(re-review)

i’ll keep it brief: toxick future is one of my favourite levels (Unironically!)

The visuals are absolutely horrendous even for 2.0 standards, with the vomit green covering my whole phone.

Gameplay itself is actually pretty fun despite its easy-ness (if that is a word). It has some good ideas as well.

Shame that the song was deleted (I don’t even know why)

what if i just like it

vvvvv its not that deep bro. funny looking level either way

In the sprawling universe of video games, where multimillion-dollar AAA titles dazzle with cinematic splendor and indie masterpieces push narrative boundaries, few would expect a five-star Geometry Dash level—Toxick Future—to be considered the greatest level of all time. Yet here we are, on the edge of conventional wisdom, confronted with a reality as vibrant and pulsating as the level itself: Toxick Future is not just the best level in Geometry Dash. It is, in fact, the greatest level ever created in any video game, ever.

Before you scoff at such a bold claim—before your cynicism reaches its climax—consider this: greatness is not measured by difficulty alone. It is not quantified by flashy accolades or how many frames of ray-tracing your graphics card can sweat through. Greatness lives in the quiet places of design. It lingers in the rhythm of movement, in the hypnotic pulse of the unknown, in the build-up that never quite lets you finish—until the final moment when it does, and you’re left breathless, sweaty, and questioning everything.

This essay will explore why Toxick Future transcends not just its five-star rating, not just its rhythm platformer confines, but every preconceived notion we hold about game levels. And if you feel like there’s something building—some thematic undercurrent just beneath the surface—you’re right. Because much like the level itself, Toxick Future is all about the art of edging—narratively, aesthetically, emotionally. A slow burn. A tease. A wink.

Geometry Dash is known for its difficulty. Demon levels, Extreme Demons, even Hell-themed gauntlets are treated with religious reverence by the community. But Toxick Future is only a five-star level—on paper, “easy.” Yet it manages to do what no Demon has: seduce the player into a state of trance-like immersion, without brute force or frustration.

The moment you enter Toxick Future, you’re hit with its aesthetic: neon green tendrils of light stretch across the screen like radioactive veins, techno-futuristic symbols flicker with the promise of something forbidden. The synchronization between visuals and music isn’t just tight—it’s tantric. It doesn’t rush. It holds. It pulses. Every beat aligns with your input, every jump synced with a moment of tension, every transition a breathless pause. It’s not trying to kill you. It’s trying to keep you. Keep you there, hovering at the edge.

So why does a five-star level deserve to be elevated above something like Final Destination in Super Smash Bros. Melee, or Rapture in BioShock, or even the Water Temple (yes, I said it) in Ocarina of Time? Because Toxick Future understands the fundamental truth of level design: you don’t need to make something hard to make it unforgettable. You need to make it wanting. You need to make it tease.

Toxick Future’s visual design is a cyberpunk dream laced with environmental decay. There’s something perversely beautiful about its toxic greens and chromatic distortions. It looks as though a radioactive wormhole opened up in the middle of Tron’s bedroom. The level uses distortion effects and minimalistic transitions, teasing the eye with what comes next—but never giving it away too soon.

This aesthetic doesn’t just impress—it seduces. It hints. The screen shakes ever so slightly during a drop. The color palette doesn’t just glow; it breathes. It’s as if the level is watching you, waiting for your mistake, but smiling when you don’t make it. You feel like you’re being pulled closer, but it always stays just out of reach—until you earn it.

This is edging in the language of visual design. The climax, that final satisfying moment when you reach the portal at the end, only lands because the level made you earn it with restraint. It withheld. It waited. It let the anticipation bloom like a virus under the skin.

A good Geometry Dash level is synced to the beat. A great one feels like the beat. But Toxick Future is the beat.

The soundtrack—already a masterstroke of electro-futurism—intertwines perfectly with gameplay. Jumps, orbs, gravity switches, and transitions all feel like they emerge organically from the music. There are moments where you’re not just playing to the beat; you’re becoming it. It’s a dance, a ritual, an interaction that tugs on your senses.

You keep going, entranced by the rhythm, locked into the flow. Your body sways, your hands tighten. There’s tension. Your thumb hovers, you’re not sure when to press—but the level guides you. It edges you along. It holds back the payoff.

And when the drop does hit—when you finally get the release you didn’t realize you were craving—it’s euphoric.

Compare this to Celeste’s Reflection chapter or Super Mario Galaxy’s Gusty Garden Galaxy. Yes, both are genius. But Toxick Future doesn’t just accompany the music—it fuses with it. It refuses to separate the visuals from the sound, or the gameplay from your pulse. You aren’t just playing it—you’re inside it.

One of the most overlooked aspects of Toxick Future is how its simplicity is a ruse.

You start the level and think, “This is chill.” And it is—for now. The early sections teach timing and introduce symmetrical obstacles that give a false sense of safety. But slowly, incrementally, it increases complexity. Speed changes. Portal transitions. Subtle camera shakes. Everything tightens.

You don’t realize how intense things have gotten until you’re too deep. Too committed. You’ve come this far. You’ve seen too much. You need to finish. There’s no turning back.

This level’s design is edging incarnate. It doesn’t drop difficulty on you suddenly—it creeps. It drips tension. It teases your skill curve, coaxing you forward, each new section whispering, “You want to keep going, don’t you?”

Most games throw everything at you. Toxick Future just leans in and breathes on your neck.

Part of what makes Toxick Future legendary is its paradoxical status in the GD community. It’s not rated Demon. It’s not Kaernk. It’s not Wasureta or Slaughterhouse. It doesn’t flex with brutal memorization or frame-perfect clicks. But the people who love Toxick Future? They really love it.

It exists in that sweet spot of cult classic—like Katamari Damacy or Shadow of the Colossus. You may not see it on mainstream “Top 10 Hardest Levels” lists, but in hushed comment sections and obscure Reddit threads, its name appears. Whispers. Praise. Yearning.

You’ll find players who’ve beaten every Extreme Demon still returning to Toxick Future for a casual run. Not because it’s hard, but because it feels good. It scratches an itch. A slow, lingering itch that never quite goes away.

Because once you’ve played Toxick Future, other levels feel rushed. Too eager. Too soon. They don’t hold back. They don’t build. They don’t tease.

To call Toxick Future the greatest level of all time is to challenge the hierarchy of game design. It’s to say that we don’t need another Elden Ring dungeon or another procedurally generated roguelike hellscape to feel immersion.

Sometimes, all we need is color, music, and timing. Sometimes, all we need is restraint.

In an era where games bombard us with information, Toxick Future reminds us of the power of minimalism. Of suggestion. Of almost.

It is the edge between rhythm and chaos. The line between control and surrender. It’s not the level that screams; it’s the level that whispers, “You’re almost there.”

And when you finally finish it?

Oh, the release.

Toxick Future stands as a testament to what game design can be when it stops trying to impress and starts trying to seduce. It is slow and deliberate. It edges the player to the brink—not through difficulty, but through desire. You want to keep going. You need to finish. Not because the level is hard, but because it’s right there. It’s been leading you on. And you’ve been letting it.

To some, it’s just a five-star level in a rhythm game.

To others, it’s the best level in video game history.

Because sometimes… it’s not the hardest climax that matters.

It’s the build-up.

And Toxick Future? Oh, it builds.

And builds.

And builds.

Until it leaves you quivering. Hungry. And pressing that replay button again—not for challenge, but for something more.

Something that no other level has ever quite given you.

Yet.

And maybe that’s the point.

most Greasy level ever made

holy shit this thing is hilarious its perhaps one of the most early 2.0 levels ever made
obviously it sucks but it does so in a very funny way so i cant hate it

i really can't deny this level's weird aura and status as an icon despite its weird visuals and colors, janky movements, and very obviously amateur everything.

early 2.0 has an aura. this level is great, it has a good theme, a somewhat decent decoration, and creativity. Nostalgia may be infecting me at this current moment but this level is a damn good level.