I can't remember the last time a game — or any form of media, really — pulled me in with the intensity that Cyberpunk 2077 has. Maybe it's because I played it at just the right moment, a time when I found myself staring into an immense void from within. And somehow, the game's treacherous yet beautiful lies didn't just fill that void — they seeped into me, reshaping something deep inside. I never truly found a way to fill that emptiness, but I did find myself changing, my mind and soul slowly but irreversibly altered — much like V, as he fades, piece by piece, into someone else.

Perhaps that's why Cyberpunk felt less like an escape and more like a reflection at times — one coated in neon haze and chrome, but still unmistakably human. As I roamed the streets of Night City, I wasn't just playing as V; I was becoming them, or at least one with them, and the separation line became blurry. Their desperation, their defiance in the face of hopelessness, their slow unraveling under the weight of something far greater than themselves — it all felt uncomfortably familiar, whether because it was, or because I lost myself in it to the point of unrecognition.

And so, as V fought against the inevitable, I found myself wondering — how much of me would be left by the time the credits rolled?

And yet, as much as Night City consumed me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was chasing something — something I could never truly grasp. Maybe that’s what V's struggle really was: the search for meaning in the midst of chaos, a desperate fight to stay human — whatever that may be — when everything around you is pushing you toward something else. Something cold, something unrecognizable. It's astounding how we know from the very start how V's existence is so very much doomed and crumbling, and yet, looking around Night City, it doesn't feel as if anyone else is living any differently, because that's the world they live in, because Night City isn't just a setting, it's a promise, a lie, a machine that chews up dreamers and spits out ghosts. And yet, I kept coming back. Not because I believed in salvation, but because something about it felt right, like chasing a truth I already knew would hurt.

I found myself, in the quiet moments between missions, reflecting on how much of V's journey felt like my own. The constant struggle against time, against change, against the ever-growing weight of what I could never outrun — lost chances, wrong choices. It mirrored the emptiness I tried to fill, the decisions I had made, the pieces of myself I’d given away without even realizing it.

But the game also made me wonder if there was ever a point where we could truly stop being shaped by the forces around us. Or do we all just become the sum of our choices, slowly turning into something — or someone — we never expected? In V's case, it was a construct of someone else’s will, slowly overwriting who they were. In my case, I wasn't sure, but I couldn't ignore the way Cyberpunk makes me feel: alive, yet slipping away.

As I've continued this journey, I wonder — how much of V's story will unfold as something I can no longer deny? Will they ultimately succumb to what is slowly overtaking them, or will they find some kind of redemption in the wreckage of their life? I'm not sure yet. I haven't reached that end. But as I wander through Night City, I can't help but feel that this story, like my own, is only just beginning to reveal what it truly means to lose yourself — and perhaps, in the process, find something new.

For now, I remain in this liminal space, torn between the choices I've made and the ones I still have ahead of me. V's journey is not mine to finish yet, and neither is my own. But each step, each moment in this world, makes me realize that even in the face of everything falling apart, we are still searching. Still becoming, in the most uncertain of ways.

100 hours in, and I'm still not even halfway through the main narrative — let alone close to scratching the surface of Phantom Liberty. And yet, I already have this much to say. Cyberpunk 2077 doesn't just pull you in; if you let it, it forces you to confront your own reflection. It doesn't merely tell a story — it makes you live it, breathe it, question it, until the lines between game and experience blur into something more.

Maybe my opinion is premature. Maybe there's still so much I don't know, so many choices yet to make, so many roads I haven't walked. But that's precisely what makes this game extraordinary. The fact that I can sit here, hours deep into a journey that still stretches far beyond my reach, and already feel its weight pressing into my thoughts — that means something. How many games can claim to leave an imprint this deep before they've even told you half their story?

And so, even with so much left to discover, I can say this with absolute certainty: Cyberpunk 2077 is not just a game. It's an experience. It's a neon-soaked fever dream, a whispered lie, a harsh truth, a reflection of something you may not even realize is there — until it's staring back at you from the other side of the screen.

And for that, it has my most sincere and purest recommendation.

I can't remember the last time a game — or any form of media, really — pulled me in with the intensity that Cyberpunk 2077 has. Maybe it's because I played it at just the right moment, a time when I found myself staring into an immense void from within. And somehow, the game's treacherous yet beautiful lies didn't just fill that void — they seeped into me, reshaping something deep inside. I never truly found a way to fill that emptiness, but I did find myself changing, my mind and soul slowly but irreversibly altered — much like V, as he fades, piece by piece, into someone else. Perhaps that's why Cyberpunk felt less like an escape and more like a reflection at times — one coated in neon haze and chrome, but still unmistakably human. As I roamed the streets of Night City, I wasn't just playing as V; I was becoming them, or at least one with them, and the separation line became blurry. Their desperation, their defiance in the face of hopelessness, their slow unraveling under the weight of something far greater than themselves — it all felt uncomfortably familiar, whether because it was, or because I lost myself in it to the point of unrecognition. And so, as V fought against the inevitable, I found myself wondering — how much of me would be left by the time the credits rolled? And yet, as much as Night City consumed me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was chasing something — something I could never truly grasp. Maybe that’s what V's struggle really was: the search for meaning in the midst of chaos, a desperate fight to stay human — whatever that may be — when everything around you is pushing you toward something else. Something cold, something unrecognizable. It's astounding how we know from the very start how V's existence is so very much doomed and crumbling, and yet, looking around Night City, it doesn't feel as if anyone else is living any differently, because that's the world they live in, because Night City isn't just a setting, it's a promise, a lie, a machine that chews up dreamers and spits out ghosts. And yet, I kept coming back. Not because I believed in salvation, but because something about it felt right, like chasing a truth I already knew would hurt. I found myself, in the quiet moments between missions, reflecting on how much of V's journey felt like my own. The constant struggle against time, against change, against the ever-growing weight of what I could never outrun — lost chances, wrong choices. It mirrored the emptiness I tried to fill, the decisions I had made, the pieces of myself I’d given away without even realizing it. But the game also made me wonder if there was ever a point where we could truly stop being shaped by the forces around us. Or do we all just become the sum of our choices, slowly turning into something — or someone — we never expected? In V's case, it was a construct of someone else’s will, slowly overwriting who they were. In my case, I wasn't sure, but I couldn't ignore the way Cyberpunk makes me feel: alive, yet slipping away. As I've continued this journey, I wonder — how much of V's story will unfold as something I can no longer deny? Will they ultimately succumb to what is slowly overtaking them, or will they find some kind of redemption in the wreckage of their life? I'm not sure yet. I haven't reached that end. But as I wander through Night City, I can't help but feel that this story, like my own, is only just beginning to reveal what it truly means to lose yourself — and perhaps, in the process, find something new. For now, I remain in this liminal space, torn between the choices I've made and the ones I still have ahead of me. V's journey is not mine to finish yet, and neither is my own. But each step, each moment in this world, makes me realize that even in the face of everything falling apart, we are still searching. Still becoming, in the most uncertain of ways. 100 hours in, and I'm still not even halfway through the main narrative — let alone close to scratching the surface of Phantom Liberty. And yet, I already have this much to say. Cyberpunk 2077 doesn't just pull you in; if you let it, it forces you to confront your own reflection. It doesn't merely tell a story — it makes you live it, breathe it, question it, until the lines between game and experience blur into something more. Maybe my opinion is premature. Maybe there's still so much I don't know, so many choices yet to make, so many roads I haven't walked. But that's precisely what makes this game extraordinary. The fact that I can sit here, hours deep into a journey that still stretches far beyond my reach, and already feel its weight pressing into my thoughts — that means something. How many games can claim to leave an imprint this deep before they've even told you half their story? And so, even with so much left to discover, I can say this with absolute certainty: Cyberpunk 2077 is not just a game. It's an experience. It's a neon-soaked fever dream, a whispered lie, a harsh truth, a reflection of something you may not even realize is there — until it's staring back at you from the other side of the screen. And for that, it has my most sincere and purest recommendation.