A quiet game about walking. And loss. And longing. And something deep beneath it all that doesn’t quite let go.

Led, Not Chosen

I didn’t exactly choose to play Journey—it found me. Or rather, someone led me there. A friend, gently nudging me toward something they knew would stay with me, even if I didn’t know it at the time. And so, I went along with it. No expectations. No agenda. Just a vague sense of curiosity and a willingness to be shown something new.

That’s how Journey begins, really. Not with urgency or spectacle, but with silence and space. You wake in a golden desert, surrounded by stillness. There are no instructions, no dialogue, no markers. Just wind. Sand. Light. The landscape stretches before you like a breath you haven’t taken yet.

It feels quiet, but not empty. Simple, but not shallow. There’s a calmness to it—but also anticipation. You get the sense that something important is going to happen, but not in the way games usually handle “important.” There are no boss fights, no choices to make, no skills to upgrade. You’re just… there. Moving forward. One step at a time.

Finding Each Other

The first time I played Journey, I broke the rules—technically. I played it with a friend. We tried several times to sync up and land in the same lobby, and when we finally did, it was genuinely lovely. That simple act of finding each other in such a vast, lonely space was unexpectedly comforting. The quiet joy of reunion in the middle of nowhere.

I followed them without question. They knew the game. I didn’t. And I found that I liked being led. There was a sense of safety in it, and something else too—a tenderness in the way we developed a shared language. One made up entirely of movement, waiting, small jumps and gliding pings. No talking. Just being near each other. Moving together.

We had nothing but sand and sky and the sound of our footsteps, and yet it felt like we were saying so much. I think that’s what I loved most about it—that wordless communication. A private language that no one else would understand. And in that, something beautiful happened: I felt connected. Deeply connected. More than I’d felt in a long time.

I’ve played it since, the proper way. Alone. No names. Just me and another anonymous traveller crossing the dunes. And that, too, was profound. There’s something uniquely affecting about sharing space with a stranger, knowing nothing about them, but trusting them anyway. You walk together because you can. You stay near because it feels right. And when they wait for you—when they double back, when they don’t leave you behind—it’s oddly moving. Two people with no reason to care, choosing to care anyway.

The Emotional Landscape

On the surface, Journey is a game about movement—gliding, climbing, floating through beautiful environments. But what it’s really about is companionship. The invisible thread that forms between two people who simply choose to be present with one another.

As the game progresses, your relationship with that unnamed companion deepens without you even realising it. There’s no bonding moment. No dramatic event that cements your connection. It happens slowly, naturally—through shared struggle, through mutual care, through the sheer act of not leaving each other behind.

And underneath it all is a quiet ache. You don’t realise it at first, but Journey is about walking toward your own death. That mountain in the distance? That’s where you’re headed. Every moment, every leap, every glide—it's all moving you closer to the end. And still, you go. Together.

Along the way, you find glowing symbols—fragments of life. You use them to extend your scarf, to soar a little higher, to push a little further. And you hide from machines that threaten to tear you apart before you’re ready. The world is beautiful, but it’s not without danger. The journey is magical, but it’s also not always easy.

And through all of it, your companion is there. There’s no promise that they will be. They could leave at any moment. But they stay—they wait when you fall behind, circle back when you lose your way—they matter. They stay with you. And you stay with them.

The End, and the Flight

The final ascent is brutal. The world turns white and grey. The wind roars. Your movements slow. You push forward, but every step feels heavier. Your scarf freezes. Your body hunches. You fall. You keep going. And then—inevitably—you collapse.

But death isn’t the end. Not in Journey. In that moment of collapse, you’re lifted. Transcended. You rise—not as a burdened body, but as something lighter. Freer. You soar.

That final flight is, without question, one of the most emotionally affecting sequences I’ve ever experienced in a game. After all the weight, all the trudging and hiding and hoping—you fly. With your companion beside you, you dance through the air. The distance between you widens, but somehow, the closeness deepens. It’s not about proximity. It’s about presence. And presence, finally, feels like freedom.

It’s joyful. It’s graceful. It’s a kind of release I didn’t know I needed. And then—it ends.

Coming Back

When I came back to the real world, I felt sad. Not in a dramatic, tear-streaked kind of way—just a quiet melancholy. The sort that lingers.

The connection I’d felt—the intimacy, the shared rhythm, the quiet companionship—it was gone. And I realised how much I’d been pretending I didn’t need it. I’d told myself that I was fine on my own. That closeness was optional. That I didn’t need anyone to walk beside me.

But Journey made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Something soft. Something true. It gave me a glimpse of the kind of connection I long for in real life—the kind where you’re simply allowed to be beside someone without explanation.

And when it was gone, I missed it.

That absence—that longing—was the game’s most unexpected gift. Because once you feel that kind of presence, once you know what it’s like to be held in silent companionship, you can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. You can’t pretend you’re better off without it.

What It Leaves Behind

Journey didn’t fill a gap—it revealed it. It held up a mirror to a part of me I usually avoid. The part that wants to be seen. Not for what I do, or what I say—but simply for being there. For moving. For staying.

It reminded me that silence doesn’t have to be lonely. That wordlessness doesn’t mean emptiness. That connection isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s just someone waiting at the edge of a dune, looking back to make sure you’re still coming.

Since that first play-through, I’ve returned to Journey again and again. Not for novelty. Not even for comfort. But for the feeling. The reminder. The truth that I do want closeness. That I do feel better when I’m not walking alone. That there is beauty in being beside someone, even for a short while, even if you never get to truly know who they are.

Would I Recommend It?

Yes. Without hesitation.

If you can, play it with someone you care about. It will deepen something between you, wordlessly and quietly, in a way you won’t expect. And if you play it with a stranger, it might show you something about yourself that therapy hasn’t quite reached yet.

I wouldn’t spoil the game with too much explanation. I’d only offer one bit of advice: be open. Let it do what it wants to do. Don’t try to figure it out while it’s happening. Just move. Just feel.

Let yourself be led. Or let yourself lead. 

One Last Thought

Journey is short. A couple of hours, maybe. But it doesn’t leave lightly.

It’s not a game that fades once the credits roll. It stays. In the way you notice silence differently. In the way you think about strangers. In the way you start to wonder if you’ve been pretending not to need people for longer than you should have.

It made me cry, not because it was sad—but because it was true. It reminded me of what I long for. And it let me feel it, without shame, without spectacle.

And for a little while, I wasn’t alone.

And neither were they.

Somewhere deep in the Star Wars universe, long after I gave up on remembering which Skywalker was doing what and who kissed whom, I stumbled into Jedi: Survivor. Not because I’m a loyal fan of the franchise—I haven’t even seen all the films—but because the first game (Fallen Order) was solid and I fancied swinging a glowing stick around while force-pushing robots off cliffs. As it turns out, Jedi: Survivor is a game full of beautiful environments, slightly indifferent relationships, and a combat system that refused to explain itself to my brain for about 60 hours.

And yet… I platinumed it. Eighty-one hours, one platinum trophy, and a few tearful visits to Koboh’s shinier corners later—I’ve got things to say.

Time Played: 81 Hours of Jedi-ing Very Badly

Let me just say this up front: I’m not a natural Jedi. I don’t have lightning reflexes, perfect parry timing, or whatever gene it is that makes people good at Soulslikes. But I am wildly persistent, and I like seeing numbers go up. It took me 81 hours to get the platinum, and while I may have struggled to parry my way out of a paper bag, I did it.

Would I do it again? No. But do I respect myself more for finishing it? Also no. But still—I did it. And that counts for something.

Expectations: Good, Bad, and Ginger

I played Fallen Order about two years ago, so I had some idea of what I was in for. Combat that demands timing, lots of wall-running, and a protagonist with the sort of face you feel like you’ve seen on a cereal box.

And honestly? Survivor lived up to everything I expected. The good bits—like expanded combat, gorgeous environments, and decent traversal—were there. So were the frustrating parts, like the parry system that made me feel like I was blinking in the wrong language. But it was still a worthy continuation, and there were a few standout moments I wasn’t expecting… more on that later.

Combat: Death by a Thousand Cuts (and at Least 900 Missed Parries)

Let’s just say it: the parry timing in this game felt unnecessarily cryptic. I don’t know if it’s my wonky eyeball or the fact that my brain doesn’t fire in parry speed, but it took me ages to get the rhythm right. I could never quite tell when a parry connected—it’s like the game expected me to just “feel it” like I was some kind of timing Jedi savant.

By the end of the game, I’d figured it out (sort of), which I was grateful for because that frog boss? Absolutely uncalled for.

Now—stances. Chef’s kiss. I am, and will always be, a dual-wield girlie. Fast, flashy, death-by-a-thousand-cuts style. The dual sabres felt satisfying and sharp, and I loved how much of a menace they let me be. The double-bladed saber came next in my rotation—mostly for crowd control and the dramatic flair. I barely used the gun (unless I needed it for trophies), and I politely ignored the slow, heavy longsword stance. I like my lightsabers like I like my problems: fast, frequent, and slightly chaotic.

Combat overall? Frustratingly good. When it flowed, it really flowed.

Traversal: So Many Ledges, So Little Grip Strength

Let’s talk movement. The wall runs, zip lines, grapple points—they’re all here and better than ever. Traversal in Jedi: Survivor isn’t just satisfying—it’s a little addictive. Every time I saw something high up, glittering, or just out of reach, I felt the primal urge to get there. I don’t care if I had to die ten times in the process. I wanted that shiny.

The map designs are multilayered and smart, with secrets tucked into corners you’d only find by genuinely looking. Sometimes the path wasn’t obvious at all, and even just spotting where you were meant to go was a satisfying little puzzle in itself. More games should make me feel this way: lost but motivated.

And I will absolutely forgive every rage-fuelled grapple miss just because of how consistently fun it was to explore.

Story & Characters: Ginger Man with a Sabre and… That’s It Really

Here’s the thing: I like Cal. He’s competent. He has a face. He wears a poncho occasionally. But I wasn’t particularly emotionally invested in him—or anyone, really.

The cutscenes were beautifully crafted, and I did appreciate the scope of what the game was trying to do with the bigger story threads. There were even some standout set pieces (like that Jedha library scene) that gave me a little flutter of “Ooooh.” But when I try to recall a single emotionally pivotal moment? Blank. I remember the environments more than I remember the people.

The relationships in the game felt… casual. No deep connections, no intensity, just vibes. Which is fine—but not exactly memorable.

The World: Koboh, Jedha, and 10,000 Things to Loot

Now this is where the game sings. The world design is next-level. Koboh in particular felt so rich, layered, and sprawling that I’d happily go live in a cave there and never return. Each planet had its own flavour, its own environmental storytelling, and enough hidden nooks to keep me rummaging for hours.

The graffiti, the wildlife, the weird plants—you could tell care had gone into making these places feel alive. They weren’t just scenic—they were compelling. And I am very easily compelled by a room with a chest in it.

There’s nothing quite like unlocking a new traversal ability and realising you now have access to 47 areas you couldn’t get into before. My brain lights up. It’s unhealthy.

Pacing: Surprisingly Spot-On

The pacing in Jedi: Survivor is worth praising. It moves well. I was never dragging my feet or desperate for it to be over. Even during side content and endgame cleanup, I felt like I had clear goals and wasn’t just grinding for the sake of it.

The story beats kept the momentum up, and even when I didn’t care deeply about the plot, I still wanted to see what happened next. That’s enough of a win in my book.

Sound & Music: Actually Gorgeous, Even If I Can’t Describe Why

The music in this game scratched an itch in my brain I didn’t know I had. Somewhere between Hogwarts Legacy and Lord of the Rings, with just enough of that Star Wars essence humming in the background to remind you what universe you’re in.

It was atmospheric without being overwhelming, and often I found myself stopping just to listen. The soundtrack alone gave some of the scenes more emotional depth than the dialogue did. I’d honestly go see it performed live by an orchestra if I could. It felt like it meant something—even when I wasn’t sure what.

Voice acting? Great. Everyone sounded like they meant it. No flat deliveries, no awkward lines. Just solid, believable performances across the board from central characters to funny little npc’s.

Highs & Lows: Praise Be to Rick

Let’s not mess around. The best part of the entire game was Rick the Door Technician. If you know, you know. His scene lasted 15 seconds and was somehow more impactful than every romance subplot in AAA gaming.

Worst part? The parry cues. As someone who actually enjoys parry systems, not being able to consistently read the timing made me feel like I was gaming with my elbows. It’s not that the system is bad—it’s that it isn’t well-telegraphed for me. It wants you to feel it, but I am not emotionally in tune with red sparks and blurry lights, so… it didn’t go well.

Would I Recommend It? Sort Of—but Hear Me Out

If you're a Star Wars fan, I probably don’t need to tell you anything. You've already bought it, played it, and ranked the bosses in a spreadsheet.

But for the rest of us? Yeah—I would recommend it, conditionally.

You don’t need to know every Jedi’s birthday to enjoy this game. The combat is satisfying (eventually), the worlds are stunning, the mechanics are fun, and the level design is genuinely some of the best I’ve seen in a while. It’s a game that respects your time while still letting you faff around in dusty corners looking for gear that doesn’t improve your stats in any meaningful way. Which is my favourite kind of game.

Who’s it for?
If you enjoy:

• Satisfying traversal with layered environments
• Combat that rewards stubbornness
• Exploration for exploration’s sake
• Star Wars vibes without needing encyclopaedic knowledge
• Games that don’t rush you, but keep nudging you forward
  …this one’s for you.

You’ll especially love it if you, too, are a loot goblin with questionable parry timing and a soft spot for the guy guarding the door.

⚖️ Rating: 8.5/10 Shiny Collectibles. Would Let Rick Kill Me Again.

A beautiful, sprawling action-adventure with good bones and slightly wobbly combat legs. Could it have made me care more about the characters? Sure. But I was far too busy ziplining through space, stealing plant pots, and whispering “just one more shiny” to notice.

Thinking of diving into Jedi: Survivor yourself?
You can grab it through my Amazon link and throw a few pennies my way while you’re at it.
Same price for you—slightly more emotional validation for me.

If you're reading this hoping I’ll explain what makes God of War (2018) a masterclass in game design, narrative, and emotional suppression, you’re in the right place. But make no mistake—this is not a technical breakdown. This is a retrospective written by someone who willingly spent 40 hours being emotionally dragged through mythological trauma while getting repeatedly stomped on by winged death goddesses… and called them Mommy every time.

The Setup: Playing the Prequel Last Like an Absolute Menace

Let’s get this out of the way: I played God of War: Ragnarok first. Yes, I reversed the natural order of things. Yes, it messed with my expectations, my button reflexes, and my understanding of who’s currently dead, betrayed, or fuming. But you know what? That only made this game more delicious. I walked into this one knowing some things—like that Freya would eventually want to eviscerate me and that Mimir had a whole neck once—but how we got there? That was the meal.

So, here I am, playing God of War (2018) in 2025 like a time traveller trying to blend in. I’ve got partial memory of the mechanics, vague foreshadowing of deaths that haven’t happened yet, and the emotional range of someone who knows this dad is eventually going to cry, but right now? He just grunts at his child like a stoic boulder of parental guilt.

And I loved it.

Time Spent: Roughly 40 Hours and One Gently Crushed Soul

I’m currently sitting at 39 hours, with one final hurdle: those damn Valkyries. I’ve saved the absolute worst for last. These winged nightmares demand precision, patience, and at least two brain cells more than I’ve got. I fully intend to get the platinum trophy, but not without whining about it and being publicly humiliated by winged women in elaborate armour. Which, honestly, is the exact brand of shame this game thrives on.

Gameplay: Damp Flannel Brain, Cooldown Buttons, and Godlike Vibes

Combat in God of War (2018) is as satisfying as ever, especially if you, like me, are a lazy gremlin who refuses to learn combos. Parry, light attack, panic roll, cooldown—repeat. That’s the loop. And it works! There’s a kind of beauty in being wildly under-qualified for complex combat systems but still managing to pulverise everything in your path through sheer stubbornness and timely cooldown spamming.

The kill animations are still one of the biggest joys. That moment of slow-motion brutality? Like a grim little reward for having eyes and decent timing. It still hits the spot—even more so when you’ve scraped through a boss fight with 3HP and a prayer.

Story: Parenting, Grief, and Decapitating Men for Wisdom

The narrative holds up spectacularly even knowing how it all ends. In fact, there’s something satisfying about watching the threads form before they fray in Ragnarok. You see Freya as a powerful, hopeful woman before Odin absolutely decimates her emotional landscape. You see how Mimir ends up as a handbag accessory, and you begin to understand why Kratos is so emotionally constipated.

What God of War (2018) does so well is take a man we’re used to seeing as a rage-fuelled killing machine and places him into the most terrifying role possible: a single father with no idea how to talk about feelings. You watch him fumble his way through grief, parenthood, and an apocalyptic to-do list, all while trying very hard not to call his son “boy” with too much emotional inflection.

And let’s talk about Atreus. Baby Atreus. The sass levels. The entitlement. The moment he finds out he’s a god and turns into a smug little horror? I almost dropped the controller. Absolutely believable behaviour from a tween with delusions of grandeur and a bow.

Mythology: A Greek in Norse Clothing

Blending Greek and Norse myth without making it feel gimmicky is a tall order—and yet here it is, seamless. Kratos doesn’t belong in this world, and the game doesn’t pretend he does. He doesn’t fit—and that tension is exactly what makes the world feel so lived in. It’s the story of a man who left his entire mythology behind, but it still clings to him like ash and blood and regret.

The poetic licensing with the Norse canon is done well. Odin, the toxic narcissist. Freya, bound by loss. Baldur, a beautifully tragic little prick. It’s not textbook mythology, but it feels true—and that’s more important.

The World: The Lake of Nine, Puzzles, and Getting Lost on Purpose

Wandering around the Lake of Nine pre-Ragnarok is a spiritual experience. It’s not just a central hub—it’s a mood. The verticality, the way the water level changes to reveal new paths, the sheer size of it. Alfheim, Niflheim, Muspelheim—each recognisable, each different enough to feel like you’ve been dropped into a new chapter of myth.

The puzzles in this game? Honestly more challenging than I expected, and I was thrilled. I love a good “How the hell do I reach that chest?” moment, followed by 20 minutes of jumping, swinging, swearing, and finally discovering I needed to stand slightly to the left. Glorious.

Exploration never felt hollow. There was always something—a chest, a lore marker, a new enemy. Even when I was lost, I didn’t feel like I’d wasted my time. And that’s rare.

Pacing: No Drag, Just Drive

This game moves. From the moment you push your wife’s ashes into a cloth pouch to the moment you punch the final boss into emotional clarity, the story keeps driving forward. Even after the main plot wraps, there’s more to do. More lore. More fights. More gear. More stompy women demanding respect and offering only ruin.

Sure, the platinum grind slows things down, but I do it because I want to—not because the game forces me. That’s the difference. Completionism feels like a satisfying side quest rather than a chore someone left on your desk at 5pm on a Friday.

Visuals & Sound: Godlike in Every Way

Visually, the game is stunning. The world is richly textured, the skies feel impossibly big, and the realms feel like something between a saga and a hallucination. The architecture is a gorgeous mix of grounded Nordic roughness and mythological flourish. You believe in these places. You want to stay in them.

The voice acting? Superb. Kratos is still monosyllabic and emotionally repressed, but every grunt carries weight. Atreus is brilliantly voiced—vulnerable, bratty, believable. And the soundtrack? Oh, that soundtrack. It’s not just music. It’s atmosphere. It’s the sound of ancestral grief and celestial violence. It does something to your chest.

Minor Gripes and Guilty Pleasures

I don’t have many complaints, but I will say this: those ravens? They can piss off. Odin’s avian surveillance drones are hard to spot, irritating to aim at, and make the completionist part of my soul cry out in frustration.

Also, the Valkyries. Terrifying. Brutal. Unfair. Obsessed. I don’t know what it says about me that being repeatedly stomped on by immortal warrior women was a highlight, but here we are. They are everything I aspire to be and everything I fear at once.

Final Thoughts: Play It. But in the Right Order, You Fool.

God of War (2018) is a triumph of tone, balance, and dad-shaped emotional damage. It’s not just about gods and monsters—it’s about learning to speak again after years of silence. It’s about parenting when you’ve barely survived yourself. It’s about rage, grief, and figuring out how to break a cycle you were born to repeat.

I recommend it wholeheartedly—but please, for your own good, play it before Ragnarok. Your fingers will thank you, your understanding of the story will thank you, and you won’t spend 10 hours wondering why your buttons aren’t doing what they used to.

⚖️ Rating: 9/10 Daddy Issues. Would Grunt Softly Again.

Whether you’re here for the myth, the murder, or the melancholy, this game delivers. And if you’re here for the Valkyries? Bring bandages. And respect.

So, you’ve read the review, now it’s time to wield the Leviathan Axe yourself.
Don’t just take my word for it—grab God of War (2018) and prepare to deal with gods, monsters, and a lot of emotional baggage.**
Get your copy now and start your own father-son therapy session.

💬 Over to You:

Have you played God of War (2018)? Did the Valkyries also emotionally ruin you? Were you also weirdly into it? Drop a comment and let me know—because pain shared is pain halved… unless you’re Kratos. In which case, just grunt twice and walk off into the snow.

** Disclaimer: This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and make a purchase, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support the content I create and keeps the lights on. Thank you for your support!

For gamers who go in blind, refuse to memorise combos, and somehow still walk away with a platinum trophy.

📅 Release Date: November 9, 2022

🎮 Developer & Publisher: Santa Monica Studio / Sony Interactive Entertainment

🎭 Genre: Action-Adventure, Mythology, Dad Sim (Unofficial)

⌛ Hours Played: 75 (Platinum Trophy Achieved)

🤔 Did I Know Anything Before Playing? Technically, no. Unless you count one puzzle-solving side quest for a friend, I went in with zero knowledge of the series and zero expectations.

🎭 First Impressions

I went in expecting a lot of environmental puzzles (courtesy of my friend’s “please help I’m stuck” screen-share) and a mash-up of Greek and Norse mythology based purely on the game cover.

What I got? A heavily Norse-centric story, which was fine by me—turns out I really like Norse mythology, even if my knowledge is very surface-level. The game took poetic liberties, but they felt like a respectful remix rather than a historical disaster.

More importantly, it hooked me fast. I often play games just to get through them, but this one? I actually wanted to turn it on and keep going. The platinum trophy doesn’t lie.

🕹️ Gameplay: Masterfully Fluid, Even If You Ignore Combos

Combat was simple to pick up, and I quickly leaned into a parry-heavy playstyle, getting a few hits in at a time. Did I master the deep combo system? Absolutely not. Did I need to? Also no. The game lets you play how you want, and somehow, I still managed to murder my way through everything without memorising a single combo string.

• Difficulty: Medium for most of the game, except for That One Berserker King and Gná, where I politely tapped out and turned it down. No shame.
• Flow: Pacing was fantastic right up until the final stretch of platinum grinding, where the checklist-heavy endgame slowed things down.
• Technical Issues: No major bugs. One freeze-up, but that’s probably on my PS5, who has been through things.

💡 Gameplay Takeaway: Smooth, satisfying, and forgiving enough that even a combo-averse player like me could thrive.

🎨 Visuals: A Stunner in Every Way

This game? A masterpiece to look at.

• Environmental details? Stunning. Each area felt unique, vibrant, and alive.
• Lighting? Chef’s kiss.
• Animation? Silky smooth, no jank in sight.

Also, giant jellyfish. I spent a solid five minutes just watching them float around because, frankly, it was mesmerising.

💡 Visuals Takeaway: If you can’t appreciate how damn pretty this game is, you might actually be blind.

🎶 Sound & Music: Norse Vibes & Perfectly Timed Grunts

The soundtrack? A beautifully immersive background force. It didn’t demand attention, but it shifted moods perfectly—epic when it needed to be, subtle when it didn’t.

Voice acting? Absolutely top-tier.

• Kratos’ voice? A deep, sexy, all-knowing force of nature. Even when he says nothing, he’s always right.
• Atreus, Freya, Odin? All superb.
• Even the enemies? Quality grunting. And I do appreciate a well-done grunt.

💡 Sound Takeaway: A game’s sound design is flawless when you don’t notice it—it just works. This just worked.

📖 Story & Characters: Emotional, Engaging, & Wholesome in Ways I Needed

The story had real emotional weight, but I wasn’t sobbing on the floor—just deeply invested in what happened next.

• Characters felt fully realised (as expected from a series this long).
• Atreus’ arc stood out. Watching him step out of Kratos’ shadow but still find his way back home was exactly the kind of wholesome character development I needed.
• Dialogue was natural, well-written, and immersive. No cringe, no awkward moments—just great storytelling.

💡 Story Takeaway: A+ writing, engaging character arcs, and no immersion-breaking nonsense.

🗺️ World & Exploration: Open, But Never Empty

Exploration was exactly how I like it—paths exist, but you have to find them.

• Even in open areas, nothing felt empty. Every space had something worth checking out.
• Side quests? A solid mix of story-driven missions and gear collection. Not all essential, but never overwhelmingly tedious.

💡 Exploration Takeaway: A perfect balance of structured paths and engaging open spaces.

💰 Monetisation & DLC: No Scams, No Add-Ons, Just a Full Game

• Full game at launch, no content held hostage.
• DLC? Free. Which, in this economy? Blessed.
• Microtransactions? Nonexistent.

💡 Monetisation Takeaway: A game that actually respects your wallet. Shocking, I know.

🧠 Final Thoughts: 75 Hours Well Spent

This game wasn’t just good—it was the first in a long time that I was genuinely excited to play every day.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Whether you want an immersive story-driven experience or brutal challenge mode, it caters to both.

Would I change anything? Maybe just one thing.

Mimir needs to chill with the fire warnings. Or… maybe I should stop getting set on fire. TBD.

Ready for the next chapter of god-slaying and emotional baggage?
Click below to get God of War: Ragnarok and dive back into Kratos’ chaotic journey. Just remember: it’s not just about surviving gods, it’s about surviving your own parenting decisions. **
Get your copy now—let’s see if you’re worthy.

God of War Merch Here

🏆 Final Rating: "Masterpiece in Motion"

🟢 "Masterpiece in Motion" – I will annoy people talking about this game for the rest of my life.

🔥 Summary TL;DR (For People Who Skim Reviews)

✅ Pros:
✔ Visually stunning—every area is a masterpiece.
✔ Combat is smooth and rewarding, even if you ignore combos.
✔ Fantastic story, writing, and character development.
✔ No DLC scams or micro-transactions.

❌ Cons:
✖ Post-game collectathon dragged a bit.
✖ Mimir needs to let me burn in peace.

💬 What do YOU think of God of War: Ragnarok? Drop your thoughts below! 👇

**Disclaimer: This post contains affiliate links. If you click through and make a purchase, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support the content I create and keeps the lights on. Thank you for your support!