In a world oversaturated with high-budget triple-A games, sprawling open worlds, and lifelike physics engines that simulate the subtle movement of a character’s earlobe in a breeze, one wouldn’t expect a surreal indie horror game built around cheese to rise above the digital noise. And yet, Grandpa’s Cheese does exactly that. Released in May 2022 on Steam and built in a single day by the enigmatic developer Vander, this minimalist masterpiece has gained a cult following not through marketing budgets or groundbreaking mechanics, but through sheer chaotic charm, community-driven development, and a bizarrely affecting experience that lives rent-free in the minds of those who dare to play it.
This is not just a game. It is a journey into the absurd. A pilgrimage through moldy corridors. A psychological dive into the scent of dairy-driven fear. But more than that—it is a mirror held up to the soul. When you finish Grandpa’s Cheese, you are not the same man who sat down to play it. You are something more. Or perhaps something less. But certainly something different.
To truly understand why Grandpa’s Cheese is not just a game but the best game, and how it delivers an experience that resonates deep in the psyche, we must explore the game’s humble origins, its mechanics, its unapologetic weirdness, and the existential reflection it forces upon the player. This essay is not just a defense of a game. It is an invitation to chew on its themes, savor its nostalgia, and maybe—just maybe—grow a little weirder.

Grandpa’s Cheese began, fittingly, as a joke. Vander, its creator, participated in a community event where developers created games in 24 hours or less. The premise was as absurd as the name: you wake up trapped in your grandfather’s house. He’s unhinged. He wants cheese. Your stepbrother Rezee wants you to find the cheese and bring it to him. Only then will you get the key to escape.
From that tiny premise—a drunken fever dream of Resident Evil meets Cheesecake Factory—was born a game that embodies the best of indie development: raw, spontaneous, and unfiltered by corporate polish.
The aesthetic? Janky. The horror? Surreal. The gameplay? Collect cheese, avoid Grandpa, win. That’s it. And somehow, in that simplicity, lies genius. The constraints of the 24-hour development window become a strength. There’s no bloated dialogue tree, no open-world checklist. Just you, Grandpa, and the cheese.
The charm lies in the intentional limitations. It’s a pixelated world of slightly misaligned textures, low-resolution models, and eerily quiet hallways. It doesn’t try to scare you with Hollywood polish—it unnerves you with unpredictability. Will Grandpa turn the corner? Is he right behind you? Is that cheddar or gouda? You don’t know. And that’s terrifying.
This creative chaos made it the darling of small horror streamers and meme-loving speedrunners alike. But beneath the absurdity lies a razor-sharp reflection on player expectation, game design, and even our relationship with authority figures (more on that in Part 5).

Gameplay in Grandpa’s Cheese is deceptively simple: explore the haunted household, collect ten pieces of cheese scattered throughout the house, and hand them off to your bizarre stepbrother Rezee. In return, Rezee gives you a key that allows your escape. The only obstacle? Grandpa.
Grandpa roams the house in a semi-random pattern, occasionally giving chase. He’s slow, but persistent. If he sees you, he’ll groan—sometimes mumble strange things. If he catches you, it’s game over. This mechanic creates an atmosphere of unease. But more than that—it does something existential.
Collecting cheese sounds stupid. It is stupid. But it's also a brilliant parody of modern gaming tropes. Replace “cheese” with “Ubisoft map icon,” and suddenly you're looking at a dark mirror of the modern completionist’s journey. But Grandpa’s Cheese knows it’s dumb. That’s the point. You’re literally degrading yourself in the name of meaningless progress. And it’s hilarious.
But also... not.
Because something strange happens about halfway through your run. You start taking it seriously. You check corners. You wait for Grandpa to pass. You calculate risk. You develop real strategies for a joke mechanic. And suddenly, the cheese isn’t just cheese—it’s progress. Hope. Survival.
The loop is simple, but it’s clean. There’s no dialogue dump. No heavy tutorial. No forced cutscene. You are thrust into a goal. And that purity—combined with the absurdity—makes Grandpa’s Cheese a masterclass in minimalist design. It’s not just cheese. It’s a metaphor for every mindless collection quest we’ve ever done. But this one? This one changes you.