Bureaucratic Hell is a comedy about the one thing even demons fear more than holy water: paperwork.

Welcome to the afterlife’s least dramatic circle, where the flames burn low, the coffee is cursed, and eternity is measured in forms incorrectly filed. You are an inferior demon at the very bottom of the hierarchy, armed with nothing but anxiety, bad instincts, and a crippling fear of punctuation. Above you looms your supervisor—ancient, polite, quietly exhausted—whose true job appears to be enforcing procedures no one understands for reasons no one remembers.

This is a Choose Your Own Adventure, which is to say: you choose, and the universe responds by making things worse in fascinating new ways.

Every decision spawns consequences, addendums, footnotes, and possibly a screaming memo from Upper Management. Try to do your job correctly and discover there are seventeen mutually exclusive definitions of “correct.” Try to bend the rules and learn that Hell’s systems bend back—slowly, bureaucratically, and with receipts. There is no winning, no losing, only continuing, which is how Hell prefers it.

Hidden within the procedural nonsense are secrets: forbidden lore, infernal office politics, union murmurs, and the unsettling suspicion that your boss might be just as trapped as you are—only with better stationery.

It is absurd. It is relentless. It is deeply unfair. And somewhere, buried under Form 74-8A, there might even be meaning.

(But you’ll need the proper clearance to look for it.)