93, Kuindzhi

(Note: The subsequent analysis contains significant narrative spoilers. For those seeking an unclouded perspective, I strongly advise personal engagement with the game prior to further reading.)

“I don't need a hero, Tyomka, I just need my son.”

Delivered during an early-game phone conversation with his mother, this one sentence establishes the tone arguably more strongly than the protagonist’s monologue in the preceding moments.

Admittedly, 93, Kuindzhi is hardly a game in the traditional sense. There is no high score to attain, no complex mechanic to master, and most interestingly (given the nature of the setting) not a single bullet is fired by the player. Therefore, to review it as simply a game is almost reductive. Instead I will attempt to present this writing as a case study of a project with a specific vision, one that feels simultaneously larger than any individual, yet remains deeply and painfully personal.

In the following analysis, I intend to explore:

• Supplemental historical context of Donbas and Mariupol.
• Philosophy of wartime existence in regards to individual duty.
• Clinical and existential examination of our protagonist’s psychological state.

(These themes are supported by an evaluation of the technical engine and specific nuances of the project's design.)

2014? 2022? 

In our contemporary digital landscape, total isolation from foreign affairs is nearly impossible. That being said, much of the West has the privilege of, (and often the exceptional ability to), remain largely detached from it all. Details are taxing, they are often boring, and they seemingly serve no purpose nor affect us in any profound way. Yet, such a perspective is deceptive; the true gravity of these events invariably resides within those neglected complexities. While February 24, 2022, signaled the overt commencement of a full-scale offensive, it was merely the latest chapter in a much longer narrative. This by no means was the actual “start" of anything, the same as all of human history also did not begin four years ago. Existence is a relentless succession of causality, where every action ripples through time, eventually obscuring the original witnesses and turning pivotal facts into forgotten fragments. Albeit, my objective here is not a formal historical lecture, but a clinical and concise grounding of the essential context required to understand 93, Kuindzhi.

Crucial milestones within the timeline:

Revolution of Dignity and regime change 

(late 2013–Feb 2014)

• Nov 2013 – Feb 2014: Mass anti‑government “Euromaidan” protests erupt in Kyiv after President Yanukovych suspends an EU‑association deal.
• 20–22 Feb 2014: Deadly crackdowns in Kyiv’s Maidan; over 100 pro-Russian protesters killed; Yanukovych flees to Russia and parliament removes him. 
• 24–25 Feb 2014: Interim government in Kyiv; Yanukovych governments in Russia declare the ousting an illegal “coup,” which Russia states as reasoning for later intervention. 

Crimea and the “little green men” 

(Feb–Mar 2014)

• 27–28 Feb 2014: Pro-Russian forces seize key buildings in Simferopol (Crimea), then airports and the regional parliament.
• 16 Mar 2014: A referendum in Crimea votes for joining Russia; Ukraine and the West call it illegal. 
• 18 Mar 2014: President Putin signs a treaty admitting Crimea to Russia; NATO and EU impose sanctions and declare the region still Ukrainian territory. 

Donbas insurgency and the start of war 

(Apr–Sep 2014)

• 6–7 Apr 2014: Pro‑Russian protesters occupy government buildings in Donetsk, Luhansk, and Kharkiv; Donetsk and Luhansk are declared “people’s republics.” 
• 12 Apr 2014: Pro-Russian forces seize the regional administration in Donetsk; Ukraine labels this terrorism and launches an “anti‑terrorist operation” (ATO) in the Donbas. 
• July 2014: Regular Ukrainian forces and volunteers push back separatists; separatists lose control of Sloviansk; heavy fighting around Donetsk airport (“cyborgs”). 
• 5 Sep 2014: First Minsk I ceasefire signed in Minsk, Belarus, to freeze the front lines in Donbas, but fighting continues at a lower intensity. 

Political and institutional consequences

 (May–Nov 2014)

• 25 May 2014: Pro‑Western Petro Poroshenko is elected president in nationwide elections (not held in much of Donbas or Crimea). 
• 27 Jun 2014: EU and Ukraine sign an Association Agreement, deepening ties with Europe and hardening the East–West divide. 
• 24 Aug 2014: Ukraine declares a military “special operation” in Donbas; by late 2014 Russia is openly sending troops and equipment across the border, without stating direct involvement. 

In what manner does this narrative intersect with the 2022 horizon? By 2014, the geopolitical landscape had already shifted, with Russia exerting significant influence over Crimea and the burgeoning separatist entities in the eastern borderlands. The ensuing Donbas hostilities, while fluctuating in intensity over the subsequent eight years, claimed over 14,000 lives and established a stagnant front line. Russia describes the full‑scale war as defending Russian‑speakers and protecting occupied territories after the 2014 referendum. Consequently, Donbas region emerged as the primary flashpoint for the current invasion, with the decimated city of Mariupol serving as the setting for the events of 93, Kuindzhi.

Not S.T.A.L.K.E.R. or Fallout, But Mariupol

The physical reality forged by this extended conflict is made brutally manifest in the game's setting. The sound of howitzers may be distant, but the unrelenting repetition serves as a prime catalyst for distress - a constant reminder of the local circumstance. 93, Kuindzhi achieves an eerie excellence at placing the player directly in the desolate wasteland which was once a bustling city. Here, existence is suspended, punctuated only by the impact of descending ordnance. Artem operates alone, anchored solely by a walkie talkie that offers sporadic, albeit comforting, communication. His primary liaison, designated by the callsign "Bear," is voiced by a familiar fighter from Donbas. Overall, it provides an optimal environment for atmospheric immersion. Foliage rustles in the wind, the barks of dogs echo from nearby, the snow crunches beneath Artem's feet. Occasionally he coughs, or uses his inhaler, while a somber piano score maintains the emotional equilibrium, yielding only to infrequent rap sequences while Artem is traveling in his van. 

From a technical standpoint, the utilization of Unreal Engine facilitates a stable and highly photorealistic presentation of environmental assets and props. One of the most notable aspects being the water physics of waves hitting the shore in the latter part of the game. Where it really shines is in the second chapter as you enter the city block. Familiar yellow gas pipes line the architecture and abandoned cars are strewn across the streets, along with the carcasses of tanks and APCs on the roadside. Everywhere you look there are piles of garbage and the terrain is scarred by asphalt craters. The apartment complex where you must search for a survivor is largely intact, though it is riddled with bullet holes and fires can be observed burning inside through some of the windows. A beautiful Soviet-era mosaic persists on the facade, acting as a historical relic of a preceding epoch. Another grim focal point here is the playground, which has become a makeshift graveyard for the local residents. Death circles the location in the form of crows, especially above your main destination; building 93. Still, graffiti near the entrance reminds us to be kind.

The interior spaces avoid being mere aesthetic background; they possess a distinct lived-in quality, signifying the former domesticity of ordinary citizens. Once the homes of the common man woman and child, these dwellings are inhabited only by strays such as the cat heard meowing near the elevator, which Artem seems drawn to. His fixation on the animal suggests a psychological yearning to replicate the pet rescue efforts of his adolescence as a fragile attempt to reclaim at least some agency. 

A significant inclusion on one of the televisions is a historical broadcast featuring the author and political figure Eduard Limonov. While the segment lacks subtitles, it offers a crucial predictive analysis regarding the regional trajectory. I strongly recommend pursuing a translation of this dialogue, as it provides the essential historical grounding and causal reasoning necessary to fully contextualize the current narrative arc.

Who Are You, Really?

We assume the role of Artem, an 18-year-old who volunteers to provide aid to the people of Mariupol after his father is drafted in March of 2022. He would have been the age of ten during the onset of the conflict. A normal kid, going through adolescence in an abnormal environment. He does everything along with best friend Igor. They abide by rules, because order is fairness, and that gives the illusion of safety. They roleplay as volunteers saving a neighbor's cat because that is just and right. Unfortunately, when they join the real cause, Igor doesn't make it. This outcome, while tragic, is presented as a sober reality for those operating in the volunteer sectors.

Though the first-person perspective renders Artem physically faceless, he remains a vocal presence throughout the narrative. Portrayed by the artist Husky, the protagonist’s internal monologue highlights a specific existential paradox: he remains non-combative, yet the psychological weight of his existence persists. He never picks up a gun, he never hurts another person.. or does he? The pain we inflict on others is not always intentional, nor is it immediately obvious. His mother, already mourning a husband she considers lost, views his participation as an unnecessary sacrifice. She further underscores his physical vulnerability, noting his reliance on an inhaler, a consequence of exposure to phosphorus during earlier hostilities. The origin of this chemical trauma remains unspecified, reinforcing the project’s focus on the victim’s reality over partisan blame.

Despite these tensions, a deep-seated filial bond remains; Artem offers standard reassurances of safety, though his commitment to individual duty remains absolute. His cracked phone screen, displaying a contact saved simply as "Mama" with a heart icon, serves as his final point of normalcy before he resumes next supply run. 

Bearing The Brunt of Responsibility 

The scripture in Proverbs 26:13 observes:

 "The sluggard says, 'There is a lion in the road! There is a lion in the streets!'"

This biblical passage serves as a satirical commentary on the human tendency to manufacture extreme justifications for avoiding hard work and responsibility, thus allowing fear to keep them in their comfort zone. Our protagonist, however, acknowledges the literal lion yet systematically ignores the internal monologue suggesting the futility of his mission and finds a justification to act despite the fear. Following his father’s conscription in March 2022, Artem finds himself suspended between paralyzing apprehension and an ill-defined sense of obligation. Deciding to leave his studies and volunteer in Mariupol is not rooted in a clear ideological conviction, but in a diffuse need to do something, to be on the same side of the disaster as his family, even if he does not know what that “doing” will look like. This ambiguity is crucial since he is not a freedom fighter, not a convert to a cause, but a teenager trying to avoid the unbearable feeling of being a passive spectator while his entire world burns. The game’s narrative frames this as a moral crisis rather than a tactical one, emphasizing that another front on the battlefield is inside his mind, not only on the streets of Mariupol.

Artem’s inner turmoil is structured around several overlapping psychological layers. First, there is classic survivor‑guilt: he has not been conscripted, yet he remains free to move, to think, to hesitate, while others such as his father, his neighbors, his city, are already locked into extremes of risk and violence. This produces a chronic self‑scrutiny as he is constantly evaluating his own fear as if it were a moral failure, asking himself why he trembles, why he hesitates, why he cannot simply “step up.” Second, there is moral injury; he volunteers in a war zone but never takes up a weapon, which places him in the liminal space between participation and withdrawal. He experiences the consequences of war such as destruction, loss, trauma, but avoids the formal role of perpetrator; and yet, in the logic of his conscience, mere presence counts as complicity. Third, his condition suggests elements of dissociation and hypervigilance common in prolonged exposure to shelling and urban warfare: time blurs, memories intrude into the present, and the ambient gunfire becomes both a backdrop and a constant trigger, as if his mind is refusing to let him relax into any moment until the war is over. He does not narrate his distress loudly; instead, it leaks out in small, repetitious gestures while he is checking his phone, pausing at windows, flinching at distant explosions, all signs of a mind that knows it should react, but does not know in what manner.  

Philosophically, Artem represents the total reconfiguration of civilian moral frameworks under the pressures of war. Pre-war, his “duty” might have been defined by school, family, or local identity; now, those markers are suddenly obsolete or inverted. The game insists that he must “answer not to the world, but to himself,” which turns the war into a private moral trial. In this sense, Artem becomes a miniature case of existential responsibility: he did not create the war, yet he now bears the weight of each decision made within it. His refusal to take up a weapon is not simply a practical choice as much as it is a psychological refusal to fully inhabit the role of “combatant,” even as he accepts the psychological consequences of being close enough to the front to feel the shockwaves. The game uses this tension to interrogate the myth of “heroic” participation in war. Artem does not die in some dramatic, redemptive moment; he survives, but must live with the knowledge that his survival is entangled with guilt, fear, and the memory of choices left incomplete. In this way, 93, Kuindzhi stages a clinical‑psychological portrait of one young man while also making a broader philosophical claim about the war’s impact on regular people. Not only does it kill or wound bodies, it reconfigures inner lives, forcing otherwise ordinary individuals to live with the weight of questions they never asked to bear. 

Believer

Ultimately, 93, Kuindzhi offers no resolution, presenting instead a series of unresolved questions suffered by Artem and crystallized within that of the church. This space of "confession-without-a-priest" is the game's final thesis: that the war is not just tearing apart cities, but the very fabric of moral and spiritual life. Artem’s hesitant journey, marked by the religious icons on his van and the silent, half-desecrated church before him, embodies the ultimate fracture. For ordinary people in Donbas, Orthodoxy is a primary cultural signifier of identity and belonging, yet this tradition is shown to be devastatingly split, pulled between hierarchies that bless the conflict and other voices that condemn it as a sin. Artem, caught in this crossfire as a non-combatant volunteer grappling with survivor-guilt and moral injury, is left to inhabit a space where his personal faith remains an anchor, even as the broader spiritual structure crumbles around him. The game’s real power lies in showing how war forces an ordinary young man to carry the weight of a monumental, global crisis, making his private conscience the last, quiet front line. It is a beautiful portrait of a soul surviving, but indelibly reconfigured, and forced to live with the knowledge of choices left incomplete.