Spawn. Die. Repeat. Welcome to Rust.
A love/hate letter to survival games and the chaos they bring.
"In Rust, trust no one. Not even your own rock."
It’s Friday night. The download has finished.
We’re all piled into the Discord voice chat, the usual crew, me, Brad, and a guy who goes by Fishtank. (Don’t ask, long story.)
The excitement’s real.
We’re ready to enter this brand-new survival game together, ready to craft, build, and dominate. Brad is already talking base layouts. Fishtank is making vague threats to random players in global chat, and I… I’m just here for the vibes.
The game loads.
Black screen. Loading bar. Then:
The Beach.
I open my eyes. I’m naked. I’m holding a rock.
I look around. No sign of the others.
Before I can even move
SMACK.
I’m dead.
Respawn. Same beach. Same rock.
I see another player this time. Maybe this one’s chill?
I wave. Type a quick “hi” in chat.
SMACK.
Dead again.
This is how we discovered Rust.
A Very Specific Type of Friendship
Hours pass. We’re fully immersed now.
Brad has built a fortress, fully walled, turreted, labeled storage boxes, you name it.
Fishtank has managed to make enemies across the entire server. He’s loving it.
And me? I’m still wandering the coastline, trying to find that last piece of scrap.
I don’t know who programmed the wildlife in Rust, but the boars have a vendetta, and the bears are tracking me like Navy SEALs. My body is now a frequent landmark on the map.
Still… I keep coming back.
There’s something beautiful about how brutally unfair it all is. How every fire lit, every wall built, and every scrap of loot matters so much because of how hard you worked to earn it. There’s no hand-holding. It’s you, a rock, and whatever chaos your friends bring into the world.
Why We Keep Coming Back
Survival games, especially ones like Rust, aren’t just about crafting or killing.
They’re about stories.
Stories that come from shared disasters, last-minute wins, and absurd betrayals.
They’re about:
Brad screaming because someone glitched through a window and stole everything.
Fishtank convincing a rival clan to betray their own base for a handful of cloth.
Me finally building a crossbow, missing my first shot, and getting eaten by a wolf.
Every wipe is a new story.
A new chance to rise, fall, and try again.
It’s chaos, camaraderie, and pure adrenaline, brought to you by the genre that turns a rock and a dream into the most fun you’ve ever had dying over and over.
What’s the Big Deal?
Why does this matter?
Because in a world where games often over-guide, over-polish, and over-simplify, survival games like Rust hand you a blunt object and say:
“Figure it out.”
And sometimes, that’s all we need.
Maybe I’ll finally get out of the stone age. Or maybe Fishtank will bring 12 angry players back to our base.
Either way, I’m ready.