Let’s get one thing out of the way early: Arc Raiders isn’t a game you play. It’s a game you get emotionally abused by in the company of three men who absolutely should not be trusted with firearms.
It was Sean’s idea (it always is).
“Looks class,” he said. “Very tactical.”
He didn’t mention it was basically The Hunger Games if everyone was dressed weird and acted suspicious af.
It’s The Division after 14 pints.
It’s Escape From Tarkov with fewer spreadsheets and more swearing.
Same FIFA lads.
Same daft shite.
Entirely different type of pain.
Oh... and you have a rooster. Yep, a fucking rooster...
The real game: Trust issues simulator™
On paper: it’s an extraction shooter.
In practice?
It’s Paranoia: The Game, where asking “Are you friendly?” is as useful as whispering “don’t stab me” in a prison yard.
Every run starts hopeful:
- “Right, quick quest, then out.”
- “Stick together.”
- “Let’s not shoot unless shot at.”
Thirty seconds later:
- I’ve murdered someone for not replying fast enough
- Garry’s halfway to extraction
- Sean’s looting in a bush
- Tom’s shouting “ONE MORE QUEST” as his body slides past me in the dirt
No one knows what the rooster does.
No one trusts anyone.
You can wave. You can crouch. You can dance to Katy Perry. Still might get domed by someone dressed like a bin bag full of trauma.
Combat: You are not ready
The guns in Arc Raiders feel like they were designed by a bloke who really, really wanted you to feel every single round.
They’re not slick.
They’re not agile.
They’re fuck-off hammers, and you’re trying to operate one while being chased by a robot the size of Asda Pudsey.
The Ferro is the standout.
It slaps. It claps. It makes you feel dangerous.
You shoot one enemy mid zipline and suddenly you’re a God among men -
until a sniper crack makes you question your entire existence and whisper “Christ, I’d rather be in Fortnite building walls than here being sniped by a man with a laser and bad intentions.”
Arc Raiders doesn’t just humble you. It folds you into a Pret sandwich, shoves your dignity into a sock drawer, and kicks you in the bush like it’s arranging its fucking birthday party.
Enemies: Mechanical PTSD
The AI doesn’t scream or sprint. Well, at first.
It judges.
The leaper isn’t a threat… Initially. It’s a lesson.
You poke it. You prod it. You think you’re clever.
Then it jumps an entire multi-storey car park and boots you through a window like you insulted its mum.
HOOOOLY SHIT I JUST SHAT MYSELF
^ me, probably.
The queens are something else.
They don’t chase. They loom.
The sort of enemy that makes you Google “how to fake a power cut” so you can log off without telling your squad.
There is no bravado left after a queen encounter.
Just a controller covered in the shite that just rapidly evacuated your bowels.
Sound: Just because one ear is bust, doesn’t mean you’re safe from the fear
Now, I’ve got one good ear and one that sounds like a fax machine underwater.
Still doesn’t matter.
The audio is clearly designed by military specialists. Experts in psychological warfare.
You hear a bombardier or a leaper and suddenly three grown men are hiding behind a filing cabinet whispering like it’s a church confessional.
“Was that above us?”
“Next room?”
“Inside my soul?”
“I think it’s climbing my leg.”
“Something just dribbled down my leg.”
Every sniper crack is a full-body shutdown.
You clench so hard your ancestors feel it.
Nobody breathes.
Nobody moves.
We just sit in a silent circle and wait to die like the sad little 35 year olds we are.
PvP Goblins: The loot hounds sent by Satan
Some players play to survive.
Some play for loot.
Then there are the PvP sweatlords - men who’ve opened Arc Raiders, looked at the quest log and gone “nah, I’m here to ruin friendships.”
They don’t loot.
They don’t quest.
They’re not even playing the same game.
They camp exits, fully geared, full of rage, waiting to commit war crimes on your hopes and dreams.
Then they steal your shit... Your hard‑earned shit... Shit that you’re now emotionally attached to like it was your firstborn Greggs steak bake. Losing it that way feels like someone just took an axe to your left bollock, then flicked you off. I liked that bollock. Damn this game.
One run, Tom dropped through the hospital floor on a zipline and got shredded instantly.
All I heard was bullets followed by a panicked:
“GLENNNN, RUN YOU HAPLESS TWAT!”
Reader… I ran like it was a bed fire and I left my toaster on.
Another time, me and Garry went down.
I dove out the nearest window just as the last bullet penetrated my butthole, rolled down a hill, and hid in a bush clutching my loot like it was the last Chicken Bake in Greggs hoping the rats wouldn’t find it.
They asked Garry:
“Where’s your little friend?”
Garry replied:
“You’ll never find him.”
They laughed.
I then spoke to that bush in a Yorkshire accent like it was my therapist and called every other player a fucking rat - and yeah, I’m now fairly certain that makes me clinically unhinged.
The Squad: Four muppets with far too much spare time
Arc Raiders is best with mates.
Also worst with mates.
- Garry – Disappears mid-fight. Leaves a ping and a prayer. Probably already in the next game.
- Tom – Confidence of a lion. Durability of a crisp packet. “One more quest” is a certified death sentence.
- Sean – Plays it like a normal person. Believes in progress, teamwork, and other fictional concepts.
- Me – Gun always up. Will shoot a bloke for looking at me weird. Keeps shouting “YOU FUCKING RAT” into the mic. May need help.
Squad comms range from:
“I’ve found another anvil lads”
to
“HE’S GOT A FUCKING SPIDER DRONE STUCK IN HIS ARSE AND IT’S PLAYING CALIFORNIA GURLS”
It’s war.
But dafter.
Reader, I cannot describe in good detail the carnage that follows when the boys are online... take Garry.
The man treats danger like a fart in a lift - he’s gone before you even smell it.
Pinged the extract point once, shouted “on me lads”, then vanished like a magician with a bus to catch.
We were mid-firefight. Garry was halfway to Narnia, probably looting in a bush and listening to Absolute 80s.
He’s not playing Arc Raiders.
He’s playing Don’t Get Hurt Simulator 2025.
Stella Montis: A cursed Wetherspoons full of assholes
Stella Montis isn’t just a map.
It’s a bad vibe in digital form.
Everyone there has:
- unresolved daddy issues
- chosen violence
- named their loadout after an ex
You don’t go there for loot.
You go there to ruin someone’s life or get yours ruined first.
And the worst part?
Nobody understands us.
We once tried diplomacy with an American squad. I said:
“Ay up lad, we’ve just dropped in to bang this quest out and don’t want no aggro. I’ll si thi.”
To them? That probably sounded like:
“I’m here to finger your dog and burn your nan’s shed.”
So they blasted us with a Ferro like it was a fucking festival.
We keep going back.
We never learn.
It’s the Glastonbury of regret.
Why you keep playing : Violence, Shouting, Repeat
You swear it off.
You uninstall.
You message the group chat: “Never again.”
You say: “This game’s full of rats.”
Then 20 minutes later:
“Right lads. Quick quest then out?”
You lie to your mates.
You lie to yourself.
You go again.
It’s not healthy.
It’s hilarious.
Arc Raiders doesn’t just pull you back in - it ties your shoelaces together, shoves you down the stairs, and then offers you a loot crate as an apology.
Verdict: Like getting mugged by a clown you know personally
Still playing it.
Still raging.
Still howling.
We’re addicted.
Even when we’re being rinsed by a kid called xX_NoScope69_Xx.
It needs:
- squads mode
- fewer psychos
- a therapy hotline built in
But it’s glorious.
Chaotic.
Stupid.
Unforgettable.
Who’s it for?
Anyone who’s ever rage-quit, sworn loudly, reinstalled, then blamed Garry.
It’s the Greggs sausage roll of gaming.
Burns you.
Hurts you.
Still somehow worth it.
TL;DR
- Arc Raiders is tactical trauma for idiots
- PvP goblins will ruin your night
- Snipers will ruin your pants
- Teammates will ruin your trust
- Stella Montis will ruin your soul
- You’ll die
- You’ll scream
- You’ll shout “friendly” in Yorkshire
- You’ll be shot mid-wave
- You’ll uninstall
- You’ll redownload
And you’ll love every broken second of it.
