Battlefield V
Battlefield V, published by EA, is a game that takes historical inaccuracy to levels so extreme that even fans of alternate history are left wincing. Billed as an inclusive take on World War II, the game drops any attempt at authenticity, unleashing a bizarre blend of anachronistic tech and geographically confused settings. Instead of soldiers storming Normandy, we’re treated to steampunk-clad samurai women alongside African snipers teleporting to Berlin. It’s as if EA set out not to portray the gritty reality of WWII but to mash together every outlandish trope they could dream up, with disregard for either history or basic geography. In Battlefield V, anything goes – so long as it’s loud, chaotic, and unrecognizable from the war it claims to represent.
Multiplayer[edit | edit source]
In Battlefield V’s multiplayer, balance feels like an afterthought in favor of monetization, creating a landscape where the “battle” part takes a back seat to a grind that’s nearly endless unless you’re willing to open your wallet. Newcomers find themselves outmatched from the start, facing seasoned players equipped with high-tier weapons and gadgets that are practically locked behind a paywall. While progression was intended to reward commitment, in reality, it feels like an uphill climb designed to nudge players toward pricey shortcuts. The power gap between basic gear and upgraded, premium weapons is so wide that strategy and skill often lose out to those who simply have more in-game advantages.
Instead of fostering skill-based competition, Battlefield V encourages a “pay-to-win” atmosphere that makes each match an exhausting challenge for anyone who hasn’t shelled out for top-tier upgrades. The system essentially pits credit cards against each other, undermining any sense of fairness or satisfaction for those who aren’t paying their way to victory. Between the grind-heavy mechanics, lack of balance, and clear monetization scheme, Battlefield V transforms its WWII battlefields from a test of strategy to a skirmish where those with financial investment hold all the advantages, leaving casual or new players stuck on the losing side.
Singleplayer[edit | edit source]
In Battlefield V’s singleplayer, the campaign is a showcase of bizarre storytelling choices that emphasize agenda over authenticity. It starts with the infamous Special Boat Service (SBS) sequence, plunging into historically questionable missions led by improbable Strong Teenage Female Characters. The narrative focuses heavily on “White guilt” themes, attempting to rewrite WWII with a morality play that feels awkwardly imposed. The result is a politically charged storyline that paints the Germans as one-dimensional villains and leaves any nuanced exploration of the war far behind. Instead of engaging WWII realism, Battlefield V delivers a singleplayer campaign more about modern agendas than the history it claims to depict.
Prologue[edit | edit source]
The prologue of Battlefield V’s singleplayer campaign, set in Narvik, Norway, 1940, is an attempt at a dramatic war sequence that quickly spirals into a confusing blend of anachronisms and heavy scripting. It begins with the player inexplicably jumping out of a Dakota transport plane—odd, given that neither the British nor Americans had established paratrooper units in 1940. Playing as an unnamed British soldier, you’re thrown onto the chaotic battlefield armed with a STEN gun, a submachine gun that wouldn’t exist until 1941. This sets the tone for what becomes a showcase of WWII inaccuracy, with scripted AI allies dropping around you like flies to heighten the artificial sense of peril.
As you advance, scripted waves of British reinforcements spawn behind you, only to be instantly mowed down, creating a bizarre loop of disposable AI bodies. If you scavenge weapons, you can pick up a Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk I missing its front sight—yet another anachronism, given that this model also wasn’t available at the time. The German soldiers, meanwhile, are equipped with weapons that feel more fitting for an alternate reality than for 1940 Norway. Armed with MP 40s (barely introduced), FG 42s, MG 42s, and even Panzerfausts—none of which existed in this setting—they swarm you in scripted encounters.
The final blow to historical coherence comes when a Tiger I tank appears and finishes you off, despite the fact that this infamous German tank wouldn’t see battle until 1942. What could have been a gritty, immersive prologue instead unfolds as a surreal mishmash, seemingly more focused on explosive visuals than any respect for historical timeline, leaving WWII authenticity far in the rearview.
Prologue continues to the year: 1941. The scorching sun beats down on the sandy dunes of Tobruk. You are a German tanker, gripping the controls of the mighty Tiger I – the H1 model, which technically wouldn’t be invented for another year. But historical accuracy takes a backseat in this rendition of Battlefield; you’re ready for action in this premature, fully operational, steel-clad behemoth. On its hull lies a vaguely censored insignia, vaguely resembling an "X" – enough to appease those with sensibilities.
As your Tiger roars through the sands, something strange catches your eye: American soldiers. That's right – they’ve arrived, Tommy Guns blazing and FG 42s flashing. Never mind the fact that America wasn’t even involved in North Africa in 1941; here, they've got a license to make history... unconventional. They unload their submachine guns with heroic fervor, though the puny bullets harmlessly bounce off your Tiger's front armor. You laugh, at least until the first 20mm autocannon shells tear through, punching holes in the Tiger's steel as though it were paper.
Just when you think it can’t get any worse, the ground begins to shake. In the distance, the distinct rumble of heavy wheels and roaring engines grow closer. Soon, a fleet of armored Staghound vehicles races toward you, armed with autocannons that crack and blaze. The Tiger's health meter – or "HP bar" – visibly ticks down with each hit as though you're in an arcade, your armor buckling under relentless fire. “How are they even penetrating the front armor?” you mutter, right before you hear the dreaded sound of tank treads in the distance.
Then comes the final act. From the dust clouds emerges a convoy of Shermans Easy 8 (introduced in 1944) – but not just any. Leading the charge is the fearsome Sherman Calliope (introduced in 1944), sporting an array of rocket launchers gleaming in the sun. Just as you steel yourself for a climactic showdown, the screen fades to black, and with a brutal scripted scene that leaves no room for negotiation, the Calliope fires its salvo, reducing your beloved Tiger I to a smoldering heap.
The prologue shifts to 1942. You now find yourself in North Africa once more, but this time it’s February, and you’re entrenched in the unforgiving sands of the Kasserine Pass – though, according to EA, the pass is situated in Algeria instead of Tunisia. Historical quirks aside, you’re a soldier of African descent enlisted in the French army, assigned to hold the pass at all costs.
Dawn breaks as you ready your Karabiner 98k, a German-issued bolt-action rifle that’s somehow made its way into standard-issue for French forces in this version of history. Across the makeshift bridge ahead, you spot the incoming forces, with medics scrambling to support the advancing troops. Command informs you that they are a priority target. As they rush onto the bridge, you’re tasked with picking them off one by one, and the game’s UI generously rewards you with points for every medic who falls under your crosshairs.
But the crack of your rifle is soon drowned out by a new sound – the unmistakable drone of aircraft engines. Above, a lone BF 109 fighter jet thunders across the sky, angling down in a death-defying maneuver to fly just under the bridge. As it dips, it releases a payload, and with pinpoint accuracy, the bridge erupts in a fiery explosion. You stumble back, disoriented as the shockwave sends up a cloud of dust. You have just a moment to collect yourself before hearing the chilling approach of yet another BF 109 overhead.
In the scripted finale, the second plane dives straight toward you, ignoring physics, gravity, and all sense of self-preservation. The cockpit flashes as it barrels in, sealing your fate with a dramatic crash that fades the screen to black.
And you're shifting to 1943. This time, you’re piloting a meticulously sanitized version of the Luftwaffe’s iconic Messerschmitt BF 109E, its markings thoroughly censored to ensure a tasteful, historically accurate inaccuracy. You’re flying high above Hamburg, bracing for what the game assures you will be an authentic Luftwaffe experience – albeit in first-person view and, of course, on full autopilot courtesy of an unbreakable script.
Then, out of the blue, you spot a fleet of British Blenheim bombers lumbering into sight. The irony doesn’t escape you: Blenheims, which by this time in the war were mostly retired from bombing missions, replaced in German skies by the heavy rumble of B-17s, Mosquitoes, and Lancasters. But here they are, dozens – no, hundreds – of Blenheims packed into the sky like historical easter eggs. Your mission is clear: take them down. One by one, the Blenheims fall, each marked with a satisfying explosion as you score kill after kill, their wings crumpling as they fill the sky like fragile paper targets.
But just as you’re getting into a rhythm, the drone of Spitfires cuts through the chaos. They arrive in swarms, the classic Mark V models – despite the fact that by 1943, they were largely out of front-line service, replaced by the Mk VII and IX. But in this version of the war, historical detail takes a backseat to dramatic excess. You maneuver through the clouds as they dive and swerve, endlessly looping right into your line of fire, seemingly oblivious to their imminent demise. Spitfire after Spitfire veers straight toward you, and you down them with ease, your score tallying with absurd precision as you carve a path through the improbable dogfight.
Just when you think you’re invincible, however, the script catches up. Without warning, a final Spitfire zooms into your view, and in a scripted moment of airborne vengeance, it closes in, its guns blazing in a hail of pixels. There’s no evading it – with one final explosion, the screen fades to black.
Finally, the shitrific prologue transports us to 1944. The setting? Operation Market Garden, where your character, a British infantryman, stands among a squad of soldiers all inexplicably clad in tankers’ uniforms, complete with bulky helmets and none of the standard infantry gear. You’re stationed in the Netherlands, tasked with protecting a group of British Shermans, though something’s off – they’re all Sherman Easy 8 models, inexplicably swapped in for the Firefly variants actually equipped with British-compatible guns.
Your weapon of choice is a Bren gun, but in true parody style, the sights have been conveniently cut off, leaving you aiming down a barrel that seems more decorative than functional. As you press forward, a barrage of scripted chaos unfolds. One by one, your comrades fall, each perfectly timed to ensure you’re isolated for maximum dramatic impact. The Shermans roll ahead only to explode on cue, shattering in fiery clouds as the battlefield descends into scripted carnage.
But just when you think things can’t get worse, the telltale whistle of a V1 rocket cuts through the din. The ground shakes as it crashes down right on top of you. The screen fades… and then, impossibly, you regain consciousness in a slow-motion sequence, the aftermath unfolding in surreal detail. Dizzy and disoriented, you pull yourself up to see a German patrol advancing. Your character reaches for a trusty M1911, suddenly at your side, ready to fire – but, of course, this is no ordinary pistol scene.
Inexplicably, your non-character hesitates. The magazine slides into the chamber, but instead of aiming, they slowly draw the weapon back as if admiring it – and for some reason, you fail to take the shot. The German soldiers draw near, your time running out, yet in this bizarre display of scripted incompetence, you manage to take out a few enemies in a final burst of gunfire before the script asserts its control once again. With the ultimate anticlimax, your character succumbs to the inevitable.
Under No Flag[edit | edit source]
So, here’s how it all begins: you’re Billy Bridger, a street-level delinquent with a rap sheet longer than his list of achievements. You’re barely out of jail when an SBS agent named George Mason shows up, and instead of letting Billy rot, he offers him a “once-in-a-lifetime” deal to fight for Queen and country. Because clearly, who better to run covert sabotage missions than a guy who thinks “planning ahead” means deciding which pub to rob next. Mason, voiced by that golden vocal cord from the good CoD games (back when characters had depth), somehow sees untapped potential in Billy. Thus begins a tale that’s a bit less “epic war drama” and a bit more “military slapstick.”
With Mason’s dubious choice made, you're dropped into the heat of North Africa, where things get absurd fast. Within moments, you realize that Mason seems to have magical teleportation powers, appearing ahead of you even when you leave him in the dust. And then, there’s the weird weapon inconsistency: in the cutscenes, Billy’s gripping a sleek Sten gun like some desert warrior, but once gameplay kicks in, you find yourself holding an unwieldy Thompson M1928A1. This thing is accessorized with a comically oversized drum mag and diopter sights that look like someone attached them as a prank.
But let’s get to the “stealth” part of this stealth mission. You’re sneaking around German camps, and somehow every piece of equipment is the kind of cursed arsenal you’d expect from a weapon mod gone wrong. The Germans in North Africa are somehow equipped with a Remington Model 8, a DeLisle carbine (which barely a handful of Allied forces ever saw, let alone the Axis), and various versions of the Kar98k—sometimes with a suppressor, sometimes with a bipod, sometimes with both, just in case subtlety wasn’t confusing enough. Then there’s the MP40, which sports a red-dot sight and a modern compensator as though it time-traveled from a future where no one remembers what “authenticity” means.
As you make your way through the enemy camp, sneaking past guards with the elegance of a bull in a china shop, you suddenly encounter one of Battlefield V’s proudest creations: the infamous Flameboy. Now, the Flameboy isn’t your run-of-the-mill flamethrower trooper; this guy’s more like a mini-boss with an ego to match his firepower. Clad in what looks like combat armor designed by someone who thought “subtle” was a synonym for “invincible,” Flameboy is hauling a flamethrower that’s more fire hazard than weapon. And he’s got an unusual perk: he’s somehow immune to all known laws of physics and warfare. You line up a perfect shot with a Mauser, aiming right between the eyes, but Flameboy just shrugs it off like a bee sting, possibly because his helmet’s made of some unholy mix of plot armor and tungsten.
It’s around here that the stealth aspect blows up in your face (pun intended), thanks to a scripted alert that exposes your position faster than Billy can mutter, “Uh-oh.” This means you’re thrown into a turret sequence, because what’s a WWII game without turret sequences, right? You mow down waves of Flameboy’s friends, who keep showing up exactly where needed, seemingly unaffected by things like flanking or cover.
Then comes the second mission, a spacious “open-world” sandbox that’s more empty than an after-hours pub. You’ve got to blow up a few ammo depots spread out across the map, but of course, they’re inconveniently scattered for “immersion.” Luckily, you happen upon a Stuka bomber just sitting around unattended. As a career criminal, Billy knows his way around a stolen car, so naturally, he’s also a master at piloting German aircraft. You can hop in, skip all that tedious sneaking and running, and just bomb your targets from the air. Simple as that.
Finally, the third mission is one for the ages: a classic “hold the line” defense sequence, where you’re pinned down by endless waves of enemies storming your position. As Billy scrambles between turrets, desperately firing at everything that moves, you start to notice that the Germans are somehow outfitted with some truly special weaponry. There’s the StG 44, which doesn’t belong in the desert any more than Billy does, and then there’s an MG42 with what looks like a Spitfire’s scope slapped on. The only thing missing is a laser sight, and you half-expect to see one by the end.
All in all, Under No Flag is like a grand tour of historical inaccuracies, cursed loadouts, flame-resistant mini-bosses, and script-triggered chaos. It’s a journey from an underworld misfit to an unlikely war hero, if only because somehow, against all odds, Billy just keeps surviving these absurd situations. Whether it’s elite stealth operations sabotaged by magic-sensing guards, tanking bullets from indestructible fire troopers, or holding off half the Afrika Korps from behind a turret, Under No Flag is less about history and more about the hilariously wild ride that can only happen in Battlefield V.
Nordlys[edit | edit source]
The Nordlys campaign is an unapologetic masterpiece of improbable heroism, where realism is tossed out the window and replaced with the iron will of a teenage Norwegian girl who crushes Nazi opposition with all the subtlety of an avalanche. Move over, Lara Croft; your little jaunts through tombs and treasure hunts are nothing compared to the sheer chaos this girl unleashes with her bare hands and a couple of gravity-defying skis. While Lara’s traipsing through the jungle looking for trinkets, this heroine is waging a one-woman war against the Third Reich itself, rewriting history one broken neck at a time.
Her signature gear is almost as unstoppable as she is. First, the All-Terrain Skis. These aren’t just skis; they’re practically sentient – capable of shredding across snow, mud, pavement, and whatever else she deems necessary to dominate. While physics dictates that skis are strictly snow-bound, she defies it, gliding uphill with ease, accelerating like she’s jet-propelled. Gravity? A minor inconvenience. Uphill speed? Effortless. If the average skier might slip on ice, she’d race across a skating rink, skis aflame, cackling as she cuts through German lines. She could ski across broken glass, lava, or a bed of nails, and all you’d see would be the terrified faces of the Nazis in her wake. Meanwhile, Lara Croft’s sensible little jog across a snowy mountain now looks like she’s standing still.
And then there are her Throwing Knives of Death, which serve as proof that sometimes the simplest weapons are the most devastating. Forget elaborate gunfights or explosives – she flicks a knife, and a fully armed German soldier goes down without so much as a gasp. There’s no blood, no drama; they simply fall, one after the other, as if choreographed by some divine hand of Norwegian justice. Each throw is precise, every soldier crumpling as if hypnotized into instant defeat. Lara Croft’s little Desert Eagles are now about as effective as a pair of cap guns at a carnival.
But nothing tops the moment of absolute dominance when she faces off against a hulking German soldier, a man twice her size, and – in what should be a losing battle – she goes full Viking. He doesn’t stand a chance. She grabs him, slams his head into the nearest table with a force that would make a sledgehammer blush, and then, to top it all off, she takes the sling from his own MP 40 and strangles him with it. Yes, she strangles him – not with her own hands, mind you, but with his own weapon, like she’s reclaiming every ounce of fear the Nazis put into Norway and throwing it back at them tenfold. He collapses, helpless, outmatched by a teenage girl who fights with all the mercy of a bear trap.
Of course, perfection has its quirks, and even she has her strange weaknesses. A slight gust of wind – nothing more than a light breeze – is her Achilles heel, her kryptonite. The tiniest draft sends her reeling; even a whiff of wind, and she’s out, dropping like a sack of potatoes, temporarily dazed. And her relationship with the Opel Blitz – a standard German military truck – is even more tragic. If she so much as touches the Blitz, it explodes like a warehouse of fireworks, leaving a smoldering wreck in her wake. Germans call it bad luck; we call it sabotage on sight. It’s practically her passive ability, something Lara Croft would never survive in her sensible SUVs and Jeeps.
Her loadout is as excessive as it is lethal. Her FG 42 comes with a self-extending bayonet because, let’s face it, real heroes don’t have time to attach accessories manually. It’s her own little one-woman infantry setup, complete with every absurd add-on and feature you’d expect from a hero who makes even the most impractical gear seem efficient. Her MP 40, meanwhile, has both a collimator and suppressor – attachments that should render the weapon ridiculous but somehow make it deadly silent and absurdly accurate, like she’s wielding a cross between a sniper rifle and a ghost gun. She can snipe someone from the next zip code with it, and the poor Nazis don’t even see her coming.
The grand finale of her campaign is, naturally, as over-the-top as the heroine herself. As she boards a deuterium-laden Nazi submarine, the situation teeters on the edge of nuclear disaster. But she’s unfazed, fully aware that she, alone, can reduce the entire vessel to fiery splinters. When she detonates it, the explosion is spectacular – a fiery blaze of deuterium-fed chaos – yet she emerges unscathed, body intact and not a hair out of place. Lara Croft, on the other hand, would be little more than ashes by now.
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In the end, Nordlys isn’t just a campaign; it’s a statement. It says, “Lara, your tombs and temples are child’s play. Step aside for the real hero.” Our Norwegian powerhouse doesn’t just mock the Tomb Raider legacy; she buries it, razes it to the ground, and skis away from it all without looking back. She stands alone, a paragon of improbability and defiance, the ultimate symbol of unstoppable, physics-proof, teen-powered resistance.
Tirallieur[edit | edit source]
The Tirailleur campaign throws us into an alternative WWII scenario where history bends, stretches, and breaks under the weight of heavy-handed storytelling and unlikely weaponry. The plot starts in 1944, as a group of Senegalese soldiers arrives in France, supposedly ready to fight and restore freedom to Europe. Historically, these tirailleurs were highly respected warriors, seasoned in battle – but Tirailleur seems to have other plans. Instead of combat-ready troops, the game gives us an underdog narrative, complete with weapon swaps, bizarre dialogue, and a laundry list of scripted grievances.
Immediately upon arrival, our heroes find themselves under the scornful gaze of the stereotypically “evil French general,” whose sole mission seems to be keeping these “second-class soldiers” as far from the front lines as possible. Rather than letting these capable fighters prove themselves, he strips them of their rifles – bizarrely a mix of Steyr-Mannlichers M1895 and Ross rifles – and instead hands them shovels, relegating them to trench-digging. While it’s true that colonial troops faced discrimination, this “shovels-only” approach feels forced, a plot twist written purely for dramatic effect.
After watching yet another cutscene of mistreatment and condescension, the Tirailleurs’ patience finally runs out. Our evil general, fed up with the tirailleurs as his pack-mule engineers, decides to send them to the front to serve as cannon fodder in an attack on a heavily fortified German flak bunker. What should be a moment of tension and challenge turns into something almost comical. Armed at last, you’d expect the tirailleurs to be given something with a bit of power – but instead, the game hands you the Chauchat, one of the most notoriously unreliable firearms in history. The Chauchat was infamous for its jamming issues, its bizarre open-sided magazine, and its tendency to make soldiers wish they’d been given something less likely to jam in a crisis.
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Handling the Chauchat, you’re sent into the lion’s den – facing German soldiers so enraged by your presence that they start firing Panzerfausts at you on sight. It’s almost as if the game has confused ordinary German soldiers with FPS supervillains. And if that weren’t enough, the Germans come armed with a bizarre “cursed” loadout: StG 44s kitted with Spitfire scopes, glitching M30 Drilling shotguns with invisible barrels, Bren guns, and the occasional ZH-29 for no apparent reason. It’s clear that reality took a vacation on this battlefield, replaced with an arsenal that serves only to amplify the chaos.
The narrative then veers into a clunky, over-the-top reminder that the Germans viewed black soldiers with disdain and fear. This isn’t entirely inaccurate – many Axis powers held racist views – but the game’s approach is cartoonishly blunt. Instead of nuanced historical reality, the Wehrmacht is portrayed as obsessively focused on racial hatred, reacting with visceral rage to every glimpse of our heroic Tirailleur protagonist. This blunt portrayal simplifies a complex reality, reducing it to a “good vs. evil” formula where nuance is sacrificed for spectacle.
Finally, the campaign reaches its crescendo with an assault on a castle-turned-German field hospital. This isn’t just a showdown; it’s an absurdly scripted moment, with every element exaggerated to the point of parody. You approach the castle doors armed with nothing but a Pak 40 anti-tank cannon – because apparently, that’s the only way to make an entrance. You blow the doors wide open, only to be immediately hit by another sequence where your fellow tirailleurs start dropping like flies. Even though no German soldier is visibly shooting at them, these warriors collapse in perfect sync, seemingly falling to invisible gunfire, as if the game’s script itself demanded their untimely demise.
And then comes the “heroic sacrifice” moment, where a non-playable Senegalese soldier bravely leaps onto a Tiger tank armed only with a single hand grenade. In a spectacle worthy of a Hollywood B-movie, he detonates it directly atop the tank, causing the Tiger’s turret to fly off as if hit by a much larger explosive. It’s a cinematic finale that defies all known physics, portraying a grenade as a tank-killer and reducing one of WWII’s most feared armored vehicles to a prop for dramatic effect.
In the climactic cutscene, the campaign reaches its final act: the evil French general, forced to acknowledge the Tirailleurs’ bravery, gives a half-hearted, reluctant commendation. In a begrudging show of respect, he even agrees to pose for a photograph with them. But, true to form, the tirailleurs are later erased from the official photos, a nod to historical whitewashing that is handled with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The campaign ends with one last line from the protagonist, a heavy-handed statement that feels almost memetic – something along the lines of “We was kangz.” It’s a closing note as blunt and exaggerated as the rest of the campaign, a reminder that Tirailleur isn’t here to provide nuanced historical insight but rather to hammer its point home with all the delicacy of a tank shell. What could have been an exploration of the complexities faced by colonial troops instead becomes a spectacle where subtlety is left behind, and history is bent to fit a narrative that’s loud, proud, and entirely unburdened by realism.
The Last Tiger[edit | edit source]
The Last Tiger campaign is a fever dream of missed potential and historical absurdities, shamelessly borrowing from Fury but stripping away any semblance of believability. It opens in the North African desert, possibly around 1941 – a completely irrelevant setting that exists solely for a brief, disconnected cutscene. Suddenly, you’re thrust forward to 1945, now in “Hamburg,” though it’s actually just the Rotterdam map, awkwardly re-skinned and rebranded. Here we meet our tragic anti-hero, Peter Müller, a Wehrmacht officer inexplicably assigned to command a tank, despite the fact that he’s neither SS nor in a tank division. Müller leads the ragtag crew of Tiger 237, a tank magically blessed with infinite ammo – a detail that would feel right at home in a fantasy shooter but is laughably out of place here.
The cast of characters is about as believable as the plot itself. You have Kertz, the driver, who looks more like he belongs in a bread line than in the cockpit of a Tiger tank. Then there’s Hartmann, a bumbling member of the Hitler Youth with more plot contrivance than actual personality, and Schröder, who’s a “re-skinned” black soldier with an irrational, over-the-top fanaticism, as if the developers ran out of character ideas and slapped together a checklist of “interesting traits.” Together, they’re meant to be the last hope of a crumbling Reich, but they feel more like a sitcom cast than a military crew.
As for your enemies, the game throws any historical accuracy right out the window. You’ll find yourself facing American soldiers in 1945 Hamburg who, for some reason, are wielding Lee-Enfield rifles (a British weapon), rusty Lewis guns (from WWI), cursed Thompson submachine guns with optics tacked on like an afterthought, and, of course, Staghound armored cars and Sherman tanks. If that isn’t confusing enough, some of the Americans are inexplicably armed with Panzerfausts, a German anti-tank weapon that the game somehow decided was fair game for the Allies. Realism isn’t just stretched – it’s torn to shreds in the name of gameplay.
Then, the campaign’s central theme makes itself abundantly clear: “Germans bad.” Every scene, every line, is a clumsy hammering of this moral, so unsubtle that it would make even the bluntest WWII films cringe. The game is so focused on reminding you of this “truth” that it abandons any chance of exploring the actual complexities or moral conflicts soldiers like Müller might have faced in the final days of the war.
After a few obligatory tank battles, where your KwK 36 L/56 88mm cannon reloads itself with inexplicable speed, you’re yanked out of the Tiger for a stealth mission. Yes, in a campaign titled The Last Tiger, you’re soon relegated to sneaking around on foot. As if to add insult to injury, your loyal but clueless loader, Hartmann, decides to make a run for it mid-mission. But since The Last Tiger doesn’t actually care about realism, the tank’s reload speed remains unaffected by his absence – a testament to just how little the developers think their audience will notice or care about the logistics of manning a tank.
From there, you’re given yet another “dramatic” on-foot sequence to fetch documents, which somehow feels like the least engaging quest imaginable. Finally, as the campaign staggers towards its conclusion, you’re treated to a “shock” ending that’s more predictable than surprising. Schröder, in a scripted fit of fanatical loyalty to the Reich, turns on Kertz – shooting the driver in cold blood before turning his gun on Müller himself.
The final scene attempts to be haunting, a commentary on the dangers of fanaticism and the cost of loyalty, but instead, it feels like the exclamation mark on an absurdly contrived plot. Rather than a thoughtful exploration of what it might have meant to be on the losing side, The Last Tiger ends up as a parody of itself, substituting historical weight and realism for cartoonish drama and one-dimensional characters. What should have been a tense and gritty campaign becomes an exercise in unintentional comedy – a tragically wasted opportunity to offer anything close to an authentic or respectful portrayal of a complicated time.
Could be worse?[edit | edit source]
All historians asked themselves whether a game could distort WWII even more than Battlefield V. In 2021, the impossible happened—Call of Duty: Vanguard entered the scene, rewriting history with an unapologetic blend of sci-fi action and unrecognizable wartime tropes.
Where Battlefield V shook its fans with an almost alternate-history take on WWII—complete with cybernetic limbs, anachronistic firearms, and unexpected character roles—Vanguard pushed things further. Forget gritty realism or plausible historical settings; this was more a neon-tinted Hollywood adventure, where war felt like a hyper-stylized theme park with endless explosions and outlandish battles. Imagine combat where weapon designs felt straight out of an 80s sci-fi flick, and characters sported equipment that would’ve left WWII-era soldiers scratching their heads in disbelief.
Both games left historical accuracy in the dust, but Vanguard managed to create a version of WWII so stylized that it could barely be called WWII at all. This is a world where soldiers zip around like superheroes, wielding guns with questionable historical origins, all while executing impossible stunts that would make any WWII historian cringe. It’s less a tribute to the brutal reality of the war and more an explosive spectacle designed for maximum flash.
In the end, Battlefield V and Vanguard showed us that sometimes, when it comes to history, the goal is no longer authenticity—it’s simply about creating a story that’s big, loud, and impossible to ignore, regardless of whether it bears any resemblance to reality.