These Video Games Should Never Have Had A Sequel (Part 1)

DOOM Eternal (2020)

The modern DOOM run worked because it felt like controlled panic: you’re always moving, always juggling threats, and somehow it still rewards improvisation instead of punishing you for not playing “the right way.” That’s why DOOM Eternal (for all its extra systems) is still the high point for a lot of fans – the speed is the identity, and the arenas are basically choreography you get to freestyle inside. The next mainline entry, Doom: The Dark Ages, is positioned as a prequel and leans into a heavier, more grounded flavor of violence, swapping some of that acrobatic snap for a bruiser rhythm built around close-range brutality and medieval spectacle. It’s not that the new direction can’t be fun; it’s that the series’ best recent “language” was momentum, and slowing that conversation down makes it feel less like a knife fight and more like a battering ram. If what you wanted was that relentless forward-tilt adrenaline, DOOM Eternal already said everything it needed to say. | © id Software

Subnautica (2018)

The real hook wasn’t crafting or base-building – it was the way the ocean made you second-guess every decision, from “one more dive” to “I can totally outrun that.” You’d start a session chasing copper and end it with a new fear, because the world of Subnautica weaponized curiosity better than most horror games. When the follow-up, Below Zero, arrived, it traded a lot of that lonely pressure for a more guided, talkier approach, with a smaller-feeling playground and a vibe that leans less into being swallowed by the unknown. The original thrived on silence: radio messages, distant calls, and the sound of your oxygen ticking down while you try to stay calm. Once a sequel shifts the balance toward story beats and direction, the sea stops feeling like the main character – and that’s exactly why many fans still treat Subnautica as the complete experience, no sequel required. | © Unknown Worlds Entertainment

Mario + Rabbids Kingdom Battle (2017)

Nobody sane looked at the pitch – Mario plus Rabbids plus tactics combat – and thought “sure, that’ll be classy.” Then you play it and realize how tight it is: clean grid fights, clear rules, and a steady stream of clever encounters that teach without lecturing. The charm also came from restraint; the jokes land, the battles end briskly, and the whole thing feels like it knows exactly how long it should be. In Sparks of Hope, the series opens up movement and structure in ways that sound great on paper, but the flow can soften – fights feel less like tidy puzzles and more like wandering skirmishes, and that “just one more battle” snap isn’t always there. The first game’s magic was how surprisingly disciplined it was, which is why some fans still see Mario + Rabbids Kingdom Battle as the one-time crossover that hit perfectly and didn’t need a second swing. | © Ubisoft Milan

Horizon: Zero Dawn (2017)

What worked wasn’t just the spectacle of machine wildlife; it was the slow drip of answers that made the world feel engineered, not random. The best hours of Horizon: Zero Dawn are spent tracking patterns, peeling back lore, and realizing the “tribal future” is built on something far more specific and unsettling than you first assumed. Sequels have a hard time recreating that kind of revelation, and Forbidden West often compensates by adding – more systems, more map, more gear, more errands – until discovery gets crowded out by management. There’s plenty to admire in the follow-up, but the original’s central mystery gave every fight and conversation a forward pull that’s difficult to replicate once the big question has already been answered. When a game’s greatest trick is making you hungry for the next clue, the second helping can feel optional, even if it’s lavish. | © Guerrilla Games

Overwatch (2016)

Ask anyone who was there at launch and you’ll hear the same kind of memory: a match where the team comp clicked, the ultimates stacked, and the whole screen turned into controlled chaos you could actually understand. Overwatch nailed readability and personality at the same time – every hero felt like a toy with a purpose, and the game practically wrote highlight reels for you. A sequel had to justify itself with something fundamental, yet Overwatch 2 often felt like a rebrand built around new business scaffolding rather than a new identity, with the switch to 5v5 and a big shift in progression/monetization becoming the story people couldn’t ignore. The biggest promise was a deeper PvE direction, and once that ambition got scaled back, a lot of players were left asking what the “2” was really for. When the original already behaved like a living platform, the sequel’s existence can read less like evolution and more like disruption – especially if your fondest memories are still tied to Overwatch as it used to be. | © Blizzard Entertainment

Kerbal Space Program (2015)

Nothing captures its genius like a rocket that looks perfect on the launchpad and instantly disassembles itself into a firework show – because physics doesn’t care how confident you felt in the editor. Kerbal Space Program turned orbital mechanics into slapstick science, then quietly taught you real concepts (and patience) while you chased that first clean orbit. It also became a lifestyle game thanks to mods, which let the community build entire “dream expansions” on top of the sandbox. Then Kerbal Space Program 2 arrived in a state that asked for a lot of faith: performance issues, missing or half-formed features, and the uneasy sense that the runway was being painted while the plane was already in the air. The behind-the-scenes story didn’t help either – development turbulence became part of the conversation, and that’s never what you want for a game built on trust and iteration. When the original already felt infinite, Kerbal Space Program didn’t need a second launch to prove its point. | © Squad

Dying Light (2015)

Drop into Harran for ten minutes and you understand the appeal: momentum is the weapon, rooftops are your escape route, and nightfall feels like someone turned the difficulty knob with a grin. The day/night loop gave Dying Light its personality – daytime scavenging is stress, nighttime is straight-up fear, because the city suddenly hunts back. When Dying Light 2 Stay Human tried to scale everything up, the results often felt less sharp: a launch full of technical rough edges, a world that can read more “systems and errands” than survival horror, and choices that didn’t always land with real weight. Even the improved traversal couldn’t fully replace the original’s specific tension, where every risky sprint had that “I might not make it” edge. For plenty of fans, the most honest version of this franchise is still the first game’s sweaty dash across rooftops in Dying Light. | © Techland

Tales From The Borderlands (2014)

The best compliment you can give this one is that it still works even if you’re not obsessed with loot or lore: it’s funny, surprisingly tender, and paced like someone actually understood comedic timing in an interactive format. The reason Tales From The Borderlands stuck is simple – Rhys and Fiona are easy to root for, and the game knows when to let a joke breathe and when to twist the knife emotionally. New Tales from the Borderlands had the impossible job of following that lightning-in-a-bottle chemistry, but many players felt the writing and tone didn’t hit the same frequency, leaving scenes that should sparkle feeling oddly muted. The original also benefited from being the “fresh angle” on Pandora; once that novelty is gone, a follow-up has to win on characters alone, and that’s a brutal standard. When people replay the series, it’s usually because they want Tales From The Borderlands exactly as it was – complete, self-contained, and better left untouched. | © Telltale Games

Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag (2013)

There’s a reason people still talk about shanties before they talk about stealth: the sea was the star, and the series suddenly felt wide-open in a way it hadn’t before. Sailing, boarding, upgrading the ship – those loops made exploration feel earned, not just mapped, and the pirate fantasy stayed surprisingly grounded because Edward Kenway is a mess in a believable way. Ubisoft clearly knew it had something special, but Assassin’s Creed Rogue recycled some naval DNA without recapturing the same spark. None of that is “bad,” exactly – it’s just a long string of proof that the franchise never found a cleaner version of that ocean-driven freedom again. When the best part of your game is a once-in-a-series vibe, you can argue Assassin’s Creed IV: Black Flag should’ve stayed the high-water mark, not the beginning of a scramble to replace it. | © Ubisoft Montreal

The Last Of Us (2013)

Strip away the infected and it’s still one of the most uncomfortable, human road stories in games – quiet moments that feel dangerous, violent moments that feel personal, and an ending that dares you to argue with it. What made The Last of Us special wasn’t spectacle; it was restraint, and the way the relationship at its core grows through tiny, earned beats instead of big speeches. With The Last of Us Part II, the conversation shifted from “what happened?” to “should this story be expanded at all?” and the answer depended entirely on how you felt about the original’s final note. The follow-up took bold swings – structure, perspective, tone – and even people who admired the craft sometimes wished the first game’s ambiguity had been left to stand on its own. Add the storm of leaks and the way discourse swallowed nuance on release, and the continuation became a cultural argument as much as a game. For many players, the most lasting version of that world is still the one that ended perfectly in The Last of Us. | © Naughty Dog

Payday 2 (2013)

It’s not subtle why it became a time sink: masks on, plan in your head, then everything goes wrong and somehow that’s the fun part. Payday 2 nailed the fantasy of being competent criminals until the moment you aren’t, with heists that could flip from stealth to sirens in seconds and still feel playable. Years of updates turned it into a co-op comfort game – people didn’t just “finish” it, they lived in it, tweaking builds and running favorites like rituals. Payday 3 landed with a harsher reality: always-online friction, shaky servers for many at launch, and an overall content offering that felt thin compared to what players were leaving behind. The sharpest critique wasn’t that it was terrible – it was that it asked the community to abandon something already rich for something that didn’t yet feel worth the move. In that light, the most convincing argument against a continuation is still the one sitting on everyone’s hard drive: Payday 2. | © Overkill Software

Borderlands 2 (2012)

Handsome Jack didn’t just carry the story – he gave the whole genre a villain worth booting up for, even when your backpack was already overflowing with guns you didn’t need. The shooting felt snappier than the first game, the co-op pacing was basically perfect “one more mission” fuel, and the humor worked because it had an actual spine: character arcs, stakes, and a world that wasn’t only memes. Then Borderlands 3 showed up with a lot of mechanical polish and a lot less narrative bite, and for plenty of players the trade-off wasn’t worth it – great gunplay can’t fully compensate when the pacing and antagonists don’t land. Even Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel has its fans, but it never replaced that feeling of the series firing on every cylinder at once. You can keep making louder loot, but it’s hard to top the moment when Borderlands 2 made “looter-shooter” feel like a party with a genuinely sharp host. | © Gearbox Software

Rage (2011)

You could feel the tech flexing through the desert dust: crisp shooting, snappy weapons, and that id-style combat cadence that makes even simple gunfights satisfying. The world had a pulpy, lived-in look, and the “megatexture” approach gave environments a distinctive grime that stood out at the time. The problem is it never quite turns that strong moment-to-moment play into a memorable journey – quests can feel like errands stitched together, characters drift in and out, and the ending is famously abrupt, like someone tore out the last chapter. Rage 2 went in a completely different tonal direction, leaning harder into neon chaos and open-world sprawl, but that swing also made it feel less like a continuation and more like a remix with the same logo. When the first game’s biggest complaint is “it stops right when it should take off,” doubling down doesn’t automatically fix the missing lift. For a lot of players, the most striking thing about Rage is how easily it could’ve been a one-off experiment. | © id Software

Gears Of War 3 (2011)

Endings are rare in big franchises, and this one actually tried to close the book with a straight face: brutal set pieces, heavy character beats, and a finale built like a goodbye rather than a tease. Co-op was still the heartbeat – split-second revives, synchronized pushes, and the kind of teamwork that makes even a messy win feel earned – and the campaign had that “last stand” momentum the series does best. After that, the franchise got pulled in new directions: Gears of War: Judgment shifted the formula, then Gears of War 4 and Gears 5 had to reboot the emotional center under a new studio, with mixed reactions depending on what you wanted from the tone. Some fans loved seeing the universe continue; others felt the original trilogy’s arc didn’t benefit from reopening the wound. If the point was catharsis, Gears of War 3 already delivered it and anything after can feel like turning the lights back on mid-credit roll. | © Epic Games

Dead Island (2011)

Sunshine, resort music, and a zombie outbreak sounds like the setup for goofy B-movie fun, and that contrast is exactly what made Dead Island pop in 2011. Techland’s island had a scrappy immediacy: scavenging felt tactile, co-op was chaotic in the best way, and the melee-first combat made every hallway encounter uncomfortably personal. The problem is that the franchise never really found a stronger “second statement” after that first shock of tropical horror – Dead Island: Riptide mostly felt like more of the same without the novelty, and Dead Island 2 leaned into a louder, more cartoonish vibe that doesn’t hit the same survival tension. What started as grimy, desperate vacation-from-hell energy gradually drifted toward a brand that wanted to be snarky and glossy at the same time. If you remember the series most vividly as that one unexpected island nightmare, it’s because Dead Island already delivered the whole pitch in one go. | © Techland

Dead Space 2 (2011)

You’re terrified, but you’re also thinking, because the best survival horror makes you do math under pressure. The necromorph dismemberment system stayed the signature, yet the pacing got sharper – more variety, bigger moments, and a protagonist who finally had a voice without turning Dead Space 2 into a chatterbox. Where things went sideways is the direction Dead Space 3 chose: co-op in a series built on isolation, more action-forward rhythm, and a tone that traded “claustrophobic nightmare” for “sci-fi campaign.” The second game already pushed the action dial a notch, but it still understood the fear was the point, not the obstacle. That’s why people look back at Dead Space 2 as the last time the franchise felt like it knew exactly what it was – and didn’t need to become something else to justify another box on the shelf. | © Visceral Games

Mass Effect 2 (2010)

Recruiting a team has never felt this personal in a blockbuster RPG: loyalty missions that play like short films, conversations that actually change how you see your crew, and stakes that sit in your stomach long after you put the controller down. Mass Effect 2 sharpened everything the first game introduced – combat pacing, character writing, cinematic confidence – then capped it with a finale so tense it makes you treat every earlier choice like it mattered. Following that is brutal, and Mass Effect 3 proved it: for all its strengths, the ending debate became a gravitational pull that swallowed nuance, and suddenly the trilogy’s final impression was a controversy instead of a catharsis. Later, Mass Effect: Andromeda tried to reboot the vibe, but the initial technical mess and uneven storytelling made it feel like the series was running from its own shadow. When a middle chapter lands so perfectly it feels like the peak and the conclusion becomes the headline, it’s easy to argue the saga could’ve ended on the high of Mass Effect 2. | © BioWare

Fallout: New Vegas (2010)

You can draw a straight line from its reputation to one thing: choices that feel like they belong to you, not to a quest marker. Fallout: New Vegas makes factions messy, outcomes morally slippery, and dialogue sharp enough that you’ll pick a line just to see how far the game lets you push it. The irony is that Bethesda-era follow-ups went in directions that often don’t scratch that same itch; Fallout 4 favors momentum and shooting over roleplaying flexibility for many players, and Fallout 76 launched as a very different kind of experience entirely, built around online structure rather than handcrafted consequence. None of that erases what the series does well – it just underlines how specific New Vegas’ strengths were: writing density, player agency, and a world that reacts like it’s keeping score. When the “best sequel” in the fandom’s mind is the one that doubled down on RPG bite, Fallout: New Vegas starts to feel like the chapter the franchise didn’t need to move past. | © Obsidian Entertainment

Dead Rising 2 (2010)

Strip away the zombies for a second and the real appeal is the clock: you’re always late, always juggling objectives, and every decision feels like a tiny moral compromise. That pressure-cooker structure is why Dead Rising 2 worked so well – bigger map, smoother co-op chaos, and that glorious “make anything into a weapon” creativity without losing the series’ mean little sense of urgency. After that, the identity started sliding around; Dead Rising 3 traded a lot of the timer-driven bite for open-world sprawl, and Dead Rising 4 pushed the tone toward holiday-mall mayhem that many fans felt sanded off the edge. The early games were funny, sure, but they were also stressful in a deliberate, mechanical way, like a survival sim hiding under slapstick. Once the sequels loosened the screws that kept everything tense, the whole formula started feeling like noise instead of pressure – and that’s why Dead Rising 2 can read like the last entry that truly needed to exist. | © Capcom Vancouver

Prototype (2009)

The joy here is pure mayhem with a grin: sprint up a skyscraper, dive off like a missile, hijack a tank, and turn into something worse than what’s chasing you. Prototype nailed that early open-world power fantasy where movement itself is the reward, and the shapeshifting gimmick made you feel like the city’s most dangerous rumor. But Prototype 2 struggled with the one thing the first game relied on: messy, magnetic momentum; the new protagonist never clicked for everyone, and the tone often felt more generic “gruff action” than paranoid bio-horror. The original’s appeal was how nasty and fast it was – like you were improvising disasters – and the follow-up’s cleaner, more conventional vibe dulled that edge. If you want one game that captures “superpowered chaos” without worrying about franchise homework, the answer is still Prototype. | © Radical Entertainment