I need to save the world, but I can’t be bothered about that right now. I am on a mission to adopt 27 more cats. I’m in a village, with eyes on my next prospect: a portly calico cat who is only identified in-game as “loafy cat.” I plan to name it Potato—when I catch it.
I have picked this cat up in my arms, given it some pets, and fed it many big chunks of bird meat. Then I set the cat down. It bolts down the street. I give chase, crash through a door, accidentally shoulder check a maid who staggers back and shouts, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”
It’s worth it. I snag the cat, give it one more pet, and then slap on a handsome hat with a feather poking out of it. Potato has panache.
In Crimson Desert, you play as Kliff, an aptly named slab of marble of a man. Again and again, you are told you are the biggest, goodest boy around, and you are here to rescue the downtrodden and save the world. You’re a big ol’ badass, sure. There is plenty of thrilling combat to be found here, crunchy as can be. Kliff can annihilate enemies with any manner of weapons, body slams, or trick shots with bow and arrow. It’s all great. But I’ve dressed him in a mask with no defense stats that makes him look like a snail or something very Adventure Time-core. My Kilff is a real softie, and this game really shines in the slower, mellower moments.
Photograph: Boone Ashworth
One of the greatest sins in video game design is when the developers put a cute animal into the game, but do not let you pet it. Crimson Desert yes-ands this desire by letting you pick up any kitten, cuddle them in your arms, and pet them as long as you like. That’s how you train them—pet them and feed them giant hunks of bird meat.
You can adopt 30 pets into your camp. I intend to catmaxx so much that it risks giving my fellow campers toxoplasmosis. (I don't know if that is a feature in the game, but given how vast and unexpected this sandbox unveils itself to be as you play, I wouldn’t be surprised if it's possible.)
Crimson Desert feels like 16 games mixed into one—the creativity of Breath of the Wild, the gorgeousness of Red Dead Redemption, the bonkers-fun combat of Dragon’s Dogma, the visceral stabbiness of Assassin’s Creed. The DNA of all of these is genetically engineered to deliver one bizarrely competent superbaby. Somehow, it all seems to work.
At least a few weeks after launch, anyway. The game had a rough start, with bugs, obtuse user interface design, and an opening that was so convoluted and frustrating I almost ditched the game entirely. But the developers at Pearl Abyss have released a steady stream of patches and tweaks to fix some truly strange design decisions and directly address player concerns. (You still can’t actually name your pets in-game, though, which is criminal.)
I tend to enjoy the opening hours of games like this the most—that sense of wonder, of exploring a new place, and trying to understand how the systems work. Eventually, games reveal themselves to be finite. You see all the locations. You learn about all the guards’ paths, and enemy attack moves, and things start to feel very samey. I’ve put 60 hours into Crimson Desert and am still constantly wondering what I’ll find next.
Adulthood makes enjoying open-world games hard sometimes. Giant expanses with seemingly infinite checkpoints and icons to hit are a huge time suck, and can feel off-putting. While not quite like Elden Ring, Crimson Desert can instill a similar constant curiosity about what’s next, how powerful the next weapon will be, or how the hell a fight with that guy is going to go.
Pearl Abyss has indicated that it wants to build out a multiplayer mode eventually. I’m sure that will be just fine, even if it sands off some of the weirder, interesting edges of the world. I’m OK with waiting. It’s nice to see a single-player game do well, and I’m not craving whatever a live service model is bound to change about the game.
Photograph: Boone Ashworth
This is simultaneously one of the silliest, goofiest games I've ever played, but also one that somehow captures the scale and sheer grandeur of seeing Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies in the theater when you're 13 years old. I’ve come around corners and seen towering set pieces that rival Minas Tirith. I get the same sense of awe, albeit with the knowledge that you can climb and explore these places.
And that traversal is also wonderful. You can galavant across the map, glide through the air, and quadruple-jump up mountains with your nature magic. You also have the best horse in gaming, which can Tokyo-drift around corners, drop to its belly in a rad power slide, and hop off cliffs with little repercussion. Just horsin’ around is incredibly fun, but I rarely even use my mount because there are other, better methods of traversal. (I won’t spoil them.)
As a single-player game, it is an incredible sandbox. It's a game that keeps me cackling like a sicko as all in one movement I slide horse-first off a cliff, hop across a chasm, take a flying stab at a pack of bandits, and then clothesline and body-slam one particularly unlucky criminal twice in a row. Then I just slowly walk around and admire the forest as the wind blows through the trees and swirls leaves across the path, as little bunnies hop along beside me. Potato sits atop my shoulder as I walk, giving a soft little meow now and then.
Crimson Desert is something else. Could use more cats, though.
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