I played Doom VFR for an hour while wearing a US Air Force cold-weather flight jacket in a room with poor ventilation. I was deep in the third circle of game heck: I was hot, I had a torture contraption on my face, and I was playing Doom. To cap it all off, the room was soundproof, meaning no one could hear me scream.

Did I enjoy Doom VFR? Well, no. I did not. The game’s controls are ridiculous. Doom is as much about turbo-fast movement as it is about pulling shotgun triggers. Wrangling Doomguy’s sprint-hungry lower body into a point-and-click teleportation movement scheme is a hobbling of criminal proportions. Combine this with the necessity to physically rotate your body to look at enemies—looking at them being the first step in the 3-step “Recognize, point, shoot” method of noob-owning—and you’ve thrown the proverbial phonebook-sized Doom movement bible out the window of a hot rod doing a hundred down a midnight freeway.

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If you’ve played Doom, you know that evil is everywhere, especially all around you. Half a minute into my first fight in Doom VFR, my corporeal form was wrapped up in cords. As the HTC Vive controllers vibrated with every pull of a trigger, rubberized electricity vessels hugged and tugged me this way and that. Every once in a while, my nose grazed the green screen. Getting shot at from behind within this layer cake of nightmares was especially gruesome. Gone was the muscle memory of my mousing hand, born was a new discombobulation. Slowly and without grace, the huge guts that were ripped and torn were my own. Here was a fourth circle of heck: the circle of no longer knowing thyself.

Doom VFR is a nightmare inside a nightmare. It ices its own devilish pastry by way of asking you to find a whole darn deck of key cards right at the beginning of the experience, letting the player’s murder-hunger congeal and fester. In 1993, with Doom on the family PC and The Lawnmower Man in the family VCR, teenage me had only one dream, and it was disgusting: to lie in a hospital bed with cyber-goggles shutting out stupid reality, cackling again and again as demon freaks burst into simmering chunks upon witnessing my gun. 24 years later, here I am, hot in a soundproof box, scouring the floor for key cards.

Do you want to watch me suffer? Do you want to hear the petty complaints of a human individual who has just had everything they know about a game shredded like so many sensitive documents? Do you just want to ogle my museum-grade reproduction of a 1963 USAF MA-1 flight jacket? If any of these apply to you, click play on the video above and enjoy your treat.

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In closing, Doom (2016) is one of my favorite games of the last decade, and I strongly recommend you play it on a nicely-sized computer monitor or a massive television.