Recent reviews by Bruh

“Dis game like buildin Babylon wit two madman an a goat, mi yute.”

RimWorld? Hear mi now—dis ting a straight madness. Is not just a game, star—is a lifestyle. Mi try build a nice likkle camp for mi colonists, right? Grow some weed, cook some food, keep everybody vibesin. Next ting mi know, one man catch malaria, another one get inna fight over a woman, an mi chef start eatin raw human meat like it normal. Is pure hellfire in di tundra.

Di AI storyteller? Sadist. Mi swear Randy Random smoke some crack before he run mi game. Man send pirates, wild panthers, solar flares, an a raid of man-eating squirrel dem all in one week. Mi try calm it down—put mi faith in Cassandra—SAME ting, just slower. Like she smile before she stab mi back.

Mi best colonist was a blind artist name Ziggy. Man couldn’t shoot or fight, but every sculpture him mek look like holy prophecy. Next ting, Ziggy walk outside, get catch in crossfire, lose him leg to a wild boar. Mi build him a peg leg. Him survive. Then what? A boomalope catch fire, run inna camp, burn everything including Ziggy house. Him die in him sleep from smoke. Mi shed one tear still.

Di mod scene? Infinite. Yuh want medieval? Zombies? Star Wars? Weed farms? Big tiddy anime nurse? Is all dere, mi bredda. But bare warning: once yuh go down di mod rabbit hole, mi cya guarantee yuh come back.

Mi say dis now—RimWorld not a game. Is a cruel god simulator where yuh try build utopia an end up watchin yuh people die from diarrhea an heartbreak. But mi love it still. Every playthrough unique. Every colonist got story. Every disaster feel earned.

If yuh have patience, yuh will build greatness. If yuh don’t, yuh gonna eat yuh friends in year two. Bless up.

“Mi step on dis space station ting an mi nah come back right, mi yute.”

Quasimorph? Hear mi now—dis one different. Is like somebody mash up Escape from Tarkov wit Dead Space an sprinkle in some demonic madness from outta Babylon. Mi jump inna dis game tinkin it a joke ting—next ting mi know, mi crew gone, mi organs missin, an mi soul infected by some nex-dimensional demon ting.

Di permadeath rough like concrete, seen? Yuh build up a soldier, kit dem out sweet—armor, gun, implants—BOOM! One wrong move, one lil space gremlin bite mi neck, an mi whole run mash up. But dat’s why mi rate it, star. Yuh haffi tink. Haffi move smart. Yuh not runnin an gunnin like some cowboy. Is tactics, dread.

Atmosphere? Mad. Sound design mek mi skin crawl. Sometimes mi in a corridor an mi hear whisperin inna mi headphone... mi pause di game an check di real-life room, mi swear. Space fulla darkness an lies. Dem corporations doin tings dem nah should. Experimentin on people. Is bare Obeah up dere in orbit, mi nah lie.

Inventory management like playin Tetris wit yuh life on di line. Di drugs, di food, di ammo—yuh always runnin low. Yuh tink yuh good till yuh inna gunfight an realize yuh bring six bullets an no medkit. Star... mi cry sometime.

This game nah fi di weak heart. If yuh paranoid, stressed, an want dat “every mission mi might dead” feelin—dis fi yuh.

Just remember: in space, nuh one hear yuh scream. But Quasimorph hear yuh soul beggin, mi yute.

One love, one life—don’t bring no rookie crew to dis madness. Bless up.

"Mi tell yuh dis game mad fi real, bredren."

Dis one right here? Morrowind, seen? Man been playin dis since mi youth, an it still bad like fire. Dem graphics look like dey from Babylon time, but it don’t matter, star—di soul of di game strong like Lion of Judah.

No quest markers, no compass—just your wits an a scribbled-up journal. Is like real life, rude bwoy. You get lost? GOOD. Walk yuh bloodclaat way to Balmora an talk to di people. Read a scroll or two. Mi feel like a real dun in Vvardenfell.

Combat? Eh…mi nah lie, is a bit janky. Swing a blade, miss di kagouti ten time. But dat’s part of di vibe, seen? You grow stronger. You earn it. Dis nah no fast-food RPG, dis a stew—cook slow but taste real.

Dem dun know de soundtrack spiritual too, bredda. Play dis wit a big spliff an feel di wind blow off Red Mountain. Got da ash fallin down like Zion judgement day, an mi just dere vibin, robbin tombs an bussin up da Sixth House.

Final ting mi say—dis game a religion. Don’t play it if yuh soft. Play it if yuh ready to live inna next world.

Respec’ Morrowind. Bless up.

I know what assault feels like.

Mi bredren, dis game ya real vibes, seen? You tink you jus come to Liberty City fi chill? Nah man, every corner got Babylon watchin' ya, star! But when ya roll wit me — Little Jacob — we bun Babylon wit one hand an' drive car like madman wit di oddah!

Graphics? Crispy like plantain pon Sunday.
Story? De ting deeper than de ocean, like a reasoning 'pon life after three spliffs.
Gunplay? Eh, sometimes mi AK act like it smoke more than me, but still mash up di place!

Only problem mi have: Niko always late fi link up. Bredda, mi waiting by de cafe, and dis man tek 40 minutes to arrive like him lost in Bronx Zoo!

10/10, would call Niko at 6AM again.

"Walk good, but don't walk slow, Babylon still patrol di road." — Jacob

"Mi tell yuh, mi never expect fi get robbed twice in one day—first by di Zone, den by di developers."

Mi been waitin fi dis game like mi wait fi mi next paycheck. Mi see di trailers, di hype, di promises—mi heart fulla hope. But when mi step inna di Zone, mi get a slap inna face.

Performance? Mi PC cryin.
Mi rig strong, mi yute. But dis game mek mi machine sound like it a run a marathon. Frame drops, stutterin, crashes—mi thought mi was back inna di 90s with dial-up internet.

Bugs? Mi swear mi playin a beta.
Quests breakin, NPCs disappearin, weapons floatin inna di air like dem have wings. Mi get stuck inna walls, enemies shootin mi through cover, an mi die from fallin off a curb.

AI? Dem monsters smarter dan mi ex.
Mutants runnin inna walls, soldiers shootin mi from 100 meters away, an invisible enemies killin mi without a sound. It's like di game try fi kill mi spirit before di mutants do.

Design? Mi feel like mi walkin inna maze.
No fast travel, constant walkin, swampy areas dat slow mi down like molasses. Mi spend more time walkin than playin.

Lootin? Mi feel like a hoarder.
Unloadin guns, sortin ammo, an still runnin outta space. Enemies dropin guns with no bullets, an mi inventory fulla junk. It's like di game punish mi fi collectin.

Graphics? Mi see better inna mi dreams.
Textures glitchin, shadows flickerin, an di world lookin flat. Mi thought mi was inna horror movie, but not di good kinda.

Final thoughts? Mi disappointed.
Mi wait fi years, an dis is di result? Mi rather play di first S.T.A.L.K.E.R. again. At least dat one work. If yuh want fi waste yuh time, go ahead. But mi nah recommend it.

Mi out.

This is sick, love it.

“Mi tried to build a righteous kingdom, mi yute… but mi uncle did bang mi wife an poison mi son.”

Crusader Kings 3? Madness pon top of madness. Is like yuh tek Game of Thrones, Family Feud, an bare history textbook, roll dem up in one fat spliff, an light it in di name of dynasty. Mi start as a small-time Irish count—next ting mi know, mi runnin half of Europe, worshippin a tree god, an tryna stop mi grandson from sleepin with goats.

Politics deep like di Marianas Trench, star. Every man smile in yuh court, but behind dat smile is bare murder plots, seduction, blackmail, an cursed children. Mi try rule just and fair—but mi spymaster always show up like, “My liege… mi find another plot on yuh life still.”

Marriage? Is not love, mi bredda. Is pure strategy. Mi marry off mi daughter to a dwarf prince cause him got strong alliance bonus. Mi son? Man fall in love wit a nun an den get excommunicated. Whole lineage gone sideways.

Religion? Star... don’t even get mi started. One minute mi holy, goin on crusade wit mi Catholic bredren. Next ting mi embrace witchcraft an start doin blood rituals inna mi throne room. Pope get vex. Try excommunicate mi. Mi send assassin. Problem solve.

Every run different. One time mi get stress, man have mental breakdown, start eatin dirt. Another time mi son born as a hunchback genius—him grow up, take over mi kingdom, an rule wit iron fist. Still write poetry.

If yuh like deep strategy, pure chaos, an buildin yuh own soap opera in medieval time—dis one fi yuh. But beware, mi king: family? Family will ruin yuh.

All hail Emperor Jacob I, Slayer of the Pope, Father of Twenty, Lover of None.

★☆☆☆☆ Abandonware inna space, seen?

Mi play dis ting for hours, star, an all mi see is empty planets an’ dead ambition. Whole heap of bugs still deh bout, like dem devs tek vacation inna outer space too. Man walk 'cross the galaxy an’ all mi get is fetch quest an’ dead eyes NPC. Wha gwan wid dat?

Yuh call dis next-gen? Mi cyaan even buss off a man leg or see him drop inna proper killcam glory. Fallout mek mi feel powerful — dis? Dis mek mi feel like mi delivering pizza to alien rocks. WHERE DI LIMB DAMAGE DEH? Gimme back mi VATS. Gimme back some violence, yuh zimme?

Game launch like it hype, now it cool off like cold dumpling. Bethesda drop dis ting an’ bounce like dem owe man money. ABANDONWARE, mi seh. Mi nuh recommend it unless yuh like watchin’ paint dry… pon Mars.

Sort it out, Todd. Man vex now.

Tremendous