In the 25th century, humanity pushes beyond Earth into the Frontier. Out there, laws mean little, fortunes are real, and one bad contract can change everything. This is the beggining of Frontier's story and how it was explored.

If you believe the news feeds from the Core Worlds, humanity conquered chaos a long time ago. By the 25th century, people had built the Oikoumene – a network of wealthy and secure star systems connected by interstellar Gates. Everything shines there: continent-sized megacities, corporate towers stretching toward orbit, flawless trade routes, stable jobs, and people who genuinely believe space has already been tamed. Out on the Frontier, things work a little differently.

When humanity first learned how to travel between the stars, everyone thought a new golden age had begun. Gates were built, colonies spread across nearby systems, and corporations started making money by the ton. The Core Worlds quickly became a polished showcase of human civilization – safe, rich, and for some people, unbearably boring.

Eventually, humanity outgrew the boundaries of civilized space. There are always people who want more than a stable paycheck and a life spent under corporate supervision. Some came looking for fortune. Some wanted to discover new systems. Others just wanted to disappear somewhere far away from old problems.

So humanity pushed farther into the dark, into regions where routes still aren’t marked on any map, and where contact with the Oikoumene can vanish for months. If you’re lucky enough.

Brave New Frontier

That’s how the Frontier was born. First came the expeditions. Then miners. Then smugglers, mercenaries, and every kind of drifter are usually drawn to the smell of fast money. The corporations arrived soon after. And wherever corporations go, wars, dirty deals, and people willing to sell out entire planets for a percentage of a contract are never far behind.

Today, the Frontier is a sprawling mess of colonies, stations, and half-dead trade routes hanging on at the edge of known space. You can make a fortune here in a week, or disappear without a trace just as quickly.

On some stations, nobody even asks your name as long as you’ve got credits in your pocket and your weapon isn’t pointed at another mercenary. Though even that depends on the station. And the worst thing about the Frontier isn’t the pirates. Or the creatures living on wild planets. It’s the secrets.

Expeditions Without Rules

Sometimes scouts discover abandoned stations that don’t exist in any Oikoumene registry. Sometimes they bring back artifacts that leave half the expedition suffering from hallucinations. And sometimes people simply vanish, leaving behind empty ships with fully operational systems and airlocks sealed from the inside.

Findings like these are worth enormous amounts of money. That’s why the Frontier never runs out of volunteers willing to fly into another hole at the edge of the sector for what’s advertised as a “simple contract.”

The problem is, there are no simple contracts out here. Especially when you end up in possession of a sentient crystal symbiote suddenly hunted by corporations, pirates, cults, and a few other groups you’re better off not asking questions about.

That’s usually how very bad stories begin. Or the kind that turns an entire sector upside down.

I'm building the world of Frontier: Path of Shadows, a tactical RPG. In our setting, corporations have spread plasma technology and interstellar travel across human space. But Catalina IV is the exception. Its storms are attracted to powerful engines, making cutting-edge ships more dangerous than centuries-old sailing vessels.

As a result, people still cross the oceans under sail, airships connect remote islands, and anti-gravity ferries shuttle cargo from orbit. I love the idea that the future doesn't always replace the past, it sometimes forces humanity to rediscover it.

What "obsolete" technology do you think would realistically make a comeback in a cyberpunk world?

While developing sci-fi tactical RPG on the edge of civilized space called Frontier, I started writing historical entries for the setting. This is one of them. What do you think about consistency and detail effort?

Historians generally agree that humanity's Second Age of Expansion began on Pluto.

The catalyst was the invention of the gravicompass in 2146. Developed by Plutonian engineers, the device dramatically improved gravity-sail navigation, transforming interstellar travel from an expensive gamble into the backbone of a growing colonial economy.

Within a generation, distant settlements had become economically viable and politically ambitious.

Pluto was the first to exploit this new reality. In 2148, a Plutonian expedition to Alpha Centauri discovered a silicon-based pseudo-lifeform later designated as the Crystals.

Their extraordinary computational properties revolutionized information processing and rapidly became one of humanity's most valuable strategic resources. The wealth generated by Crystal exports enabled Pluto's merchant dynasties to proclaim the Republic of Pluto, elevating the once-isolated colony into a major interstellar power.

The balance of power shifted accordingly. Mars pursued supremacy through industrial output and heavily armed fleets. Pluto favored commerce, privateering, and economic coercion.

Meanwhile, the increasingly prosperous Centauri colonies rejected Plutonian authority and established the Centauri Corporate Union. Pluto refused to acknowledge the declaration, initiating decades of economic warfare that reshaped interstellar trade.

The next great milestone came with the discovery of Arborea, the first inhabited extrasolar world accessible to humanity.

Its biosphere proved remarkably compatible with human life, attracting thousands of settlers from the politically unstable Core Worlds. Initial optimism faded after researchers confirmed the existence of naturally occurring mutagenic agents capable of altering human physiology. While most mutations proved fatal or debilitating, a small number produced exceptional physical and cognitive traits. Mutation immediately became a matter of state security.

The emergence of the Neo-Humans only deepened these concerns.

Claiming to represent the next stage of human evolution, the isolated community existed only briefly before being destroyed under circumstances that remain classified. Surviving records indicate that every major power participated in, or approved of, the operation. The incident ultimately led to humanity's first unified biosecurity protocols.

Arborean society later reorganized around mutation itself. The Council of Clans formalized a hereditary caste system that continues to define the planet's political and cultural identity.

Elsewhere, decades of rivalry between Earth, Mars, and Venus ended with the formation of the Solar Federation. Superior laser fleets and advanced fire-control systems allowed the Federation to force a negotiated peace with Pluto and compel formal recognition of Centauri's independence.

By the beginning of the 25th century, four great powers dominated known space: the Solar Federation, the Republic of Pluto, the Centauri Corporate Union, and Arborea.

Together, they laid the foundations of humanity's expansion toward the Frontier.

I've played plenty of tactical games with permadeath, but I've noticed that permanent death alone doesn't always create emotional attachment.

In some games, losing a soldier is devastating. In others, they're just another replaceable unit.

While working on our hard sci-fi tactics game, Frontier: Path of Shadows, we actually decided not to use permadeath. We wanted players to build a stronger, more personal connection with their crew through their personalities, relationships, and progression not just the fear of losing them.

So what do you think? Is permadeath enough to make you emotionally invested in your squad, or does that attachment come from something else? What's the first tactical game where you genuinely didn't want one of your soldiers to die and why?

Some people say hard sci-fi means no violations of known physics. Others say it means taking the implications of technology seriously or just mean "it felt rigorous enough that I trusted it."
That's three completely different definitions and they'll give you three different answers on whether The Expanse, Arrival, or even 2001 actually qualifies. We're developing a tactic game Frontier: Path of Shadows and trying to fit into the hard sci-fi setting.

Is hard sci-fi a threshold you either cross or you don't?

For me it's like very AI villain wants something we understand. Love, recognition, survival, dominance. Even the cold ones are just running on human fears with the serial numbers filed off.
The trope I'm tired of isn't the evil AI or the friendly AI. It's the more human-like AI. The one whose entire inner life maps perfectly onto ours, just without the body.

Is there a single sci-fi AI that wanted something you actually found unique?

I'm developing a sci-fi tactical RPG game in original universe Frontier. There are four main crew members, and one thing I'm trying to avoid is the kind of conflict that feels like it's only there because the plot needs drama.

I'd rather have characters disagree because their values, priorities, or experiences genuinely clash not because someone suddenly starts acting irrationally.

For those of you who write character-driven stories, what makes conflict feel earned? Are there any games, books, or shows that you think get this especially right?

I've played plenty of tactical games with permadeath, but I've noticed that permanent death alone doesn't always create attachment. In some games, losing a soldier is devastating. In others, they're just another replaceable unit.

So what do you think? Is permadeath enough to make you emotionally invested in your squad, or does that come from something else with progression, personalities or simply good game design? In our sci fi tactics Frontier we removed permadeath do add more personal approach to your crew.

What's the first tactical game where you genuinely didn't want one of your soldiers to die?