The Savage Beastfly takes prisoners. Their cages fall from the ceiling as it charges directly at your lithe, red-cloaked figure. Somehow, it manages to track your nimble movement and futile flips and smashes into you at full force. The fight is over, and you are not the victor.
It's a brutal early boss fight, and one that feels almost symbolic. For years, Hollow Knight fans have been trapped in their own cage, waiting for release, lunging at every scrap of news only to be dashed back down. Now, the doors swing open. The six-year wait is over — Hollow Knight Silksong is finally, finally here.
To understand the gravity of this release, we need to rewind a bit. In 2017, Team Cherry, a tiny Australian studio, released Hollow Knight, a meteoric hit that obliterated expectations. What started out as a Kickstarter-backed project became a frenzy; Hollow Knight sold over 15 million copies over a few years. It wasn't considered one of the greatest indie games of all time; it was considered one of the greatest games of all time.
The internet buzzed when Team Cherry announced Silksong. This wasn't a Hollow Knight update; it was a full sequel starring Hornet, the iconic needle-wielding acrobat who tested players in battle in the original game. Tweets flew, YouTube breakdowns piled up, and a new subreddit — r/Silksong — quickly became the beating heart of the hype.
But Team Cherry was radio silent. There was no marketing, no promotional material, no trailers, no development updates — nothing. The subreddit slowly devolved into chaos, and a meme culture called Silkposting emerged.
Silkposting became its own ecosystem. Every game convention or Nintendo Direct that came and went without a Silksong update sparked a new wave of jokes, copypasta and elaborate trashposting. Fans edited Hornet into every conceivable context — political debates, fast food ads, even biblical scripture. "Silksong confirmed" became both a punchline and a prayer. For years, the subreddit wasn't so much about news as it was about coping — leaning on irony, self-parody and relentless creativity to fill the silence Team Cherry left behind.
When Silksong finally materialized, it didn't just feel like a game release; it felt like the punchline to the internet's longest-running joke. It was a shared ritual of anticipation, an online culture that kept the flame alive through absurdity and devotion.
There's a strange symmetry between the devotion of Silkposting and the game itself. Silksong is steeped in religious imagery — desolate chapels, ringing church bells, even rosary beads that act as in-game currency. And where the original Hollow Knight sent you plunging into the black depths of Hallownest, Silksong drives Hornet upward, scaling Pharloom alongside a procession of bug-like pilgrims, all drawn to the looming holy Citadel above.
The climb is devotional, and Pharloom doesn't reveal its secrets easily. Like the original, a deep exploration might reveal a powerful tool or a gauntlet of punishing encounters. You need faith while exploring, both in your own abilities, and that something special will be waiting for you at the end of a labyrinthine path.
If Hollow Knight was demanding, Silksong is merciless. Even ordinary encounters are sharper and more aggressive, while boss fights push you to your breaking point. Frustration is inevitable — I often had to set the controller down and walk away — but it never feels unfair. Every loss is a reminder that you could have won if you were just a little sharper, a little more focused. And when victory finally comes, the release is electric. It's the same rush I felt in Elden Ring: heart racing like a workout, palms slick, and then, at last, the steady calm of triumph.
It's almost impossible to believe that only three people created this game. In recent years, the gaming industry has been defined by mass layoffs, shrinking budgets and studios scrambling to replicate blockbuster success with Hollywood-sized spending. Yet Team Cherry, along with dozens of coders and others, working quietly and deliberately, has crafted something that rivals (and often surpasses) the work of those massive studios.
Like the pilgrims of Pharloom, Team Cherry is steadfast in its mission: to make a game people genuinely want to play. Silksong costs just $20. By contrast, EA Sports FC, with all its recycled monotony, asks players to pay $70. One feels like devotion; the other, obligation.
After six long years in the cage, Silksong proves the wait was not wasted — it was devotion, finally rewarded.
Copyright 2025 NPR
