UMIGARI | ウミガリ

I didn't expect to spend hours stalking glowing fish in fog so thick I could barely see my own bow, but UMIGARI hooked me fast. Chilla's Art took their psychological-horror sensibilities and shoved them into a fishing loop — weird, oddly relaxing, and occasionally unsettling in the best way. If you like methodical gameplay, small scares, and the slow drip of upgrades, this one scratches a niche itch few games target. Think Stardew-lite economy meets quiet Lovecraftian moments on a tiny boat, and you're close to the vibe.

Harpooning at Dawn and Dusk

The core of UMIGARI is wonderfully simple but deceptively deep: you aim, time, and fire a harpoon, then wrestle the catch back to the boat while managing line tension and your own patience. Early sessions feel meditative — scan the fog, mark wakes, pick shots, and occasionally miss embarrassingly — but as you push into new waters different fish behaviors force you to adapt; some dart unpredictably, others feign death, and a few downright stalk you in a way that made me flinch. Between hauls you sell your catch, juggle fuel, and decide whether to shell out for a faster hull or a better harpoon tip, which turned the economic layer into a small, satisfying puzzle about risk versus reach. The estimated 2–4 hour length from the store page matches how the pacing lands: long enough to feel like a proper outing but short enough that each trip matters. Play often reduces to a pleasant loop of sighting, striking, hauling, upgrading — and repeating, but repetition here becomes ritual rather than tedium.

When the Sea Remembers Your Name

What sets UMIGARI apart are the little eccentricities that creep into a calm fishing sim: fish that react to your presence, items scattered on lonely shores that change how you approach a hunt, and the slow, uncanny reveal of stranger species as you push your fuel gauge further. The game sprinkles surreal touches — humanlike noises from a hooked catch, odd NPC radio chatter, and occasional sequences that tilt from cozy to genuinely eerie — and because the horror intensity is advertised as "Very Light," those moments land as deliciously unnerving rather than full-on terror. The upgrade tree doesn't feel tacked on; it gates exploration in a way that encourages curiosity, and discovering equipment on islands makes the world feel hand-crafted and worth poking at rather than a mere backdrop for fishing. I also appreciated how the game punishes silly bravado: ignore fuel, and your expedition becomes a desperate puzzle, ignore gear, and some fish will simply school and laugh at your puny harpoon (in spirit, at least).

Silence, Sound and Surface

Technically UMIGARI leans into atmosphere more than spectacle: fog, muted waves, creaking wood and subtle sound design do a lot of heavy lifting, and the art direction favors moody realism with occasional surreal flares that pop against the grey sea. On my PC the visuals were evocative — the water reflections and glow on certain fish are memorable — but I did run into performance complaints mentioned by other players, and some of the community flagged rough English translations that can make diary entries or radio chatter feel oddly stilted. Controls are crisp with mouse aiming and a tactile sense to every throw, though a few janky physics moments crop up (line clipping through geometry, odd water collisions) that seem like engine hiccups rather than design choices. Overall the presentation is intimate: it wants you leaning into the screen, listening for soft splashes and whispered lore, not gawking at pyrotechnics.

UMIGARI is a small, singular experience that turns fishing into a slow-burn moody trip across foggy seas — not for fans of jump-scare horror, but perfect if you like uncanny atmosphere and careful gameplay. Buy it if you enjoy methodical loops, exploration tied to progression, and odd little narrative crumbs; hold off if your rig struggles or you need perfect controller support right away. For me, it’s proof that Chilla's Art can still surprise by trying something new and making it feel distinctively theirs.