Kev D

Aye, lads and lassies, heed the tale of Diablo 4, a game as treacherous as the icy winds on Ben Nevis. Me sword shivers at the thought of its shortcomings, and I swear upon the haggis itself that my criticism comes from the heart of a Highland warrior. First, let’s speak of the gameplay. The lands of Sanctuary, aye, they’re vast and open, but they lack the soul of a proper battle. They tried to stitch a quilt of stories, yet left gaping holes bigger than the Loch Ness monster’s maw. The combat feels as clunky as a one-legged Highland cow. You swing your weapon, but it’s like trying to catch a salmon with yer bare hands: slippery and unpredictable. The enemies are a horde of mindless fodder, lacking the fiery spirit of a proper foe. I’ve fought fiercer beasts in my dreams after a night on the whisky! Then there’s the loot system, which is like panning for gold in the River Clyde after the prospectors have had their fill. Ye dig and dig, yet all ye find are pebbles and muck. The treasures of Diablo 4 are as scarce as an honest man in a thief’s den. The joy of finding a worthy blade is lost amidst the rubble of mediocre gear. How’s a warrior to stand proud if he’s clad in rags and wielding a butter knife? The classes, och, they promised us a grand feast of options, yet delivered a meager porridge. The skills are as shallow as a puddle on a Glasgow street, and the customisation is about as flexible as a kilt on a windy day. Ye try to forge yer own path, yet the game binds ye tighter than a clan’s loyalty to its tartan. And don’t get me started on the bugs! Aye, they crawl through the game like midges in the summer, biting at every opportunity. Crashes, glitches, and lag plague the experience like a cursed bagpipe drone. It’s as if the game was built on the sands of time, crumbling before our very eyes. In conclusion, Diablo 4 is like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, trying to be fierce but failing miserably. It lacks the spirit, the fire, and the passion that a Highland warrior craves in his battles. It’s a far cry from the tales of old, and I’d sooner toss my claymore in the loch than subject myself to its travesty again.