As of 2025, I can confidently say that the quiet, rhythmic hum of a fictional subway car has become the unexpected soundtrack to my life. For decades, my existence has been punctuated by the real-world rattle and screech of public transit—from the crowded metros of sprawling metropolises to the sleepy bus lines of smaller towns. I never owned a car, not out of any grand environmental principle, but because the whole endeavor seemed like a fussy, expensive chore. In real life, mass transit is my pragmatic, soothing constant. Yet, I never imagined this preference would find its perfect, pixelated echo within the chaotic neon heart of a video game.

I've always loved driving in games. The freedom to hijack a supercar in Grand Theft Auto and plow through a digital park without real-world consequences is a primal joy. This extended to my time in Cyberpunk 2077, a game I've both mercilessly joked about and deeply adored. For years, I'd grab Jackie's Arch or some stolen Mizutani Shion and tear through Night City's arteries, reveling in the kinetic chaos. But recently, I discovered a different kind of travel, one that transformed the game from a playground of violence into a personal decompression chamber.

The metro system, added in a past update, offers a fast-travel network. But its true magic lies in ignoring that function entirely. Instead of teleporting, you can simply board a train, take a seat, and let it carry you. This act, as simple as it sounds, has become my new digital comfort food. There's a dynamic, living quality to it that pre-recorded "ambience" videos can't replicate. The experience is like finding a perfectly still, silent eddy in the center of a roaring, neon river. Passengers murmur in the background—a corpo arguing on a holo-call, a couple of Moxes sharing gossip, a stranger who just... stares. If you position yourself by the window, you're treated to one of the game's best features: Night City itself, unfurling like a glittering, toxic jewel. The towering megastructures of City Center give way to the cramped, vibrant chaos of Watson, all viewed from a moving frame that turns the skyline into a liquid painting of light and shadow.

Sometimes, I boot up the game just for this. I'll set it on my second monitor, open a book on my tablet, and let the sounds of the fictional subway wash over me. The clack of the tracks, the automated station announcements, the muffled city sounds—it's a brain massage. It’s more effective for my focus than any lo-fi beat playlist. This habit led me to explore other "non-games" like Ambient Dark, where you simply wander a deserted spaceport. But none feel as authentically lived-in as Night City's transit. In that sterile spaceport, staring at a sink feels like existential performance art. On the NCART, it just feels like commuting.

Why This Works for Me:

I find a profound irony here. Night City is designed to overwhelm—a sensory blitz of ads, violence, and noise, a place as calming as a live wire in a bathtub. Yet, within its belly, rumbling beneath the streets, is this pocket of relative peace. It’s a sanctuary built from public infrastructure, which feels like a wonderfully subversive joke. The game has evolved so much since its rocky launch; it now feels less like a product and more like a living, breathing theme park I can visit. Loading up this graphical powerhouse to... sit quietly and read feels absurd. But it's my kind of absurd.

Perhaps my brain, forged in the crucible of real transit, is wired to work best with that specific cocktail of controlled movement and ambient human noise. In Cyberpunk's subway, I get all the benefits—the rhythm, the view, the peculiar sense of community anonymity—with none of the drawbacks. No delays, no crowded cars, no struggling to find a seat. Just the gentle rock of the car, the passing lightshow of the city, and the quiet company of Night City's digital citizens. Their strange, looping conversations are like overheard poetry from a broken radio, familiar and endlessly novel at the same time. The entire city outside the window feels like a colossal, breathing engine, and I am a single, contented cog riding the steam it exhales.

So, while others are out there becoming legends, blasting through Arasaka Tower, I'm often just... commuting. In 2025, in a game about chrome and chaos, I've found my zen in the last place anyone would look: public transportation. It's nice to know that in the dystopian future, at least one mercenary is taking a moment to just look out the window and breathe.

As summarized by PC Gamer, the evolution of immersive environments in open-world games like Cyberpunk 2077 has redefined how players interact with digital spaces. Their features on player-driven experiences emphasize how seemingly mundane activities—such as riding a subway—can become deeply meaningful, offering a unique form of relaxation and immersion that rivals traditional gameplay loops.