| No, I'm Not A Human | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Release Date | Gameplay & Story | Pre-Order & DLC | Review |
No, I'm Not A Human Review Overview
What is No, I'm Not A Human?
No, I’m Not A Human is a social deduction and strategy game set in a world where humanity is on the brink of extinction. Players must carefully observe subtle details like eyes, teeth, nails, armpits, and mannerisms to separate genuine humans from dangerous Visitors hiding in plain sight.
No, I'm Not A Human features:
⚫︎ Horror Social Deduction
⚫︎ Randomly Generated Identities
⚫︎ Day-Night Cycle
⚫︎ Confined Setting
⚫︎ Resource Management Through Limited Energy
⚫︎ 10 Endings
For more gameplay details, read everything we know about No, I'm Not A Human's gameplay and story.
| Digital Storefronts | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
 Steam |
 PlayStation |
 Xbox |
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| $14.99 | Wishlist Only | ||||
No, I'm Not A Human Pros & Cons
| Pros | Cons |
|---|---|
 Strong and Tense Atmosphere Memorable Uncanny Cast Good Apocalyptic Premise |
Limited Save System No Option to Test People at the Door Certain Endings are Abrupt |
No, I'm Not A Human Story - 7/10
The world-building is strong, with the solar flare premise and Visitors creating a compelling backdrop for paranoia. Its dialogue and dreamlike tone deepen the unease, drawing you in right away. But the way certain endings conclude can feel jarring, sometimes skipping logic in how events connect.
No, I'm Not A Human Gameplay - 6/10
The day-and-night cycle makes for tense, strategic choices, especially with limited energy for testing people. The peephole conversations, radio, and deliveries all add flavor to survival. Still, flaws like not being able to test visitors at the door, the kombucha save system, and occasional logic gaps hold it back.
No, I'm Not A Human Visuals - 8/10
The grotesque, uncanny style perfectly fits the game’s paranoid tone and makes characters stick in your memory. While not technically flashy, the warped art direction does most of the heavy lifting. Minor bugs and rough edges keep it from being flawless.
No, I'm Not A Human Audio - 7/10
The soundscape amplifies the tension beautifully, with bleak audio design that captures isolation and dread. Radio snippets and off-kilter knocks at the door do a lot of atmospheric work. Still, the background music tends to fade into something you stop noticing after a few runs, dulling its impact over time.
No, I'm Not A Human Value for Money - 7/10
With 10 endings, shuffled characters, and 1-3 hour runs, replayability is a real strength. At $14.99, it offers plenty of content for players who enjoy experimenting with choices and outcomes. That said, uneven gameplay and bugs slightly reduce its long-term pull, keeping it from a higher score.
No, I'm Not A Human Overall Score - 70/100
No, I'm Not A Human thrives on paranoia, atmosphere, and replayability, making it an easy recommendation for horror fans. The experience lingers thanks to its mood and premise, even if its systems sometimes stumble. At $14.99, it delivers a memorable, uneven but worthwhile descent into mistrust.
No, I'm Not A Human Review: Nightmare You Won’t Want to Wake Up From
Paranoia in Apocalypse Stories
The end of the world—or at least the start of it—always makes for a good story. I don’t know what it is about apocalyptic setups that keep pulling us back in. Maybe it’s the thrill of seeing how quickly everything unravels, or maybe it’s that deep, uncomfortable reminder that survival often brings out the worst in people. In monster horror especially, it’s never just the creatures you have to worry about. The teeth, the claws, the grotesque things crawling in the dark—sure, those will kill you. But it’s the paranoia, the mistrust, and the desperate people clinging to whatever scraps of control they can find that really stick with me.
We’ve seen it over and over again: The Walking Dead, The Mist, even old classics like Night of the Living Dead. The monsters are frightening, but end up just becoming theatrical scenery, the real terror comes from what the survivors do to each other when the world starts rotting apart. So, before I even sat down with No, I'm Not A Human, months before the game’s release as I anticipated when I’ll finally be able to get my hands on the game, I had one big question circling in my head: how does this game tackle that balance? Does it lean into the horror of the creatures themselves, or does it push me into the kind of uneasy, suspicious interactions that make human beings just as terrifying as the apocalypse itself?
House That Feels Like a Cage
No, I'm Not A Human wastes no time laying down its rules. The premise is brutally simple, a massive solar flare has scorched the earth, turning the daytime world into a burning wasteland. That alone would be enough to push humanity to the brink, but then night falls—and that’s when the Visitors come. Crawling out of the shadows, these creatures slip into the cracks of what’s left, looking for ways in.
From the very beginning, I wasn’t alone in figuring out how to survive. My neighbor, a quiet presence in this broken world, set the ground rules early on: trust other humans, never let a Visitor cross the threshold. It’s such a small, almost comforting guideline—like someone reminding you to lock the door at night—but in a setting like this, it carries a heavy weight.
And the entire game traps you in this tight, claustrophobic little box of a house. Bedroom, office, kitchen, living room, bathroom… that’s your whole world now. At first, it almost feels safe, like maybe I can just hole up here and let the apocalypse pass me by. But that sense of safety is a trick. The walls don’t keep the tension out; they just bottle it up, let it simmer until every creak of the floorboards or shift in the shadows makes you wonder if you’re really alone.
That’s where No, I'm Not A Human gets under your skin—not with sweeping landscapes or grand battlefields, but with isolation. With the way the house feels too quiet, too still, and how quickly that false sense of security begins to unravel.
Suspicion is the Gameplay Loop
When I settled into No, I'm Not A Human, the rhythm of the day quickly became my lifeline, and also my curse. Everything runs on a day-and-night cycle, and each side of that loop brings its own flavor of dread.
Night is when the world outside stirs to life. Because of the solar flare scorching the Earth, the daytime is a death sentence, so people—or what I hoped were people—roam only when the sun is down. That’s when they come knocking on my door. I’d lean into the peephole and start interrogating them. The conversations are brief but heavy, little verbal dances where you’re left wondering if the tone is just "off," if the eyes don’t quite look right, if the words don’t belong to a human at all. Most of the time, it’s the players’ decision to either let them in or send them away. But every so often, the game twists the knife and takes that choice from me. No matter what I said, no matter how sharp my suspicions were, the stranger would force their way in.
Night is also when I’d crack the windows open and get a peek at the ruined world outside. The city streets, the flickers of movement, the strange stillness between sounds, it doesn’t change no matter what little dialogue I choose, but it paints the stage. It’s the only time I could remind myself there’s more out there than this tiny apartment, even if what’s out there is worse.
Daytime flips the script. With the doors locked and the monsters hidden away, the focus shifts inside. Tinkering the radio became a habit, tossing out scraps of news or hints about what’s happening beyond the walls of the house. This is also the time to call your neighbor or other hotlines for more information. You can also order deliveries which come at night, coffee to squeeze out more energy, alcohol that dulled my edge, cat food to keep one very persistent feline happy.
Daytime is also when the real detective work begins. Every survivor who crosses my threshold is a question mark, and the only way to chip away at that doubt is through tests. Eyes. Teeth. Ears. Nails. Each one a clue, each one a possible tell. But here’s the catch: every test costs energy, and energy is scarce. On most days I only had two checks to spend. If I’d downed enough coffee, maybe I could stretch it to three, on rare days even four—but it never was consistent. Every time I weigh the risk, do I burn my energy testing this quiet, seemingly normal person, or save it for the shifty guy lingering in the kitchen? The game forces those hard calls constantly, and the paranoia never really goes away.
Cracks and Shadows
So far, so good, right? The game had me hooked with its atmosphere, its paranoia, its constant second-guessing. But after my fifth, maybe sixth run, the shine started to wear off, and I began wishing No, I'm Not A Human had pushed its mechanics just a little further.
Take conversations, for example. I spent time interrogating my tenants about where they came from, what they’d been through, trying to piece together their backgrounds like a detective pinning strings to a corkboard. But the problem is, it didn’t really matter. Whether I dug deep into their stories or brushed them off entirely, the overall experience didn’t change much. It’s the kind of system that feels like it should matter, but the weight just isn’t there.
Then there’s saving. Or rather, the lack of saving. Technically, you can save by drinking kombucha—which sounds funny on paper, but in practice it’s a chore. Kombucha is a resource you have to spend, and most of the time I didn’t want to waste an order slot on it when I needed coffee to stay sharp or cat food to keep the feline happy (especially when you can only order one item per call). What I really wanted was a proper autosave or manual save system that didn’t force me into a tradeoff. As it is, every time I wanted to chase a different ending, I had to restart from the very beginning and drag myself back through the early days I’d already seen. It slowed the momentum to a crawl.
The testing system has its own cracks, too. I couldn’t test anyone at the door. All those eye checks, nail checks, and ear inspections had to happen inside the house, during the day, at the cost of precious energy. It felt strange, because the mechanics are based on physical appearance, you’d think it would make sense to ask to see those details through the peephole. That way I could filter more carefully before opening the door, instead of wasting all my limited tests on people who were already inside. On the flip side, I get why the devs did it, it keeps the tension high. When someone dies during the night and I don’t know which of my guests is to blame, the paranoia is almost unbearable. But still, I couldn’t help but imagine a smarter, more natural way to handle it.
And then there were the inconsistencies. A few times, the game bent its own logic so badly it broke immersion. I had a visitor ask me if I was alone in the house. I lied and said no, even though there were people in the living room. and the game just… believed me. The whole sequence played out as if I were alone, completely ignoring the actual state of my run. It’s moments like that where the seams really showed.
The delivery system tripped up too. Orders would say they’d arrive the next night but show up immediately. Even worse, the hotline would tell me days later that I still had pending orders when I tried to make a new purchase, therefore they can’t process a new order request, making me miss out on important buys. Bugs like that didn’t ruin the game, but they chipped away at the tension, pulling me out of the flow every time I caught the system contradicting itself.
Even the writing had its uneven spots. Some lines landed beautifully, subtle and unsettling in just the right way. But other times it swung too far in the opposite direction—either hammering a point so bluntly it lost its bite, or going cryptic to the point of confusion. In a game built on atmosphere and dialogue, those inconsistencies stood out more than I wanted them to.
No, I'm Not A Human never fully collapsed under these flaws, but after several playthroughs, I found myself sighing at the rough edges instead of leaning into the tension. It’s a reminder that even a great concept can stumble when the details don’t quite line up.
Perfected the Atmosphere
For all the cracks in its systems, No, I'm Not A Human succeeds where it matters most: atmosphere. The game doesn’t just tell you to be paranoid, it makes you live in paranoia. Every night, when that knock hit the door and a stranger started speaking through the peephole, I felt my stomach tighten. Their words weren’t always overtly threatening. Sometimes they were odd, sometimes oddly normal, but never quite right. That uncanny cadence is what really got under my skin. The longer I played, the more I stopped trusting not just the strangers at the door, but even the people I’d already let inside.
That unease is what fuels the game’s replayability. Characters and roles shuffle each run, and the randomness ensures no two playthroughs are entirely the same. The faces might look familiar, but what they actually are shift just enough to keep me guessing. Even on my fourth or fifth playthrough, I’d catch myself thinking, Wait, was this guy safe last time? Or am I about to invite something monstrous into my home? It’s a trick that never lost its edge.
A huge part of that comes from the atmosphere, which does most of the heavy lifting. The visuals are grotesque in just the right way—not gory, but uncomfortable, uncanny. Character models have this slightly warped, dreamlike quality, like they’ve been pulled from a nightmare and plopped down in front of me. The environments are equally unsettling, familiar rooms but drained of comfort, like the walls themselves are suffocating me.
The audio seals it. There’s this bleak, washed-out soundscape humming behind everything I do, amplifying the isolation. At times, it reminded me of Everywhere at the End of Time by The Caretaker, where the music itself becomes an echo of loss and distance. Here, the sound doesn’t just decorate the game, it reinforces the paranoia. Every creak, every distorted broadcast on the radio, every off-beat knock at the door felt like a subtle reminder that I wasn’t safe.
Thematically, it all ties together into something potent. The premise—an apocalypse where the monsters walk among us, indistinguishable from the humans we’re meant to trust—is strong enough on its own. But what elevates it is how the game leans into dread, uncertainty, and paranoia. At its best, No, I'm Not A Human reminded me of That’s Not My Neighbor mashed with cosmic and psychological horror, a game where the impossibility of certainty traps you in a loop you can’t ever truly master.
And that’s the magic here. For all the flaws, all the repetition, all the little bugs, the game still pulled me in because it nails that dreamlike, paranoid tone. It’s the kind of experience where even stepping away from the screen, I found myself replaying conversations in my head, wondering if I’d made the right choices. Wondering if anyone, in a world like this, could ever really know.
Is No, I'm Not A Human Worth It?
Dreadful and Unforgettable
When I step back from No, I'm Not A Human, what lingers isn’t the flaws, it’s the atmosphere. The paranoia, the dread, that awful suspicion creeping in whenever someone knocked at the door. It’s not a game about mastery or clean mechanics; it’s a game about uncertainty. And in that regard, it delivers.
That’s not to say it’s without issues. The repetition sets in by the fifth or sixth run. The save system, tied to kombucha of all things, is more frustrating than clever. Testing mechanics feel unnecessarily restrictive, and bugs can break the immersion in ways that sting. It’s not polished, and sometimes the seams show too clearly.
But for $14.99, the experience it offers is worth it if you’re the kind of player who values mood, story, and tension over mechanical perfection. It’s replayable thanks to its shuffled characters and multiple endings, and it creates moments of genuine dread—something many horror games aim for but rarely achieve. If you’re chasing a perfectly balanced survival loop, this might not scratch that itch. But if you’re looking for a paranoid, dreamlike descent into mistrust and survival, No, I'm Not A Human makes a strong case for itself.
In the end, I’d call it uneven but unforgettable. A game that succeeds in pulling you into its nightmare world, even as you grumble at its flaws. For me, that’s enough.
| Digital Storefronts | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Steam |
PlayStation |
Xbox |
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| $14.99 | Wishlist Only | ||||
No, I'm Not A Human FAQ
How Many Characters Will You Meet in No, I'm Not A Human?
There are a total of 56 characters you can encounter throughout the game.
What Are the Endings Based On?
You’ll unlock different endings depending on how you interact with certain characters, such as the tall Visitor, the Cult Leader, and others.
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No, I'm Not A Human Product Information
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| Title | No, I'm Not A Human |
|---|---|
| Release Date | September 16, 2025 |
| Developer | Trioskaz |
| Publisher | CRITICAL REFLEX |
| Supported Platforms | PC, PS5, Xbox Series X|S |
| Genre | Horror, Simulation |
| Number of Players | 1 |
| ESRB Rating | TBD |
| Official Website | No, I'm Not A Human Website |
