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:

1. unresolved daddy issues
2. chosen violence
3. 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.

The post Arc Raiders – The Review appeared first on Glenn Taylor Blog.

And by “long-term readers” I mean the three people who’ve read my Skegness and London posts. But hear me out.

I’m a man with big dreams. Years ago, I wanted to start my own gaming blog. Not just any gaming blog, mind – I was going to be the next IGN. Every man and his dog would check my site before deciding whether to buy the latest release. But, like most of my ideas, it ended up in the Glenn Taylor Idea Bin – right between “start a podcast” and “buy an FPV drone and definitely use it.”

Fast-forward to 2025 and here we are. I’ve finally got a blog. A proper one. Which means it’s time to officially launch Glenn Taylor’s Gaming Reviews – and if you don’t like it, you can shove it… actually no, please don’t. It’s lonely here.

Anyway, let’s get into it.

Here is the official Glenn Taylor Blog review of FIFA – sorry – EA Sports FC 2026.

The Overview

Game: EA Sports FC 26 (FIFA, but make it legal drama)
Platform: PS5
Modes Played: Quick Play & Clubs
Team: The 69ers (featuring Garry “Postie”, Tom “Lungs”, Sean “The Reluctant”, and me “The Liability”)
Hours Played: Not enough to improve, plenty to regret
Price: £69, because of course it is
Rating: 7/10

The “revolutionary” rinse and repeat

Every year EA talk about FIFA like they’ve reinvented the wheel.

Revolutionary engine upgrades
Enhanced realism.
More keeper animations.

But what does that actually mean? The grass looks slightly more real. The people in the stands look slightly less like animated cardboard cut-outs. And your keeper now lets shots in… with a bit more flair.

I skipped the 2025 release after several years of being paggered by every man and his dog. A break seemed not just sensible, but a medical necessity – the only thing that might save me from hurling another controller across the room.

Then 2026 rolls around. “New playstyles,” they said. “Revolutionary feel,” they said.

Bang – I’m back, baby.

Now, I don’t really get the point of the two playstyles. You’ve got Authentic, which is slower and supposedly more realistic, or Arcade, which just means everyone sprints around like they’ve necked six cans of Monster. Both are fine. Both are meh. I honestly couldn’t care less.

But credit where it’s due – FIFA these days is a well-oiled machine. It’s slick, polished, and smoother than a freshly buttered pasty. This year’s big thing seems to be passing. Less of the solo runs through midfield pulling off circus tricks, more patient build-up play – which is great until the AI walks straight through your defence like it’s pushing a trolley through Asda at 9pm.

Because FIFA wouldn’t be FIFA without finding new and innovative ways to ruin your mood.

The honest bit

I’m not going to sit here pretending I’ve explored every mode and mastered every mechanic.

I’ve played Quick Play on Professional difficulty a few times with Leeds United to, errr… mixed success, and I’ve made my own player for Clubs. That’s it. That’s the list.

I’m not one of these lunatics who spends their life savings on Ultimate Team packs. I, as a 35-year-old Yorkshireman, do not possess the mental fortitude to play a game where you essentially buy digital Panini stickers in the vague hope of pulling Messi – and not some bloke from the Championship with the stamina of a Greggs pasty in a sauna.

No. I stick to the simple stuff. Quick Play. Clubs. No more, no less.

Meet the team

So let’s break it down. Who are we when it comes to FIFA?

Garry – the manager, the philosopher, the postman

Garry is the man we look to for words of wisdom. By which I mean: every time you take a shot, there’s a voice in your headset going,

“Dawww, I thought you were gonna pass,”

or the classic,

“You greedy bas…”

He even says it when you rocket one into the top corner like prime Ronaldo – just with slightly more humility and slightly less hair.

Garry loves the “Any” role. He pings the ball around like he’s auditioning for Barcelona 2009, constantly shouting tactical orders none of us understand. To be fair, he does handle all the boring stuff: formations, penalty takers (me), free-kick takers, and general team admin. Basically, he’s the only reason the club hasn’t folded due to paperwork.

Back in the day he also earned the nickname “Postie.” Not because he delivers mail – no, because he used to deliver every shot directly into the post. If there was a metallic clang, you know it’s Garry. These days, that title is possibly more at home with Tom, or me if we’re playing Rocket League.

Garry is the king of blame. Miss a sitter? Blame. Scored but didn’t pass it to him? Blame. Slide tackle the opposition striker and earn a red? Blame. You could be sat on the bench and he’d still find something to blame you for. Bless him.

Tom – the tactician with a nicotine problem

Tom, like Garry, understands football. He’s happiest fiddling with tactics, adjusting line-ups, and muttering about “shape” like a man who’s seen things.

When the whistle blows though, he’s chaos incarnate. He’ll never pass to me when I’m open, then hoof an impossible through ball at me and claim it’s my fault for not controlling it. Beautiful team chemistry.

Tom’s nickname is “Lungs,” because he’s always the first player to gas out – usually mid-sprint – followed by the faint sound of him sucking on his vape through the headset like he’s trying to start a lawnmower.

He’s a striker too, like me, though his goals tend to come from pure witchcraft. One minute he’s tripping over the ball, the next he’s volleyed it in from 35 yards and we’re all questioning reality.

Tom, like me, has a love-hate relationship with the square button. By love, I mean he gets way too excited when he rips the legs off an opposition player. By hate, I mean he hates the red card that inevitably follows. Unless of course, we’re getting shafted by the opposition, in this instance a red card is sweet relief.

Sean – the reluctant winger

Sean is the reluctant FIFA player. He’ll tell you Garry bullied him into buying it, but we all know he’s sneaking in solo games to “practice crosses.” He also didn’t buy it, he gameshares with me which means he has no excuse.

You’ll usually find him down the wing, desperately trying to avoid contact like a man being chased by wasps. Sometimes he belts the ball into touch, sometimes he accidentally pings in a perfect assist – the man’s an enigma.

To be fair, Sean’s a solid gamer. He’s good for the odd wonder-cross or unexpected through ball that sets one of us up to shine. And by “shine,” I mean miss spectacularly.

Then there’s me… The liability

Now, me. I know what you’re thinking – this is where I’ll start bragging. Wrong. I’m terrible.

I’m that player who genuinely believes every time I get the ball, I can score from anywhere. I even blew all my XP points on unlocking the Power Shot ability. I’ve yet to score from it, but by God it looks fantastic when it inevitably sails past the post and in to the crowd.

Update (13th October): I’ve finally scored with the Power Shot. My life now has meaning.

I’m also the reason the lads have threatened to confiscate my square button, because I can’t resist the urge to wipe people out with a slide tackle that would get me jail time in real life… a crunch tackle is art, innit? As a Rugby League fan, not a football fan, a crunch tackle is poetry – it’s commitment, it’s passion, it’s two blokes deciding who’s going home in one piece. In FIFA-world that’s a red card and a ten-minute shouting match with Garry about “timing”, but in my head it’s glorious.

So yeah – I’m the bloke who slides in like he’s trying to win a pub argument, not a corner. I’ll wipe someone out with the kind of tackle that gets you a round of boos in the virtual stadium and a round of pints in real life.

And if the lads nick my square button for a week, fine. I’ll just practice my celebrations instead – preferably one that involves a Greggs sausage roll and a tiny flag.

Every now and then I’ll bag a screamer or a perfect assist, but more often than not I’m stood offside, distracted by something on my phone, while the lads scream “PASS IT!” through their mics.

So yeah – I suck at FIFA. Spectacularly so.

Clubs: where dreams die

So, the club. What’s it called? Truth be told – I’ve got no idea. Garry names the club. Always has. Always will. It’s something like the 6189ers, but for the sake of comedy (and honesty), let’s just call us The 69ers.

A name that perfectly captures the spirit of the team – immature, slightly tragic, and destined to underperform.

Right, so let’s talk about Clubs.

You grab the lads. You crack open a can of Monster. You set the formation like you’re about to storm Wembley. The optimism is electric – tonight’s the night, boys. Pudsey’s answer to prime Barcelona.

And then it happens.

You get absolutely battered by a squad of six eleven-year-olds, all high on potato smileys and chicken bloody nuggets. They play like caffeinated hornets, every one of them moving with the coordination of someone who’s spent far too much time perfecting skill moves.

Our first night on FIFA would sound like a success story if you just heard the tone in the party chat. Spirits high. Lads laughing. Banter flying.

Why? Because we finished the night absolutely buzzing – after losing about sixteen games and drawing two.

But those two draws? Oh, those were special. The kind of games that make you believe again. 

Glorious team chemistry. Tactical genius. Emotional fortitude.

Or, more likely, the other team were just dogshit.

So what about the game itself?

So – what do I actually think?

Look. If you like football, this year’s entry is a solid one. The foundations are good. It’s a fantastic-looking, smooth, high-performing game. Everything from the player likenesses to the individual blades of grass looks spot on. You can practically smell the overpriced hot dogs from the stands.

Gameplay-wise, it’s also rock solid. Don’t get me wrong – it’s got flaws. But it wouldn’t be FIFA without them, would it?

This year it’s easier to shield the ball, back yourself into a corner, and play just like a seasoned Premier League time-waster – all while your opponent launches his controller at his nan. Progress!

Of course, the classic FIFA nonsense is still here. You graft for a beautiful, team-worked goal, the crowd goes wild – and then, seconds later, their hyper-striker sprints through six of your defenders like he’s got a cheat code and buries it top corner. It’s the circle of life, but with more swearing and more broken controllers.

Animations are fantastic though. Sliding through an opponent and cleanly nicking the ball away is one of the most satisfying feelings in gaming. Playing a perfectly timed pass that splits their defence like you’ve just opened a wormhole to another dimension? Sublime.

This year, you earn your shots. You earn your goals. And when it all comes together – chef’s kiss.

For a brief, shining moment, you feel like a tactical genius.

Then Garry or Tom hits the post again to bring you back to earth.

Presentation & atmosphere

You honestly can’t fault how it looks. The stadiums are gorgeous, the lighting’s spot on, and even the crowds seem more alive – chanting, waving, and collectively judging you for every mistake. The sound design’s fantastic too; the thud of a power shot and the roar of a crowd after a lucky goal genuinely hit.

The menus, meanwhile, have once again been completely redesigned for no apparent reason, because EA apparently have a quota of button reshuffles to meet every year.

Still, from the first whistle to the last rage quit, it’s an immersive, slick package that makes you forget you’re playing the same game you bought five years ago.

Player creator

Returning once again in this year’s installment is the infamous Player Creator.
We tip our hats to the EA devs here for giving us so many options – everything from cheekbone depth to eyebrow height is included. It’s like a forensic reconstruction tool, but with slightly worse lighting.

There’s also a frankly ridiculous selection of hair and beard options. By the time I reached beard number 1137, I realised this was ludicrous and wrapped up my player before I started questioning my own face.

Now, FIFA wouldn’t be FIFA without a bunch of players running around online with green hair, bulging cheekbones and hollowed-out eyesockets. It goes together like Monster Energy and GCSE resits – chaotic, confusing, and probably banned in most schools.

Every online match looks like a crime against genetics. Half your opponents resemble badly-assembled wax figures, and the rest look like rejected Sims who’ve taken up semi-professional football to pay off their student loans.

Still, it’s tradition. FIFA’s player creator has always been less about realism and more about giving every 14-year-old the chance to make a man that looks like Shrek’s electrician cousin – and I respect that.

Mechanics

Let’s talk mechanics – the bit EA claim they’ve reinvented every year.

This time round, everything feels tighter, quicker, a bit more deliberate. Passes snap nicely, tackles land with a crunch, and shots actually feel like they’ve got some weight to them. For a moment, you almost believe it’s real football – right up until your keeper dives after the ball’s already in the net or the opposition striker runs straight through your defence for the 12th time.

They’ve tweaked dribbling again too, which now feels more responsive, unless you’re me, in which case it feels like trying to steer a shopping trolley with three wheels and a limp.

Defending’s had a bit of love as well, though your AI teammates still wander around like they’ve just clocked off a double shift at Greggs. There’s a new physicality to challenges this year – players bump, push and barge in a way that looks great, right before the ref books you for breathing near someone.

FIFA’s always been a game of small victories and big tantrums, and that balance is still alive and well. The mechanics feel more refined, but deep down, you know it’s the same beautiful, broken chaos we’ve all been screaming at for years.

Verdict

EA Sports FC 26 (FIFA, let’s be honest) is a frustratingly brilliant football game. It’s prettier, smoother, and just different enough to justify EA’s yearly marketing hype. But under all that shiny new grass physics, it’s still the same glorious rage machine that ruins friendships and destroys controllers.

TL;DR:

A polished, satisfying, occasionally infuriating slice of football chaos. Great fun with mates, utterly miserable solo.

And no matter how many times you swear you’re done with it… you’ll be back next weekend, shouting at your telly, blaming lag, and pretending it’s “just a warm-up.”

Rating: 7/10 Greggs Sausage Rolls
The no-bullshit review: Same old FIFA – looks mint, plays mint, still pisses me right off.

The post EA Sports FC 26 – The review appeared first on Glenn Taylor Blog.