Red Thread Games’ narrative-driven adventure showcases an imaginative universe. However, the characters within it fail to captivate as much as their surroundings.
By Mark Delaney on August 14, 2024 at 7:00AM PDT
Dustborn appears to be a response to critics demanding politics-free gaming, adopting a decidedly leftist stance. This brazen approach initially draws interest in the early hours; however, it dissipates in the latter half with repetitive combat scenarios and concluding segments that undermine the promising start.
In this near-future America, depicted as a dystopia splintered by a second civil war, the game sets a group of idealistic rebels against the backdrop of a divided country. They journey covertly to ignite hope for a brighter future, masked under a punk-rock facade, accompanied by a gameplay reminiscent of Telltale’s style. Despite wrapping in many appealing elements, Dustborn ultimately leaves a sense of unfulfillment and desire for more.
Dustborn’s cel-shaded comic-book style instantly grabs attention, painting a world that’s as fragmented and colorful as the society it depicts. Initially, I was not put off by the mildly irritating nature of the four protagonists in the opening sequence. It seemed to set the stage for their evolution from graceless friends evading a corrupt police force to becoming bold revolutionaries challenging oppressive rulers across the country. Initially, I was hooked, but then my enthusiasm waned.
The shift in my feelings towards the game didn’t happen suddenly. Rather, it seemed to decline gradually. The first 15 hours of the game, rich with setting the scene, mostly captivated me. Dustborn introduces a fascinating alternate history where instead of JFK, his wife Jackie is assassinated at Dealey Plaza. This tragedy drives Kennedy to establish a new national police agency named Justice, which quietly deteriorates the nation, akin to the unnoticed boiling of a frog, reducing the likelihood of an effective revolt.
As the populace started embracing fascist ideologies more broadly, a pivotal broadcast in the 2000s spreads misinformation aggressively, accelerating the nation’s descent into civil war while simultaneously giving rise to Anomals (pejoratively referred to as Deviants) who gain various powers from this event.
The narrative feels like it could be the premise of an intriguing novel and initially suits an adventure game quite well. I appreciate how the game portrays a society rooted in post-truth. Early on, there’s a concept that misinformation is as pervasive as airborne viruses on public transport, capable of infecting minds and fueling hostility, bigotry, and various abhorrent ideologies.
Here is where it becomes obvious–if the game’s earlier way of introducing characters’ pronouns didn’t do it for you–that this is a game made by leftists, about leftists, and very likely for leftists. It is a game that knows when angry young men tweet about wanting no politics in their games, they usually only mean politics with which they don’t agree, and so it feels designed in a way that will knowingly, though not exactly purposely, irritate them with exactly those politics. It doesn’t pull punches in that regard, and surely many anger merchants will take the bait once Dustborn hits stores. Funnily, when you hear fuzzy snippets of disinformation in the air, they’re always regurgitating right-wing talking points on subjects like climate change denial, xenophobia, or even QAnon and Pizzagate.
Though Dustborn does eventually attack the opposite end of the sociopolitical spectrum–you can’t really be a leftist without fighting other leftists, right?–it is, by and large, a story that villainizes right-wing fascists, but notably only pities their supporters. It’s presented as a mirror to our modern-day reality; its view of people who fall for right-wing charlatans is patronizing, but also sincere, as though it’s saying we genuinely ought to feel sorry for such people as the conditions that drove them to be misled are, to some extent, not their fault. It’s definitely a game that could only exist because of the trajectory of the US as it stands today. Despite its alternate history framework, it pulls from real life quite a bit. Portions of the banter during combat even reference some of the dumbest things former President Trump has said.
Though those last few paragraphs may well upset some readers across the aisle, I want to emphasize that all of what I just described are the game’s coolest parts. I not only have no qualms with the team building a world that reflects its politics, but I also greatly appreciate how thoughtful some of it is. Despite the fun it makes of far- (and even not-so-far-) right thinkers, it sincerely strives for empathy and suggests that it’s righteous to help those people come back to reality, rather than leave them to wither away in a cradle of conspiracy theories.
But just because I agree with the game’s politics doesn’t mean it’s a good game.
Dustborn features a rich ensemble of characters primarily focused on those termed Anomals, with the protagonist, Pax, possessing the unique ability to weaponize her words to manipulate and harm others. Her group of companions also boasts supernatural talents; Sai possesses immense strength while Noam has a persuasive calming influence. In contrast, Pax’s abilities are rooted deeply in negative emotions, designed to incite and agitate. The game innovatively uses psychological terms like triggering and gaslighting as mechanics, transforming them into battle strategies; for instance, triggering enhances allies’ damage temporarily, and Pax’s discord technique turns foes against each other, while a hoax ability deludes enemies into believing they are aflame, mirroring the real-world issue of misinformation as a tactical spell.
The gameplay intertwines these unique abilities within clunky combat sequences, employing a real-time third-person approach with a pausable ability wheel to select powers, somewhat reminiscent of Dragon Age’s combat system. Throughout their journey from Pacifica to Nova Scotia, Pax and her allies confront various adversaries including vibrant raiders and obscure secret police.
Notably, the combat mechanics often feel cumbersome, with a camera that struggles to follow Pax’s movements, leading to frustration. Despite the intriguing premise of using language as a combat tool, this aspect of Dustborn proves less enjoyable. This sentiment was echoed in an early game option allowing players to choose the frequency of combat; opting for less, I still found the reduced encounters overly frequent, though it was reassuring to know the alternative.
Despite my preference for minimal combat, the game struggles to impress when there is no fighting involved. The animations remain stiff, hindering my ability to connect with any characters. Unlike Telltale’s The Walking Dead, which managed to captivate despite similar issues over a decade ago, Dustborn unnecessarily perpetuates outdated character movements and facial expressions, impacting the voice acting, puzzle components, and exploration. This stagnation is noticeable when compared to the advancements made by other games from companies like Telltale and Quantic Dream, which have evolved past such primitive animation.
Throughout their journey, Dustborn introduces various outcasts into the storyline, yet none managed to emotionally engage me. I interacted with them regularly, shared moments around the campfire, and even gave gifts like new dice to Eli, who organizes tabletop RPG sessions. Despite their seemingly complex personalities, awkward animation combined with abrupt shifts between light-hearted and serious tones kept me disconnected.
The story’s persistent tonal inconsistencies and the characters’ ability to unrealistically escape dire situations without repercussions rendered their challenges as mere diversions, leaving me disengaged from their overarching mission. The frequent changes between whimsical adventures and intense political drama never allowed me to build a genuine connection with anyone in the group.
The characters are far from silent, continuously conversing as the game overflows with dialogue. This chatter is almost non-stop, offering constant opportunities for interaction as Pax, but this barrage of banter doesn’t compensate for the game’s deeper narrative and emotional shortcomings.
What strikes me as impressive about the game is how the player can seemingly extend its duration simply by engaging with every character they encounter, despite the narrative constantly emphasizing a lack of leisure time. Through these interactions, players delve into their companions’ histories and influence the relationships within their group, which in turn affects the story’s trajectory and even determines who survives. This element creates a semblance of stakes, although a second playthrough suggests limited variation in the overall narrative, revealing both depth and redundancy in the storytelling. However, there are moments when I yearn for a brief respite from the constant dialogue.
The characters’ incessant chatter often leads to overlapping dialogues, especially when new cutscenes or interactions abruptly interrupt ongoing conversations. This frequent, unnatural interruption of lines transforms a potentially engaging feature into a clunky and jarring experience. The incessant, overlapping chatter became as irksome as an overzealous crowd at a concert, reminiscent of one I attended in a bustling city not too long ago.
Technically, the game, Dustborn, suffered from notable bugs at its launch, including a devastating one on PC that erased all my progress despite later patches fixing these issues. Though reported as resolved, the fixes didn’t recover my lost data, forcing a game restart. Additionally, the game crashed multiple times during my subsequent playthrough, though autosave features mitigated the frustration each time.
The narrative cleverly disguises the characters as a punk rock band to navigate a perilous landscape, incorporating a playable music mini-game that’s quite fun, despite an obscure scoring mechanism. However, the music itself, pivotal to the game’s theme, disappointingly veers towards pop or maybe pop-punk, lacking the raw, rebellious energy typical of true punk rock. This thematic dissonance, more than the other drawbacks of the game, left me perplexed and somewhat let down, given the game’s initial promises of an authentic punk rock experience.
The band’s provocative lyrics should, in theory, land them in trouble in such a repressive environment, yet the only mention of it during my gameplay was when a justice officer mildly cautioned me that such tunes aren’t well-received in America. Despite the lyrics discussing the outlasting of political adversaries by progressives to create a better world, I expected more severe consequences given the harsh nature of the police as described in the narrative.
This serves as a striking example of the disconnect between the premise and its realization. The lore presented in Dustborn initially captivated me. I read every bit of text I could find, from notes stuck to a refrigerator to the labels on food items; I explored every poster and book to uncover more of its unique history. With its graphic novel-like visuals, everything appeared as promising as the scenario initially suggested.
However, as the game progressed, particularly in the concluding chapters, the story, heavily laden with metaphors—of varying effectiveness—becomes overwhelmingly convoluted. The sophistication of the early sections seems as though they were composed by completely different authors. I might have overlooked the narrative turbulence of the final act had I felt a connection with the characters—I managed to appreciate Season 6 of Lost for similar reasons. In Lost, the absurdity of the plot lines was mitigated by my attachment to the characters. Yet in Dustborn, without ever forming such attachments, I was left with no anchor, leading to both the story and gameplay descending into disarray. Despite Dustborn’s clear moral direction, it ultimately loses its way.
