I’ve reached the roof of Night City’s underworld. When I walk into Afterlife, edgerunners glance my way and whisper some bullshit. I have taken on the worst jobs and managed them on my own, without a crew. The chromium in my body I have earned with my own eddies. Politicians, lawyers and celebrities can be found in my contact book, but still I get no respect. Gangsters on the street raise their irons as soon as I approach, even though they know they have no chance.
A feeling of restlessness itches in my body. I can lower a dozen walkers without lifting a finger. It’s too easy. I’m looking for risks. Let them consciously see me, let them shoot first, as long as I can feel something. Looking for exciting chrome to test, but nothing can be found. None of the arms dealers want to sell me drones or the latest in explosive pieces.
I can not even buy a new rug.
Gameplay from the past previous generation
One of the very first things I noticed when I started playing Cyberpunk 2077 was how eerily similar The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim it is. Maybe is Fallout 3 a better parable, but I like Skyrim better. In and around active gaming environments (by that I mean environments connected to missions, events or “caves”) it is possible to pick up all kinds of rubbish to sell. Ashtrays, razor blades, tongs, condoms, cigarettes and more. Everything is categorized as junk, junk to sell for a few pointless dollars.
This manic looting of meaningless shit fosters an anxiety among players, me for sure, that they will accidentally miss something if they do not check every single box. A game design probably intended to extend the playing time. While Fallout 4 made all junk relevant with crafting, it’s in Cyberpunk 2077 only artificial