First, before you can even think about playing Lethal Company, you must complete the tutorial of life.
You are born, congratulations! You've entered the world screaming, confused, and already in debt to capitalism. Good start. That’s perfect training for this game.

You spend your early years grinding XP by learning basic mechanics:

• Movement Controls: Crawling, walking, running from your responsibilities. PERFECT
  
  
• Inventory Management: Carrying snacks, toys, and depression.
  
  
• Voice Chat: “MOM! MOM! MOM!”

At around level 23, you reach the minimum recommended maturity level to handle the horrors of Lethal Company (and your Steam wallet).
By this point, you’ve developed the crucial survival instincts:

• Recognizing the sound of impending doom.
  
  
• Pretending to know what you’re doing in front of others.
  
  
• Panicking effectively under pressure.

Perfect. You’re ready.

(I know some of you might be too scared of this word, that’s why I censored it.)

You download Lethal Company, press “Start,” and willingly sign your soul away to a morally grey megacorporation.

Welcome to your new 9-to-die j*b.

You and your friends are now proud Company Employees™, also known as:

“Disposable assets with flashlights.”

The j*b description is simple:

• Visit terrifying, abandoned planets.
  
  
• Enter facilities that clearly want you dead.
  
  
• Collect random scrap that’s probably haunted.
  
  
• Return it to your ship.
  
  
• Pretend that’s worth your sanity.

The Company doesn’t believe in “safety equipment,” “training,” or “HR.”
The only employee benefit is death insurance, which pays out in store credit.

Remember: if you die, you’re not fired, you’re recycled.

Every expedition starts with four brave idiots and one bad plan. Your teammates will usually include:

• The Leader: Thinks he’s in charge. Dies first.
  
  
• The Silent One: Has a mic but refuses to use it. Might be a ghost.
  
  
• The Comedian: Screams every 4 seconds for morale.
  
  
• You: The person Googling “how to leave facility lethal company real life.”

Communication is key. That’s why half your team ignores the walkie-talkies and instead communicates exclusively through panicked shouting.

Team synergy usually lasts about 30 seconds, right until someone opens a door and says, “Hey guys, what’s that noise?”

• Land on Planet: Exit the ship and immediately regret your life choices.
  
  
• Enter Facility: It’s dark, it’s haunted, and the walls whisper “get out.”
  
  
• Collect Scrap: Because the quota demands it. Ignore your survival instincts, those are outdated.
  
  
• Hear a Noise: It’s probably fine.
  
  
• Run: It’s not fine.
  
  
• Die: Natural consequence of a poor j*b environment.
  
  
• Respawn: The Company respawns you, deducts your pay, and tells you to “try harder.”

You’ll repeat this cycle forever, or until the Company meets its quota (which it never will).

When you finally make it back alive (or half-alive), it’s time to sell your loot.
You imagine a massive payday.
The Company imagines taking most of it.

You earn about 40 credits hardly enough to buy:

• A flashlight.
  
  
• A shovel.
  
  
• A walkie-talkie.

Congratulations, you are now in the same financial position you started in.

Now, when it’s time to offload your hard-earned garbage, you’ll notice someone… watching.
That’s Job. The big creature you sell all your scrap to.
He stands there, waiting silently, towering over the ship like a giant, unpaid intern.

He’s got tentacles, glowing eyes (probably), and this unsettling vibe that says, “Your efforts are meaningless.”
You hand him your scrap. He growls at you. You growl back.
It’s awkward.
It’s corporate.
It’s capitalism.

Wait, hold on.
Did I say Job?
I meant Jeb.

Right. Jeb is the monster. Job is what you regret having.
Oh no, I forgot to censor job.
Now both of them are involved.

So there you are: handing toy trains to a demonic CEO named Jeb, while also realizing you’re trapped in an eternal j*b you can’t quit.

Two monsters, one paycheck.
Neither of them cares.

The planets are full of lovely locals who just want to hug you with their teeth:

Barber: Loves giving you a “haircut” whether you want one or not.

Bracken: Tall, intimidating, and hates eye contact, basically you if you don't get a real j*b. (except tall)

Bunker spider: A red word zero patience, and a taste for expensive shoes. (Wait that was censored)

Butler: Polite, deadly, and will judge your housekeeping skills before killing you.

Coilhead: SCP-173 look at me, i escaped the facility. 1 2 3 crack, you liked my rap?

Ghost Girl: Skips, giggles, and completely ignoring personal boundaries.

Hoarding Bug: Collects everything you drop, including your teammates. (With a shovel)

Hygrodere: Basically a blob of c*m, that loves music.

Jester: Starts slow, then cranks up like it’s auditioning for a rave, and suddenly you’re dead.

Maneater: AWHHH!! IT'S SO CUTEEEE. friend hits it: WAIT WHAT THE F**K IS THAT.

Masked: Wears a scary mask and somehow makes it work as fashion and horror.

Nutcracker: Guys don't move. Thumper enters:...

Snare Flea: Look at the ceiling... *falls off that one hole in the floor*

Spore Lizard: Toxically chill, spreads spores. Basically a teenager.

Thumper: Part toddler, part rhino, all panic-inducing speed.

Baboon Hawk: Like a hawk, but with rage issues and a very bad attitude.

Earth Leviathan: Giant, terrifying, hired by the IRS. Remember to pay your taxes.

Eyeless Dog: Can’t see, but somehow knows exactly where you are, probably cheated.

Forest Keeper: Tall, scary, and enforces the forest rules like an angry park ranger.

Old Bird: Slow, wise, and possibly plotting your obituary.

Circuit Bee: Buzzes angrily and makes you question why you came outside.

Manticoil: Dramatic, loud, and flails like it’s late for a meeting.

Roaming Locust: Eats everything and judges YOU while doing it.

Tulip Snake: Latches onto you and turns you into a flying, screaming snake-jetpack.

Giant Sapsucker: Protects its eggs like a furious woodpecker CEO, don’t touch them.

Pro tip: If you hear a noise, stop moving.
Counter-pro tip: If you stop moving, something else will.

After a few hours, you’ll develop The Company Moon Routine™ because it’s never enough to die on just one planet:

71‑Gordion: (Company Building): The “safe” home moon, where you sell scrap and have existential dread with a view.

41‑Experimentation: Beginner moon, monsters get coffee first.

220‑Assurance: Same vibes as Experimentation, but with moodier weather.

56‑Vow: Lush valley + breakable bridges.

21‑Offense: Intermediate level, hills, pipes, and the feeling your flashlight is mocking you.

61‑March: Big map, multiple fire exits, and regret in 3D.

20‑Adamance: Newer forest moon with hills that feel like workout regrets.

85‑Rend: Cost to route. Snow, mansions, and chills you didn’t ask for.

7‑Dine: Also costs to route. Night, mansion, high-stakes scrap drama.

5‑Embrion: Secret moon. Quiet, dangerous, with Old Birds on duty. You should pull the apparatus.

8‑Titan: Hardest standard moon. Big facility, lots of monsters, and you questioning your life choices.

68‑Artifice: The ultra‑hard endgame moon. Prestige, danger, and bragging rights if you survive.

Pro tip: Each moon wants you dead in a unique way. Smile while you run.

Because the inside of the building wants to kill you just as much.

The Factory: Endless metal corridors, steam hisses, conveyor chatter. You’ll get lost before the monster finds you.

The Mansion: Big rooms, old furniture, and bookcases that block your escape like they’re judging you.

The Mineshaft: Dark tunnels, water traps, elevator rides to doom. You’ll ask “why am I here?” and get no answer except echoing footsteps.

Pro tip: Every interior has a personality. Mostly hostile, sometimes passive-aggressive, always terrifying.

The weather in Lethal Company is basically a hostile entity itself:

• Rain: Great for dramatic screams and slippery floors. Watch your step… and your life.
  
  
• Thunder storm: Because nothing says “corporate horror” like wind, lightning, and existential dread.
  
  
• Flood: You thought you could run? Now you swim… poorly.
  
  
• Fog: Perfect for hiding from monsters. or walking straight into them. wait i forgot, monsters aren't affected.
  
  
• Sunshine: A cruel joke, makes monsters easier to see, but your sanity even harder to maintain.
  
  
• Meteor Shower?: Space is throwing rocks at you, dodge, scream, and pretend you’re in an action movie montage.

• Always bring someone louder than you, they make great distractions.
  
  
• Shovel beats monster, sometimes.
  
  
• Doorways are lies.
  
  
• The Company does not care.
  
  
• Screaming is a strategy.
  
  
• Don’t forget to check the ceilings, and fall down that one hole in the floor.

Playing Lethal Company isn’t just a horror experience, it’s a corporate simulator that teaches you three hard truths:

• Never trust management.
  
  
• Quotas are eternal.
  
  
• You can’t expense therapy.

Eventually, though, you’ll notice something strange: you’re still stuck at Level 23 in real life. Your inventory still holds regret, leftover snacks, and a flashlight that dies too fast.

Maybe one day you’ll unlock Adulting 2.0, get a real j*b that doesn’t want to murder you, and finally earn experience points that matter. Or maybe you’ll keep running from monsters and selling haunted scrap forever. Either way… at least you’ll be prepared.

So grab your gear, clock in, and remember:

“It’s not just a j*b… it’s a lifestyle of pain, but maybe one day, you’ll level up for real.”