Presenting rFactor, the racing simulation series from Image Space Incorporated and now Studio 397. After successfully creating over a dozen products in the previous ten years, including the Formula One and NASCAR franchise games for EA Sports, Image Space took the next logical step in creating a completely new technology base and development process. This new isiMotor 2.0 environment became the foundation on which many exciting products were built for years to come.
The newest creation, rFactor 2, creates a dynamic racing environment that for the first time put you the driver into a racing simulator, instead of just a physics simulator. Changing tires, track surfaces, grip, weather and lighting make rFactor 2 a true challenge to any sim racer.
If you're looking for up-to-date visuals, advanced physics, first-party Studio 397-produced content, and licensed vehicles from major manufacturers and racing series, then rFactor 2 is for you. Want access to a massive amount of third-party mods including dirt racing and drag racing, all working on the open rFactor modding platform? rFactor is what you should be looking at.
Both rFactor and rFactor 2 can be found on Steam (an online digital download games library).
The 2017 Formula E Visa Vegas eRace had a $1,000,000 prize pool, and used rFactor 2 as their simulator. The event and $200,000 1st-place prize was won by Bono Huis, a five time rFactor Formula Sim Racing Champion.
McLaren's World's Fastest Gamer contest promised a role with the Formula 1 team as one of its official simulator drivers, and they used rFactor 2 for their opening and final rounds. The event and role at McLaren was won by Rudy van Buren, a qualifier from the rFactor 2 opening round.
While sim racing eSports are still an emerging field, it's obvious from the results so far that the rFactor 2 simulation platform gives the flexibility in content and features required. This is the simulator you need to take part in events like those above, or upcoming events organized by Studio 397 in a competitive competition structure now in-development.
Around her the world attends. A korok pauses mid-dance, leaf-cradled eyes widening. A guardian drifts closer—its chassis scarred, light dimmed—then kneels as if to drink the air. Even the sky, fissured and scarred, seems to lean nearer, sending down a cascade of light that catches on the yuzu’s peel and turns it into a tiny lantern of hope.
At night, by a crackling hearth on an island that sways like a boat, she presses the empty peel into the earth. From it a sapling unfurls—thin, vibrant, leaves shaped like tiny suns. Children come to weave ribbons through its branches, leaving offerings of songs and small, brave lies they will one day admit. The sapling grows not only roots but stories: each leaf a line of something mended, each fruit a quiet answer to a question once shouted into storm. In years to come, travelers will speak of the yuzu tree that grew from a cup of the kingdom’s tears—a tree that taught a land to taste hope again. yuzu zelda tears of the kingdom
This is alchemy of the small—how a modest fruit and a kingdom’s sorrow can combine to do something vast. It is not an act of erasure; the scars remain, lovely as silvered branches. Instead, the yuzu and the tears braid memory into motion. The hills learn to forgive the footsteps that once scarred them; the wind remembers new names and carries them to islands that needed hearing. People gather to taste the mixture—some for healing, some for courage, some for a sliver of clarity—and each returns changed, carrying a small, fierce light that does not burn out. Around her the world attends
Yuzu—bright, sun-kissed, laced with a tart perfume—sits on the tongue like a memory of sunlight. In the cavernous hush beneath Hyrule’s shattered sky, that citrus becomes myth: a tiny orb of gold folded into a prayer, a balm for bleeding courage. The tears of the kingdom glisten like morning dew on its rind. Even the sky, fissured and scarred, seems to
So the kingdom’s tears are never wasted. They flow into kettles, into cupped hands, into bowls where yuzu brightens the bitterness. They become medicine and map and memory. They become ritual: evenings when people gather, slice and squeeze, speak the names of those they lost and those they will find. In that sharing, tears become a bridge; the tiny citrus becomes a torch. Under the splintered sky, life continues—fragile, fierce, luminous—because even in ruin, someone remembered to taste the light.
She walks at dusk along a ridge of fractured stone, where ancient roots clutch islands drifting in an endless cobalt. The wind tastes of lightning and salt; it carries the echo of a dozen battles and the soft, untranslatable hum of old magic. In her satchel a single yuzu rests, wrapped in cloth bearing the faded crest of a fallen house. It is both compass and talisman. She presses it to her brow and feels the pulse of memory—brief flashes of a life not quite hers: a laugh in a temple garden, hands learning to play a lullaby on a cracked zither, a promise made beneath the glow of a forbidden moon.
