiden in Dying Light 2 might have seven different finishing moves at his disposal, Kyle has maybe three core combat techniques that need to be used strategically. I learned this the hard way when I tried to take on a group of four zombies early on, thinking I could handle them with basic combos. Two minutes later, I was sprinting away with barely any health, having realized that direct confrontation against multiple enemies is essentially suicide in The Beast's early hours. This isn't a game where you can hack through crowds without careful consideration—every swing matters, every dodge counts, and managing that precious stamina becomes as important as watching your health bar.
Personally, I hope this design direction represents where the series is headed. There's something uniquely compelling about surviving through cleverness and restraint rather than pure power. I've noticed myself becoming more attached to Kyle precisely because of his limitations—his victories feel earned in a way that Aiden's sometimes didn't. When I successfully navigated a particularly dense zombie area using only stealth and careful parkour, avoiding combat entirely, the satisfaction was immense. It reminded me of those tense moments in classic survival horror games where resources were scarce and every decision carried weight.
The parkour system reflects this philosophy too. While Kyle can't access the flashy, high-flying moves of some other protagonists, his movement feels grounded and consequential. I'll never forget the time I misjudged a jump between buildings, falling just short and tumbling into an alleyway swarming with infected. That single mistake cost me 20 minutes of progress and several valuable resources, but it also taught me to respect the environment in a way I hadn't before. The Beast doesn't coddle you, and that's precisely what makes its moments of success so rewarding.
As I've sunk about 45 hours into The Beast now, I've come to appreciate how its systems work in concert to create this consistently tense experience. Even with upgraded skills and better equipment, that underlying vulnerability never completely disappears—it just evolves. You might gain the ability to take down one additional zombie before needing to retreat, or unlock a slightly more efficient climbing technique, but the fundamental challenge remains. This careful balance is what keeps me coming back, even after multiple frustrating deaths that had me putting down the controller for a breather.
Looking at the broader gaming landscape, I see The Beast as part of a welcome trend toward more thoughtful, measured action games. Where many titles focus on empowering players through endless progression systems, this game understands that true satisfaction often comes from overcoming genuine challenges. The constrained skill tree isn't a limitation—it's a deliberate design choice that shapes every aspect of the experience. If you're coming from more power-fantasy oriented games, the adjustment might be jarring at first, but stick with it. That moment when everything clicks, when you successfully navigate a hostile area through smart movement and selective engagement, is gaming magic of the highest order.
My advice for newcomers? Embrace the vulnerability. Don't fight The Beast's systems—learn to work within them. Those panicked retreats from zombie hordes aren't failures; they're learning experiences that teach you the game's language. Pay attention to your surroundings, conserve your stamina, and remember that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is run away to fight another day. This approach might not be for everyone, but for players craving a survival experience that genuinely makes you feel like you're surviving against the odds, The Beast delivers in spades. I'm genuinely excited to see where the developers take this philosophy in future installments, because what they've created here feels special—challenging, yes, but special in a way that sticks with you long after you've put down the controller.
