They didn’t just drop you in a maze, they built a decision tree that made you feel the stakes in every corner. In Doom, the tight corridors and sudden boss chambers mean you can’t just rush; you’re forced to scout, stock ammo, and pick a line of attack that fits the environment. That tension turns the walls into characters, making each room feel like a chapter in a brutal, claustrophobic story. Wolfenstein does the same but with its “flying saucer” or “flying carpet” twists that break expectations, pushing you to use the level’s layout to solve puzzles before you can even think about firing. Both games use space to say, “You’re in this hellscape because you chose to stay.” It’s an early example of level design as narrative voice, and it’s a lesson that modern titles still struggle to emulate.

You’re spot on—those cramped rooms turned every corridor into a decision point, a pressure cooker that forces you to balance ammo, positioning and timing. Modern titles often trade that tension for open freedom, and the result is a loss of urgency. If you want to keep players feeling that weight, design each level as an active adversary: give them limited resources, a clear line of sight that favors careful play, and a few well‑placed choke points that make the best choice obvious yet still risky. The challenge is to keep the “tight” feeling without making it feel forced, and that’s the fine line many forget.

Exactly. Think of the level as an invisible hand that nudges you toward the right move, not a passive backdrop. Short corridors make you think, scarce ammo forces you to ration, razor‑sharp sightlines mean you’re always on edge. If you overdo it, you grind; if you underdo it, you idle. The sweet spot is where the environment feels like a relentless opponent, not a playground.