The checkerboard pattern suggests a world seen in black and white terms, of moral and political absolutes. The way the glare recedes as you approach it makes it feel like you're chasing away the light, so maybe this games is either about defending your personal echochamber from infiltration by outside views, or acts a metaphor for shifting your stance from a balanced perspective to a biased one (and vice versa). The claustrophobic, inescapable nature of the environment makes me acutely aware that in all likelihood this is a situation we must live with until the end of life itself.

It's an interpretation game, a box inside which we're supposed to project some kind of meaning. A space transformed by the meaning we give it.

It's a box we put ourselves into instead of grappling with things outside the box. It's a loading screen for life.

It's my great ancient forebears' repressed childhood memories, summoned by Rorschach tests for only the most earnest and most dishonest of mental health professionals. The opening & closing of the edge gaps clearly references thighs, the glimpse of warm radiance tantalizing us, drawing us outward, promising more than the black & white tedium that traps us inevitably & always, however bright & blurry we choose to dress it.

It's a "statement" by the "artist" than no one can get, but we all can play merrily around, doing all the work for them, forming little tribes about what is right or wrong. I will join that one which venomously asserts no valuable meaning, a pretentious waste of time, something that could have been stated in a sentence & dismissed as a tedious & ill-deployed platitude. I will threaten physical violence that I have no intent to carry out, because argument makes me angry. The ghost of my future daughter-in-law will insist I am a fathead, that its meaning is zen, something that cannot be articulated, that I simply fail to grasp the sublime inherent to the work. &so on. &so on. &if the artist is lucky we will have built a complex concept worth actually discussing, and receive all the credit for a structure wrought exclusively by imaginative critics & youtube commenters (cynically I shall believe that this is more as part of their social dances or desires to write interesting things (as I know myself to do) than through any force or power of the work itself -- it might as well have been a lump of drywall sold by a liar with a story about the final product of da vinci's consuming madness, or a nonexistent work one critic invented purely for the sake of writing). Then the wars will start, as infidels gas zealots and vice versa, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, pomegranate, apples, testicles. Or the thing will peter out, losing momentum after the eleventh response, a dead sapling of an argument, which with luck we shall forget.

It is the growing-chamber for presidential hair.

It is a way to see graphics.

It is P. Molyneux's wettest dream.

It almost evokes a sense of being trapped, but the roominess of the box and the glimpses of a hellish red glow make it seem like you're being protected, rather.

I don't get meaning out of it, but there is enough to observe. Most of my attention goes towards experimenting with how my distance from the most lit wall affects the dilation of its black squares. The pattern that can be created from the dilation reminds me of something interesting I saw on Twitter recently. The second most lit wall and the ceiling provide a much more static contrast which makes the room default to the simplicity of being inside a cube (though the pulsation complicates that a bit).
The hot red being beyond the bounds of the box creates a curiosity at first, but once I realize I can't see much it basically becomes a negative-space signifier for the pulse and possibly gives the white light a slight feel of heat. The box feels limited, but it's large enough and I move slowly enough that it doesn't feel claustrophobic for me.