Cultist Simulator

Cultist Simulator is what happens when a Victorian séance, a government blacksite, and a bag of tarot cards get into a knife fight, and you’re the dealer, the medium, and the sacrifice. There’s no tutorial here, just a cold table, a few cryptic cards, and the creeping certainty that you’ve already done something terribly wrong.

You don’t play Cultist Simulator. You conspire with it.

Every card is a noun. Every tile a verb. Work, Study, Dream. Feed your reason to dusty grimoires or paint nightmares onto canvas for quick cash. Promote your favorite barista to high priest. Poison the detective poking around your doorstep. You’ll fail. Die. Wake up again. This time, as a priest. Or a dancer. Or an exile, clutching a suitcase full of regrets and very illegal artifacts.

It’s a game of clocks and coffins. Timers tick like ritual drums. They birth dread, disease, or—on better days—revelation. Want to live forever? Get in line. Want to eat a god? Bring a fork.

Cultist Simulator doesn’t explain itself, and that’s its seduction. Like a dream you can’t quite shake or a fever you don’t want to break, it lures you deeper with each obscure success. Until you’re scribbling on napkins, muttering about “Moth aspects” and “The Watchman’s Sorrow” in public.

It’s solitaire, if solitaire whispered back.