I wish everyone was just like you,” I mutter to my steampunk automaton as it stiffly lurches toward my coal mining plant, leaving big, round footprints in the snow. I have grown weary of the humans inhabiting my city. They get hungry, angry, and sad, they fall ill from the cold and skip work, they can lose their limbs to frostbite and can’t work. They suffer and die, and worse than that, they make me suffer because they have their own thoughts and opinions and fears. My steambot, though: it just works, only pausing occasionally to refuel. It’s an ideal citizen.
In Frostpunk’s version of the 1800s, the entire world has become a subzero, arctic wasteland. After fleeing London, the only hope for the survival of your few dozen followers…
