We've all been there, right? You hear about this game that everyone—and I mean everyone—is raving about. The reviews are glowing, your friends won't shut up about it, and every gaming forum treats it like the second coming. You boot it up expecting to be swept away, only to find yourself staring at the screen wondering if you downloaded the wrong version. You try to push through because, surely, the masses can't be wrong. But deep down, you kind of hate it. And after forcing yourself to finish it, you can explain exactly why.

For me, there are five sacred cows of the gaming world that I just couldn't stomach. Let me vent a little—maybe you'll relate, or maybe you'll want to revoke my gamer card. Either way, here we go.

Undertale: The Friendship Cult That Left Me Cold

Everyone told me Undertale was revolutionary. It subverts the typical kill-everything gameplay loop by letting you spare monsters! It preaches the power of friendship! The writing is hilarious! So I dove in, ready to have my mind blown. What I found instead was a saccharine, painfully twee underworld full of creatures so aggressively quirky that I felt like I was stuck in a children's TV show from a parallel universe. The running gags wore thin after the first hour, and the "bullet-hell but you dodge and hug" combat felt like a gimmick that never evolved.

And let's talk about the supposed moral depth. To get the "good" ending, you basically need to spare every single monster. No nuance, no case-by-case judgment—just blanket pacifism. How is my morality being tested if the optimal path is a monotonous cookie-and-kisses routine? In the end, Undertale's cutesy message felt about as profound as a greeting card. I finished it, shrugged, and moved on, baffled why anyone considers it a masterpiece.

Control: When Style Can't Save Substance

I went into Control riding a wave of hype. A mind-bending action game set in a brutalist shapeshifting building? Sign me up! Visually, it's stunning—no argument there. But once the initial awe fades, you realize you're mostly walking through identical, barren concrete corridors. The combat starts with a bang; telekinetically hurling filing cabinets at enemies never gets old... for about two hours. Then the lack of enemy variety kicks in, and every encounter feels like a slight variant of the same rhythm.

What really lost me, though, was the story. I'm all for mystery and ambiguity, but Control felt like an endless firing squad of metaphors and riddles with no satisfying payoff. I finished it feeling more confused than enlightened, and not in a thought-provoking way. More like I'd just woken up from a weird dream that made little sense. Plenty of people call it a masterpiece—I call it a technically impressive but narratively hollow experience.

Deathloop: The Loop I Wanted to Break Immediately

I was beyond excited for Deathloop. I adore Dishonored, so when Arkane announced a time-loop assassination game with slick 60s style, I practically pre-ordered it the second I could. Early reviews were ecstatic. And then I hit start on my PS5 and waited for the magic. It never came. The world is dripping with personality, the voice acting is superb, and the weapons are creative—but something fundamental refused to click.

The time-loop gimmick, which I expected to be a playground for experimentation, felt more like a punishment for not playing optimally. Repetition is the point, I get it, but trudging through the same areas over and over to line up one perfect run became tedious rather than tantalizing. And the PvP invasions? As someone who has always struggled with competitive multiplayer, getting invaded by a decked-out Julianna while I was trying to execute a complex sequence turned every session into a stress nightmare. I bounced off so hard I actually returned the game, which I hardly ever do.

The Witcher 3: I Tried, I Really Did

Three times. That's how many times I've attempted to get into The Witcher 3. Three distinct saves, stretched across years, each one a little longer than the last. My most recent run actually got somewhere—I cleared whole regions of side quests, tackled a mountain of monster contracts, and even sailed to the gorgeous archipelago of Skellige. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I'd finally "gotten it."

Then I stopped and asked myself, what exactly am I doing here? The combat felt floaty and imprecise, the controls clunky, and the open world, while enormous, often felt empty and bloated. The story didn't grip me like it did everyone else; I felt like I was checking off boxes on an epic to-do list rather than inhabiting a living world. It was this realization that made me put down the controller for the third and final time. The Witcher 3 taught me a valuable lesson: you don't have to force yourself to love a game, no matter how many Game of the Year awards it has. There are too many other incredible experiences out there.

Red Dead Redemption 2: The Sacred Cowboy I Couldn't Ride

Calling Red Dead Redemption 2 polarizing would be a stretch—most people absolutely worship it. I get it. Westerns aren’t usually my jam, but after years of hearing it described as a narrative pinnacle with the most living, breathing open world ever, I finally gave in. My excitement died somewhere around the third time I watched Arthur perform a painfully slow animation to loot a drawer.

Rockstar went all-in on realism, and while I respect the craft, the horse mechanics nearly broke me. My steed would crash into trees, refuse to turn properly, and generally handle like it resented being alive. Combined with the clunky, multi-layered gunplay—why does quick-drawing require a Ph.D.?—I spent most of my time in the game trudging through beautiful landscapes while muttering under my breath. The story is undeniably well-acted, but when the very act of moving through the world feels like a chore, even the best narrative can’t save it. I finished it grumpy, relieved, and utterly baffled by the decade-best accolades.

So why am I telling you all this? Because it's okay to hate a popular game. I used to feel guilty, like I was missing some crucial piece of my gamer soul. But taste is subjective, and forcing yourself through a 60-hour epic you can't stand isn't a badge of honor—it's just a waste of time. Maybe one of these sacred cows is your favorite game of all time. That's wonderful. Just don't expect me to jump back onto that horse any time soon.