Warning: This text contains plot spoilers for the following games >
The Blood of Dawnwalker (surprise)
The Witcher III: Wild Hunt
Cyberpunk 2077
I. Introduction
Once the prologue in Whiteflower is complete, The Witcher III: Wild Hunt (CD PROJEKT RED, 2015) subjects the main character, Geralt of Rivia, to a piercing interrogation, under the vague threat of a sharp razor blade. Players must then answer a series of questions that serve a threefold purpose: to reinforce the existence of the protagonist and his world by giving them a concrete and tangible presence; to establish the chronology of events in order to set the stage for this story; and finally, to carry over the choices made in the previous game into this one. While it is possible to simply import a save file from The Witcher II: Assassins of Kings (CD PROJEKT RED, 2011) by playing both episodes on the same platform, the studio nonetheless incorporated this scene to serve the aforementioned objectives—and also because a large portion of the audience would only be discovering the saga with the third installment. The choices—whether simulated or imported—paint a slightly different odyssey depending on which characters survive or which former allies are present. However, these choices are limited to secondary features and sequences; the main storyline remains set in stone, and the conclusions of Wild Hunt depend solely on actions taken during gameplay.
In 2022, Konrad Tomaszkiewicz, known for leading the development of The Witcher III: Wild Hunt, founded his own video game development studio, called Rebel Wolves. The guiding principles behind this new team revolve around strong concepts: boldness, independence, and above all, the desire to create deep and ambitious role-playing games. The result would be four years in the making before being released in September 2026 under the title The Blood of Dawnwalker (hereinafter referred to as Dawnwalker). This new franchise is embarking on a path that has generally been neglected by the industry: the creation of a saga spanning multiple installments—distinct adventures linked by a shared overarching narrative, as well as choices whose consequences ripple through the various chapters of this epic. Much like the Mass Effect trilogy, players’ first steps in the franchise’s debut title are destined to indelibly shape the journey of the central protagonist of this tragedy, Coen de Laslea.
Dawnwalker thus prioritizes a finely crafted narrative, punctuated by numerous twists and turns and other plot developments of varying impact, all structured around generous freedom of action and mandatory checkpoints that help shape the overall plot. Once the prologue is complete, the game presents the player with a goal that is both specific (saving his family) and vague (how to do it?), all framed by another excellent game design concept: a time constraint in the form of a countdown. Coen thus has one lunar cycle—thirty days—to save his family, a deadline marked by a chronological event of historic significance: the coronation of Brencis, the story’s antagonist. With the units of place (Vale Sangora, a valley nestled silently between the mountain ranges of the fictional Carpathians) and time (the famous thirty days) in place, all that’s missing is the unit of action: an element that the audience will be able to explore and shape at their own pace, with their own personality, and even—dare we say it—their own sense of intimacy.
II. The vampire figure: a cliché or a stroke of genius?
But before we examine this narrative structure and the tools it employs and modernizes, it’s worth taking a moment to focus on the central figure of Dawnwalker: the vampire. Konrad Tomaszkiewicz and his team have moved away from a world of humans plagued by monsters (Wild Hunt) to a realm ruled by those very monsters—vampires—and overrun by humans. The figure of the monster has always been central to the creator’s body of work; The Witcher constantly poses the age-old question of how to define monstrosity, but Dawnwalker approaches the subject from a fresh perspective. The mutant with ivory-white hair gives way to a spiritual successor who embraces his monstrous side, yet the studio never disowns its origins (in this regard, once Coen’s transformation into a Vespéral is complete, he has one blue eye and one golden eye—a subtle echo of Geralt’s gaze). While the game’s antagonists are, of course, vampires—or vrakhirs, which amounts to the same thing, as this universe weaves the first threads of its own mythology here—Coen occupies a middle ground. A hybrid of human emotions and fantastical power, he is also the vessel for the torments and baseness of both sides. Geralt’s experience and wisdom thus give way to a refreshing awakening—a figure who is certainly less charismatic, as he is still in the process of blossoming, but one who embodies possibilities as diverse as the development team can dream up.
The vampire, like its roommate the zombie, has sadly lost some of its luster over the decades. Aside from the moribund overuse fueled by movies and video games themselves, we must admit that the themes these creatures represent have hardly evolved over time. Whether as a critique of capitalism, a reflection of human darkness, romantic ramblings, or—on the contrary—savage fantasies, the same motifs recur in a metaphorical cycle that has now become redundant. Whether serving as generic antagonists (the Castlevania series, Konami) or as narrative pretexts for gameplay-related powers (Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines, 2004), vampires are more tools than complex psyches—and even less so as systems. Of course, popular culture has allowed for a few flashes of brilliance here and there, such as Marceline from Adventure Time (Cartoon Network, 2010), but it must be noted that, much like the zombies in the Resident Evil series (Capcom, 1996), these creatures have rarely been at the center of creative daring. It is ultimately in literature and the graphic arts that the figure truly flourishes, whether through the punk audacity of Requiem, Chevalier Vampire (Pat Mills and Olivier Ledroit, 2000) or the theatrical manga Vampyre (Suehiro Maruo, 1998). But in the isolated realm of video games, the vampire is associated with a persistent Manichaeism: antagonist or hero—there is no middle ground.
Faced with this restrictive dichotomy, Dawnwalker embraces a duality that breathes new life into the myth: the vampire is only half of a perpetual cycle, both hunting humans and fading away in their presence. Coen thus maintains a credible tone, as the ashes of a life foster attachment and allow the player to “feel” it—or at least to understand it. This psychological and biological duality translates into a stroke of playful genius: the division into day and night phases, which influences not only the progression of quests and events but also the world itself—and, better yet, the gameplay. The duality that gnaws at Coen is thus revealed through the game mechanics, which are repeated across all missions, further personalizing the players’ journey and adventure. However, the premise of the saga and Coen’s condition impose a significant constraint: immortality. While it is, of course, possible to perish—for example, through defeat in combat—the protagonist’s very existence is never in doubt, as he is destined to play the central role in the epic that Rebel Wolves is about to craft.
Unlike V (Cyberpunk 2077, CD PROJEKT RED, 2020), whose survival drives the plot, Coen’s character is doomed to traverse the centuries. The writers thus shift the emotional focus to his family: saving his loved ones becomes the heart of the game, which in turn shapes this young hero’s kind and generous personality. Here, the team shifts the stakes from Wild Hunt—saving Geralt’s adopted daughter—to the entire family. Furthermore, since this is a nuclear family, it’s easy to project one’s own loved ones onto one of the four household members, thereby reinforcing the sense of realism that this adventure can evoke.
Being immortal also makes it possible to break free from many restrictions regarding the saga’s future. Much like a series such as Doctor Who (BBC, 1963), which can change its lead actor in the blink of an eye, the writers have crafted a framework that allows them to overcome several constraints—in this case, geographical and temporal ones. The game’s main conclusions introduce the Arbiters, a group operating worldwide that has taken an interest in Coen, which will theoretically allow him to travel to every continent. Since the temporal barrier has already been removed by his immortality, it is therefore virtually possible at the end of the game to visit any location, at any time in history. Just as the Assassin’s Creed series (Ubisoft, 2007) is filled with episodes set in various historical periods, Dawnwalker promises a freedom of settings that remains to be explored. The game’s structure borrows more than just this idea from the Ubisoft series; the main objectives consist of… assassinating three of Brencis’s lieutenants. Rebel Wolves, however, explores a more occult path than what the Assassin’s Creed storyline reveals (although, ironically, the franchise’s creator, Patrice Désilet, has recently set his sights on charting a more mystical course of his own with his project currently in development, 1666: Amsterdam—Panache Digital Games). In short, once again, the narrative choice of the vampire figure is set in the future and also resonates with the game’s gameplay mechanics.
These systems, in fact, offer a two-fold progression: the game even goes so far as to divide the equipment you wear into two tabs—one for daytime and one for nighttime. Skill trees are both separate (magic and vampiric powers) and combined (the art of the sword), while equipment favors one playstyle or another. The systems themselves are sometimes altered depending on the time of day, such as healing items or powers to unlock. These advantages aren’t limited to combat; exploration is also subject to the different phases of the day-night cycle. When night falls, Coen becomes much more mobile, drawing his movement abilities from vampire folklore—able to turn into mist here and shapeshift into a wolf there. Players thus feel restricted in their exploration during the day, deprived of their ability to walk on walls or unable to gallop through the cursed woods. The presence of magic fills this gap, offering clear gameplay appeal, as players can decide how and when to enhance one or the other half of Coen.
Amid all these observations, blood takes on paramount importance. It allows you to pay for spells during the day and to heal yourself after dark. But that’s not all, since the most interesting vampiric abilities are locked behind the acquisition of vials containing far more precious blood samples—namely, the blood of Brencis’s various generals. Game progression is thus driven by a new system that prevents players from becoming powerful right away, while posing a moral dilemma for Coen: whether or not to drink this blood. It’s worth noting that the game features yet another system—a so-called “corruption gauge”—which, as its level rises, unlocks new actions. Rebel Wolves has made a clever narrative choice here by not labeling this meter in the conventional way—as a “vampire meter,” for example. No, it’s specifically called the “corruption meter,” an eloquent term that signifies Coen’s transformation. Not a healthy transformation, but rather the loss of his humanity: he is corrupted. Implicitly, by tying vampiric powers to the rise in this gauge’s level, the game continually challenges players to question their morality and what they’re willing to sacrifice. It’s both clever and effective, although it’s possible to take this concept much further—for example, by restricting access to other abilities in exchange for increasing this meter. The power of the night, then, comes at a price—in blood and morale—but the developers don’t stop there.
The game also features one final mechanic tied to Coen’s vampiric nature. If he becomes too hungry—or rather, too thirsty—he is capable of literally devouring the supporting characters. The response options displayed during dialogue scenes can thus vanish, replaced by a paralyzing “give in to the thirst.” While it’s possible to resist this urge by playing carefully—or simply by reloading a save (which, let’s face it, takes some of the fun out of the story)—the killing of non-player characters is permanent, thereby altering the main course of the adventure. The consequences thus have a direct impact, both on the writing and on the gameplay, since it’s then possible to skip entire sections of the storyline. The result is a powerful “role-playing” aspect that other works struggle to achieve. What consequence could be more impactful than the total disappearance of a character? Well, their eternity! Indeed, and to wrap things up, Dawnwalker offers a rather surprising resolution to the conflicts with Brencis’s three generals. Ambrus, Bakir, and Xanthe can thus either be eliminated or “absorbed” by Coen. The result is a “mental companion” that is reminiscent of Johnny Silverhand’s presence in Cyberpunk 2077.
Thus, the figure of the vampire brings its full significance not only to the gameplay but also to the developments and questions that punctuate the journey. The central question driving the vampire myth is therefore explored on multiple levels throughout the narrative, right up to its conclusion. What’s the point of being an immortal vampire if nothing has any meaning anymore, if it’s possible to see everything, visit everywhere, and experience everything? The game explores this dilemma through Coen’s family, which serves as the ultimate goal of the adventure. Once they are saved, Coen will join the Arbiters and say goodbye to his loved ones. The warmth of the game’s opening in Laslea gives way to the winter’s chill; time passes, has passed, and will pass, and Coen will no longer be able to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. The fate of his shattered family—torn apart by poverty, grief, Esme’s trauma, and more—is no longer in his hands. There’s a strange sense of incompleteness at the twilight of this adventure, as the writing effortlessly conveys the bitterness of this immortality. This approach proves both subtle and striking, as it effortlessly reminds us of the world’s lack of black-and-white morality, while also serving as a gateway to future installments of the saga. Nevertheless, the duality that plagues the main character powerfully represents the traumas he keeps buried deep within his heart. His transformation into a beast driven by thirst reflects a gnawing guilt, which will be addressed in a few paragraphs. The power of this transformation lies not only in the gameplay possibilities it unlocks, but also in the way it resonates with the protagonist’s psychology.
III. Time as a Gameplay Mechanic and Narrative Tool
As we know, Dawnwalker revolves around a countdown that never leaves players’ minds. Much like the corruption gauge mentioned earlier, the passage of time is a constant constraint, highlighted by the interface itself through the timeline and quest objectives. The game thus sets out to resolve one of the biggest challenges of open-world adventures: the narrative-gameplay dissonance linked to the passage of time. To revisit the examples mentioned earlier, how can we justify Geralt or V wasting time on side activities (playing cards!) instead of completing their personal quests? In all these video games, time—and by extension, the world—seems to pause when the protagonists stop to gather herbs or hunt for frying pans. Time moves forward only in fits and starts, and only when each player decides to move it forward. No matter how much the menus or dialogues remind us of the urgency, it’s actually absent. It’s merely an atmospheric threat, but never a constraint. Constraint—there’s the word.
In Dawnwalker, time is a resource—like a simple ingredient in an alchemical formula, or even a character statistic. Giving time a tangible quality and a concrete effect on the unfolding of the adventure not only helps solidify the narrative structure of the story, of course, but also guides the way the game is played. Each action thus takes on a weight that doesn’t exist in other works, which in turn ties even the smallest side plots and digressions to the main storyline. Paradoxically, video games have both avoided these temporal constraints—as in Sony’s narrative games, for example—and embraced unforgiving time limits, as in the original Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo, 1985). Thus, time has often been viewed not as a narrative tool, but as a tool for performance. Of course, this isn’t universally true; exceptions exist and account for some of the medium’s greatest successes. Take, for example, Disco Elysium (ZA/UM, 2019), which spans its story over a handful of days and structures several plotlines around deadlines (such as finding enough money to pay the hotel manager).
Actions and dialogues help pass the time, and some scripted events are tied to specific times. There’s The Outer Wilds, of course (Mobius Digital, 2019, come to think of it), but we won’t give anything away here. Sometimes, time serves as a framework and allows players to play with its paradoxes, as in Shadow of Memories (Konami, 2001), which lets you explore the same neighborhood through the lens of four different eras. One final example involves using time to manipulate the game’s setting: there’s Ori (Moon Studios, 2015), which freezes Ori in space and time during his bounces, or Braid (Jonathan Blow, 2008), which plays with rewinding actions. Not to mention The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask (Nintendo, 2000), which is structured entirely around three repeating days.
In Dawnwalker, time is tied to Coen’s duality. Just as there are two separate skill trees and two halves of his being (the human and the monster), the adventure is divided into two cycles: day and night. Players must therefore plan their actions accordingly, as certain activities are restricted to one of the game’s two segments. Once again, this subsystem shapes progression because its very presence influences Coen’s actions. In addition to the fact that certain parts of the storyline are restricted to either day or night, actions can take more or less time depending on their complexity, forcing you to anticipate every decision. This is a dynamic that the game takes great delight in subverting, regularly offering unexpected narrative twists. The most obvious example occurs early in the game, designed to hook the player. While heading to Anca’s house to collect ingredients and a recipe, a storm breaks out and may trap Coen as dusk approaches. Depending on whether it’s early or late in the day, the choice of whether or not to use up time will be affected: the stakes shift based on each player’s path and choices. It is therefore no coincidence that not only is Anca’s cabin far away (which makes sense within the story—since the herbalist is a stranger—but also in terms of game design, since Coen will encounter other characters along the way who will take up his time) and that the end of this first day is marked by a clear danger (the mass).
The game’s stroke of genius lies in transforming time into a resource that is not limited to the chronological unfolding of events, but rather into a kind of universal unit that touches on multiple aspects of game design. While, as we’ve seen so far, the passage of time shapes the world and certain parts of the storyline, it also plays a role in Coen’s long-term development. Thus, in addition to the constant indicators of the time of day that appear on the interface, the menus, as well as the visual and auditory environments, constantly remind the audience of the looming deadline. When the player approaches an interactive element designed to advance time, the timeline begins to flash while the echo of a relentless ticking resounds, serving as a reminder of this constraint. Similarly, the various menus, logs, and objectives feature a logo that, as the game progresses, becomes a familiar emblem: an hourglass accompanied by the number of segments ready to run out. Dialogues and choices employ the same strategy. By constantly reminding players in this way, the passage of time dictates an invisible rhythm and influences the way players engage with the game, right down to the micro-decisions scattered throughout the adventure.
Thus, repairing a simple sanctuary (and unlocking its benefits) becomes a strategic choice whose implications change completely depending on the time of day or night, as well as on current quests and objectives. Dawnwalker thus overwhelms its audience with a flood of concepts and subsystems that alter its core mechanics, giving the adventure a uniqueness that few other works can rival. To be thorough, it’s worth mentioning similar systems already present in games released before Dawnwalker. The recent Persona titles (from the third to the fifth installment), as well as Metaphor: ReFantazio (all developed by Atlus), feature a calendar system where each day allows players to perform specific actions. Time marches on relentlessly; players choose what they want to do, and while these choices may be more linear, the game essentially functions in the same way as Rebel Wolves’ title. In the same vein, countdowns serving as the main narrative thread are not unprecedented here either, as demonstrated by the existence of games such as the Pathologic trilogy (Ice-Pick Lodge).
Time is, ultimately, a burden for Coen—not as a gameplay mechanic, but rather as a tool for psychological development. It is the funeral bell that is about to separate him from his family, but it is also a shroud that stretches farther and farther over the years, deepening the scar of a grief that will be discussed below.
IV. The blend of reality and fiction
The game is set in the Carpathian Mountains and, unlike Wild Hunt, features a fictional world that is nonetheless rooted in reality. While Vale Sangora, the city of Svartrau, the cursed forests, and the game’s network of underground catacombs exist only within the code of Rebel Wolves, this imaginary setting is nonetheless built on very real foundations. Dawnwalker is set in 14th-century Europe, a time marked by war, famine, and disease. In reality, this period was ravaged by so many calamities that historians would later dub it the “Age of Plagues.” Farmland was disappearing and dwindling, leading to the reappearance of a family the people thought had vanished—a return accompanied by the resurgence of diseases such as typhus or, as featured in the game, the plague. Although the plague seemed to have been eradicated, it suddenly resurfaced, proving far more vicious than before. All these calamities claimed the lives of up to one-third of Europe’s population (note: in reality, historians do not agree on the exact number, which ranges from one-eighth to two-thirds). The disease spread at an unexpected rate, fueled by the use of roads traveled by travelers, but also—and above all—by trade routes, whether by land or sea.
The plague struck the most isolated places—a setting that Dawnwalker uses to create Vale Sangora, an enclave secluded enough to justify being cut off from the world, yet also prone to visits from merchants and other emissaries capable of bringing the disease there. Faced with this tragedy of unprecedented scale, the world is transformed, and the consequences are manifold. Among them, two are explored by the game’s storyline. First, people naturally turn to faith for refuge. Religious icons become an escape, symbols of a hope that struggles to manifest itself. It is on this basis that Brencis and his generals assert their authority in the game, destroying the old idols—as evidenced by the organization of new black masses, the transformation of the cathedral, and the destruction of ancient religious figures (and yes, this is what the shattered shrines—which must be repaired here and there—illustrate). The vampire becomes a divine figure, capable of warding off disease.
The second consequence is also linked to a historical fact: the pogroms targeting the Jews of that time, who were blamed for the plague. Thus, in the game, it is possible to walk through the Jewish quarter of Svartrau and encounter a few residents of that faith who have been ostracized. Dawnwalker doesn’t merely create a mythology that rewrites history; rather, it weaves an alternative, occult, and hidden narrative, which the game’s atmosphere conveys quite effectively. Indeed, in the conclusion, the epilogue explains that all traces of Brencis and his henchmen—as well as Coen—have been erased from official history. All of this has become nothing more than a myth, a legend. It’s as if Dawnwalker were about to take a hidden path, a world invisible to human eyes—to our eyes—while the future unfolds in secret behind an imperceptible veil.
Furthermore, Rebel Wolves did not choose this period by chance: in addition to providing a convenient backdrop for the plot and its setting, the 14th century saw some of the earliest manifestations of the nascent vampire figure, before it took on the final form we are all familiar with today. Around 1360, Abbot Jan Neplach wrote, um, the Summula chronicae tam Romanae quam Bohemicae, also known as the Chronicles of Neplach, a historical text covering history from the birth of Christ through 1365. The text is famous primarily because it contains some of the earliest recorded mentions of what might resemble the figure of the vampire. Indeed, it mentions the shepherd Myslata of Blog, in 1336, a man who is said to have risen from his own grave to haunt the villagers. The phenomena reportedly ceased once the deceased’s body was burned. Neplach then addresses the case of Levin’s wife in 1344, a young woman who is said to have returned after her death to kill others and dance on their still-warm bodies. There, too, fire is said to have put an end to the evil deeds. Since the events of Dawnwalker take place in 1347, it is clear that the proximity between the setting of this adventure and the dates of these early phenomena allows for a connection that is neither without interest nor without justification.
As a result, the game skillfully blends historical and real-world sources with the development of this famous alternative mythology, which not only grounds the narrative in a welcome sense of tangibility but also offers narrative freedom that liberates the story from overly burdensome constraints. Alongside the entire theogony crafted for the story—from the origin of vampires to the Anachore, including witchcraft and ancient civilizations—Dawnwalker doesn’t hesitate to explore much more intimate themes that serve as a point of connection for its audience. Beyond the primary objective of rescuing the family, the game takes a rather clever approach by withholding all information about Coen’s past from players. As the adventure begins, the prologue establishes the initial setting, the current stakes, and the personalities of the main and supporting characters. This is, of course, necessary from a storytelling perspective, but the game takes a risk that is usually confined to Asian video games—and more specifically, Japanese role-playing games. In a Western role-playing game, the avatar is either an empty shell shaped in real time by the player’s actions and responses to dialogue: this is the case, for example, in Bethesda games, where the protagonists never have names that define them other than nicknames (such as the Dragonborn or the Remnant in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or The Elder Scrolls Online).
The other possibility is the one explored by The Witcher itself, where Geralt’s character takes shape as the adventure progresses, evolving according to the player’s style. But in Japanese role-playing games, avatars often have a backstory and traumas that aren’t revealed to players until they’ve spent a significant number of hours playing. Geralt’s past isn’t hidden from the audience, but Cloud’s (Final Fantasy VII, Squaresoft, 1997) is. Coen takes more or less the same approach, with subtle clues from the very beginning of the adventure suggesting that not everything about him has been revealed.
It is by progressing through the story and completing the related quests that it becomes possible (or not) to understand and come to terms with the main character’s trauma—namely, the drowning of his younger brother, which he was unable to prevent. Worse still, he blames himself for taking his younger brother ice skating despite their father’s warnings. It’s therefore possible to finish Dawnwalker and save Vale Sangora without ever even coming close to Coen’s absolution—a feature that’s impactful not only in terms of replayability and gameplay but also in terms of storytelling. Indeed, if the game hides Alin’s death for so many hours, it’s not out of laziness or sadism—it’s to better portray the trauma through the tools offered by video games. The revelation of Alin’s fate occurs during a mission that has absolutely no connection to Coen’s family life (which, incidentally, amplifies its impact tenfold), while exploring a tower where a sorcerer operates. The sorcerer traps Coen in a dream in the form of a time loop (there you go—a twist on the game’s central mechanic!), giving him the chance to finally say goodbye to his little brother and begin to forgive himself (which is probably one of the best scenes in the game, among so many others).
Despite a frustrating (though narratively justified) gameplay decision that forces Coen to fight without his strengths, the revelation unfolds in an interesting way. Coen hears a voice he cannot identify and later realizes it is echoing from the depths of a well. The well, of course, is a major and powerful symbol, connecting the universal realms (earth, heaven, and hell) but also—and above all—embodying a path to the unconscious. This is precisely how the game exploits this metaphorical emblem, allowing Coen to see his monstrous reflection in the depths of the well. This reflection is his guilt, accentuated by his transformation into a monster. For indeed, here lies another stroke of writing genius: Coen’s transformation is not merely a plot device or a gameplay mechanic; it is also the embodiment of his own weaknesses—the way he views himself as a monster for having witnessed Alin’s death. Every night after completing this quest turns into a true tragedy during which you can see how Coen views himself on the inside. And what he rejects ultimately becomes one of his greatest strengths in saving his family.
In short, it is standing before this well that Coen begins to come to terms with his past. His demonic reflection asks him what he fears most—a question that can be answered in three different ways.
Brencis
You
Death
Each of his rants will be brushed aside by the inner entity. Yet, at regular intervals, these thoughts transform into a single, red, trembling word.
Alin
Alin
Alin
Here, the game brilliantly captures the way it exploits Coen’s thirst for blood when he engages in dialogue in his vampire form, and when dialogue options turn into that fateful “give in to the thirst.” The sequence thus illustrates that just as Coen resists his vampiric nature throughout the adventure, he also resists coming to terms with Alin’s disappearance. The gameplay mechanics transcend their simple function as an interactive tool between the audience and the game to become a powerful commentary on the main character’s psyche.
It then becomes clear that each of the game’s systems was designed not only to provide immediate enjoyment, but also to support a much broader narrative that takes on meaning in the context of the overarching story unfolding in Dawnwalker.
V. The future
With all these factors in mind, it’s safe to say that The Blood of Dawnwalker is not merely a successor to Wild Hunt. Of course, it builds on some of its foundations, and of course it isn’t quite as polished, but it attempts to expand the gaming landscape in a new direction. In reality, all games are simply extensions of what has come before—the perpetual elevation of a cathedral built upon a myriad of games that constantly draw inspiration from one another. I don’t think Dawnwalker is trying to take the place of CD PROJEKT RED’s games, if only because this saga will focus solely on weaving a single story based on a single concept rather than venturing into different universes, but one thing is certain: is that the strengths and experience accumulated over the past years will fuel what may turn out to be one of the most ambitious epics in contemporary video games. Aside from technical glitches and intractable flaws (the repetitiveness of the monster roster and attacks, the visual and audio style that’s a bit too similar to Velen from The Wild Hunt, the reuse of assets, etc.), Dawnwalker sinks its teeth in with a clear goal: to advance the medium. And that’s to its credit, as time mechanics are perhaps what’s most lacking in contemporary narrative works.
This direction promises some exciting surprises ahead, especially since it’s not the only big-budget game exploring this path—as demonstrated by the upcoming Exodus (Archetype Entertainment, 2027), which will also draw on the impact of time through a powerful and innovative concept. Whatever the quality of these upcoming productions may be, it’s encouraging to see video game creators striving to push the boundaries of the medium—a medium that is still young and undoubtedly has many more wonderful surprises in store for us.
An article on Point’n Think showcasing the previous work of CD PROJEKT RED, the former studio of the director of The Blood of Dawnwalker:
https://www.pointnthink.fr/fr/cyberpunk-207-le-sphynx/
The Blood of Dawnwalker on STEAM (non-affiliate link) :
https://store.steampowered.com/app/3751260/The_Blood_of_Dawnwalker/
The Blood of Dawnwalker on GOG (non-affiliate link) :
https://www.gog.com/fr/game/the_blood_of_dawnwalker