I grew up with a large backyard. There was—what seemed to my then twelve-year-old brain—an endless amount of forest that was split in two by a rather large, winding creek. I spent endless hours exploring every nook and cranny of these woods. Sun, rain, or snow; you could find me back there turning over rocks and watching animals from a distance. I loved it. In my suburban upbringing, I had this small personal slice of the unknown and I did my best to make it known, but you can never wholly know nature. It just is. We find our place in it. These woods were my favorite place to be (I’d even go back there and play my Gameboy Advance while sitting on a felled tree).

Yet, the woods scared me and still do scare me. There was always a slight uneasiness underneath the bucolic charm of the tree canopy and flowing creek. What has happened here that no one will ever know? Am I really alone out here? Why do I feel like I’m being watched? My mind was always filled with questions such as these, and ever since my days spent in those woods I’ve sought out media that captures the beautiful-yet-uneasy nature of forests and woodlands. The piece of media that emulated this feeling the best, as it turns out, is The Witcher 3. 

Forests, in video games at least, are usually just places of exploration—just another landscape you pass through on the way to an important waypoint or story event. But in The Witcher 3, forests feel alive, as if they are living and breathing things, and every inch of green-space feels well realized. There is a point to every tree, rock, and stump littered across the game-world. Deers and rabbits are often seen grazing about and, more often than not, they are heard. That familiar sound of an animal rustling through the underbrush on the forest floor is so well done that every time I hear it I’m drawn back to the woods I grew up in, and am filled with a sense of elation and fear at what could be making those sounds. It was usually a rabbit or a squirrel, but sometimes it was a coyote or a fox.

Yet, in The Witcher 3 far more evil creatures stomp about underneath the forest’s canopy. Werewolves, ghouls, bandits, and the like. What makes coming across a fantastical beast in the woods so jilting and intense is the fact that the forests are so well realized and realistic that I am always shocked that such mythical creatures can exist in such a normal place. That is the charm of the woods. Anything can exist there. The woods seem infinite, every piece of foliage has a story to tell, and The Witcher 3 capitalizes on this in more ways than one. 

The woods in The Witcher 3 are finite. They are not endless. Pockmarked with villages and leveled where grand cities now stand, or where monumental battles have been fought, the touch of human change can be almost always be seen. The forest may feel vast and ever-going, but there is usually a sign of human life over most knolls or in the depths of valleys or under rickety bridges. It is in these signs of life that the forest takes on a new form. It becomes a canvas for stories; stories of all types. Abandoned villages tell tales of plague and monster infestation. Random carcasses speak of unlucky travelers and no-longer-hungry monsters. Crackling fires in the depths of the thickest wood give way to combat encounters where bandits are cleaved in twain by firelight—the orange hue of the fire flickers off of Geralt’s polished steel blade as he swings and stabs.

These random stories told through the land itself—through the forest—makes the unknown of the woods feel known. Yes, there is a sense of horror there, or better yet, a sense of encroaching dreadful melancholy. As the woods shrink, monsters grow restless and, in the world of The Witcher, violence, and debauchery follows humans wherever they go. This sort of holistic degraded humanity is, in fact, deeply disturbing, but it still pales in comparison to the vast unknown. Forests are rich with unknowability. Yes, humans may populate the vast hills and countryside of The Witcher 3, but there is still an aura of the unknown that hangs heavy on every tree branch in the game. It is in this uncharted territory that The Witcher 3 excels in making forests, well, terrifying on a base and all-too-human level.

There are still areas untouched by humanity in The Witcher 3. Deep in the various forests of the RPG, there is a brilliant and all-consuming sense of loneliness. It is a form of melancholy that anyone who has spent time alone in the woods will instantly be familiar with. But that melancholy can turn to fear in the blink of an eye, or in the snap of a twig just barely in earshot. Knowing that one is far from alone while deep within a forest, far from other people, is deeply unsettling, and now knowing what lies behind every tree and over every hill is scary. This unknowability is placed into the forests of The Witcher 3 in such a way that it is often worse to not know what is making noise in the distance than what is. For if Geralt knows what is howling a few hundred yards away, then he can prepare for a fight or take the long way around the source of the sound.

But what of silent watchers, the things that lurk? Most creatures in the woods do not want to be seen—this extends to certain beasts in The Witcher 3. Unknowable fears made manifest turns the player into the prey, and the unease that comes with such a realization is often unshakeable; especially if one finds themselves stumbling through the dark by torchlight. Yet, The Witcher 3 rewards facing the unknown. The Geralt who is steadily heading ever onwards into the vast green unknown will often return to society with spiffy new armor, or some relic-like sword. Rewarding fear makes the tension all the more worth it, and all the more heightened, for if you are bested by a foul beast deep within the woods you may never find that exact spot again. There is a fleeting sadness in that. 

As I steer Roach headlong into the uncharted wilderness, I’m welcomed with the sound of wind whipping through tree branches above Geralt’s head. This sound is relaxing. It means that I’m inching closer and closer to the unknown. Am I scared of what lies just out of sight behind yonder trees or in a cave someplace? Yes, but there are new slices of wilderness to see and fall in love with. I want to find my own piece of bucolic joy, unseen and unknown by anyone else. Plus, Geralt is a witcher—what is there to fear? Unlike the woods I grew up in, these digital forest-scapes will always be here. Geralt will die, he will respawn, and he’ll push back against the unknown once more. My childhood woods may have been filled with less werewolves, but they were scary nonetheless. Yet, what is the scariest to me now is the fact that the unknowability of those woods is no longer. My old backyard of a winding creek and vast woodlands is now another slice of urban development.