The Banished Vault review: a brutal, brilliant management sim in space

It is over when I arrive at my 23rd Solar System. My small crew of exiles is running out of faith — a pillar of their monastic identity, as well as a core game mechanic. At a glance, the planetoids in this region of space don’t have the resources or land masses for me to build critical outposts or craft key items. I don’t have enough stasis — a liquid matrix that enables the exiles to survive the excruciating hibernation process between solar systems. The exiles will become weary, and eventually lose their ability to act, which is equivalent to curling up into a ball to wait to die.

The Vault that was BanishedThis is an essentially single-player scenario, which has evolved into a sadistic and intense tool for resource management and survivalism. Every solar system is an algorithmically generated test with the same spirit as that math question that asks you to transport a group and a hungry, wild lion in a single boat. It is The Art of War Written by a Dune-mentat spacegoth, this book is for logisticsians. The game is called “Dune” in my head. Punished Vault. It is the most grueling thing I’ve played in years, and I love it.

I’m in charge of the Auriga Vault, one of many enigmatic interstellar monastery cities that chart the universe. It was decimated by a Gloom-like entity that ate its planets. To document their trip, the exiles (the surviving crew of skeletons) have dedicated their last lives. For the Exiles to complete the game I have to help them complete 4 Chronicle entries within a building called the Scriptorium. This structure can only be constructed on a Hallowed Planet.

Every solar system is unique and has its own set of random conditions. Some of these feel like they were created by the devil. For example, young systems may have asteroids that are only one resource while older, dying systems will have longer travel time between planets. My team is tasked with gathering resources to build outposts, crafting items, and excavating artifacts in order to unlock the abilities of the planets.

A wide shot of the interstellar board in The Banished Vault, showing a monk in front of the Auriga Vault monastery, preparing for the player’s turn

Fuel and iron are critical, but things like titanium and silica can be a gamble — I sometimes find myself barreling into a system that lacks the one resource I need, with no way to move forward, which means restarting the whole game. As my journey continues, I have to roll the dice in order to avoid hazards that become more and more cruel. We will be attacked by the Gloom. It starts to swallow chunks of my geomantic maps after 30 turns.

My hyper-focus is aided by an atmospheric soundtrack featuring cavernous echo and voices of the cosmic choir. I’m generally bad at math, but for the sake of the Vault, I rally every cell in my left brain to action. Every mouse click is a commitment to its consequences, because there is no undo button — when I screw up, I have to start a new game. Every slightly misplaced building or minor miscalculation elicits a frisson of terror because I know I’m going to pay for it, dearly. With each restart, I wonder if the game is wildly over-tuned, or if my exiles are filthy heretics who aren’t meant to write their story. Most of my successful turns involve me being as tight as a tripwire and pumping as much faith-replenishing potion as possible without taking too many risks.

When I finally accept that space survival is a harsh and precise reality, all my frustrations vanish. The Vault that was Banished isn’t a territorial pissing contest or a cozy terraformer where I can settle down and make a home. It’s not a conquest, or a diplomatic mission. I don’t have armies and silos to stockpile a safety net — I don’t even have a single proverbial fat year to reap from, much less seven. To get to the solar system, I only need the barest minimum.

A screen showing four monks, along with their traits and descriptions, in The Banished Vault

With all of this perverse hardship, it makes sense to contemplate who or what I’m suffering for. Clicking on the 46-page guide allows me to quickly refer back to mechanics or building materials. However, it includes only a small amount of lore. The gorgeous black-and-white illustrations evoke the gothic sensibilities of William Blake’s engravings and the bleak unknowableness of these 1906 drawings for War of the Worlds. The intricate cross-hatching gives the manual a sort of Victorian, almost anthropological quality, like a painstakingly crafted companion to the exiles’ monastic duty to the Chronicle. The four Chronicle entries themselves offer no concrete answers or details about the exiles’ people — only tantalizingly vague bits and pieces mixed in with esoteric religious allegory. If the Auriga’s monks believed in a god or a specific higher power before the Gloom, it has forgotten them.

After completing my first playthrough I was both shocked and thrilled to discover two new game modes: Intense and Difficult. I’ve been playing Normal this whole time, which is a revelation to my internal masochism meter. I may not have signed up for sadistic 4D chess, but I’m not backing out now. Five minutes later, barely two turns into my first Intense game, I’m ready to boot my exiles out of the airlock into the arms of a kinder fate. Every difficulty gives the same amount of starting resources (fuel, iron, elixir, and so on), but dials up the number and intensity of hazards and complications at this level of play — my skull feels like it’s leaking.

After multiple restarts, I spend all 30 turns making barely enough stasis for everyone to survive; just as I’m ready to put the crew into hibernation, I realize we’ve left someone behind on an outpost. There are no chances to gather knowledge and upgrade my exiles to prepare them for the harshness of the next system. It will be even more difficult than the one we’re in now. It’s not my cup of tea, but I enjoy the time spent in its oppressive environment to create dramatic epiphanies about my crew.

A scenario arises in The Banished Vault, showing the spires of a castle-like structure on a barren world with a rising sun

If the exiles’ civilization set up this monastic exploration program as a means of colonization (à la the Alien Engineers), the Auriga Vault is the inevitable result of mortal hubris meeting cosmic entropy. There’s a sliver of sly delight in the inverted dynamic of these would-be colonizers fleeing before an all-consuming force obliterates them. There is no point in speculating on their flavor or religion, and how they spread virally across the galaxy through the colony vaults. I will never know anything meaningful about their home — the place to where the Chronicle is supposedly being transmitted. This is an elegant, minimalist story that’s both beautiful and effective.

The Vault that was BanishedIt is a lesson in space survival, where each movement counts. This game does not compromise in its determination to bend players to the will of their creators. And that is a good thing. I realize that the intangible, interstitial faith holding my exiles together has become fused with my own confidence in what I’m doing; I don’t care about parsing the minutiae of their civilization as much I care about having the chutzpah and half-assed math to pull us through.

The Vault that was Banished The Windows PC version will be available on 25 July. Bithell Games provided a PC pre-release code for the game. Vox Media is affiliated with other companies. Vox Media earns commissions from affiliate products, although this doesn’t influence the editorial content. Find out more about affiliate links. additional information about Polygon’s ethics policy here.