Join to get exclusive perks & news!

Top 20 Worst Video Games From Great Franchises

1-20

Ignacio Weil

Gaming - February 16th 2026, 21:17 GMT+1

Cropped Dragon Age The Veilguard — Dragon Age: The Veilguard (2024)

Ten years of anticipation set the bar brutally high, and the biggest shock for many fans was the shift in feel, not just tone. Combat is much more immediate and action-forward, but players who loved pausing, positioning, and running tight party tactics felt the old DNA thinning out. Choices and dialogue can read more guided than reactive, with a “default hero” vibe that makes role-playing less spicy than people expect from this series. Even when companions are likable, some criticism circles back to pacing and stakes not hitting the same gut level as earlier entries. The end result, for detractors, is a competent fantasy RPG that doesn’t always scratch the specific *Dragon Age* itch. | © BioWare

Cropped Battlefield 2042 — Battlefield 2042 (2021)

Launch week felt like stepping into a *Battlefield* that forgot a few *Battlefield* essentials. The push toward Specialists blurred class roles, and a lot of squad play lost that clean “you’re the medic, I’m the engineer” clarity that made teamwork natural. Early versions caught heat for missing basics players expect in a competitive shooter—things like a proper scoreboard and voice chat—while bugs and rough UI made everything feel less readable mid-fight. Map flow didn’t help: big open spaces often meant long runs and sudden deaths from angles you couldn’t realistically counter. Updates improved the game over time, but first impressions shaped the narrative fast and harsh. | © DICE

Cropped Fallout 76 — Fallout 76 (2018)

The weird part wasn’t that it went multiplayer — it was how lonely it felt anyway. At launch, there were no human NPCs, so story and faction flavor leaned heavily on terminals and audio logs, which many players found thin compared to classic *Fallout* questing. Add frequent bugs, stability issues, and the friction of always-online design, and exploration could swing from fun scavenging to constant annoyance. Its reputation also got dragged by real-world controversies, especially the collector’s edition bag backlash and the messy PR spiral around it. Later updates added NPCs and more traditional structure, but the early version is the one people cite when calling it a franchise low point. | © Bethesda Game Studios

Cropped Mass Effect Andromeda — Mass Effect: Andromeda (2017)

When facial animation clips turned into memes, the game lost the benefit of the doubt overnight. But the bigger disappointment for many was how the overall package struggled to match the trilogy’s tight sci-fi momentum and character punch. The open-world structure padded things out with scanning, driving, and errands that could feel like chores instead of story fuel. Combat has fans—mobility and gunplay are slick—but flashy fights don’t automatically fix flat villains or uneven pacing. Patches improved plenty of technical issues, yet the narrative threads never got the kind of follow-up that could’ve reframed the whole experiment. *Andromeda* ended up remembered less as a bold new start and more as a detour. | © BioWare

Cropped Need for Speed Payback — Need for Speed Payback (2017)

The heist vibe and desert map look the part, then progression kicks in and the mood sours. The Speed Cards system became the lightning rod: upgrading cars could feel like gambling for the right stats instead of building a ride through skillful tuning and smart choices. That grindy, randomness-heavy loop clashed hard with what many people want from *Need for Speed*—clear customization, quick iteration, and a sense of ownership over performance. Handling also split the audience across disciplines like drift and off-road, and cops weren’t the persistent menace fans typically crave. Even with later adjustments, *Payback* kept the stink of prioritizing a loot-style economy over the series’ core fantasy. | © Ghost Games

Cropped Star Wars Battlefront II — Star Wars Battlefront II (2017)

The moment players realized progression was tied to loot crates, the outrage practically wrote itself. Heroes and key power upgrades felt gated behind grind or spending, which is the fastest way to make a *Star Wars* power fantasy feel pay-to-win instead of playful. Even if you ignored the meta, the early pace of unlocking fan-favorite characters was such a slog that it sucked the fun out of experimenting and swapping roles mid-match. The backlash got so loud it became a mainstream story, capped by EA’s infamous “pride and accomplishment” reply that turned into a meme for corporate tone-deafness. Microtransactions were yanked right before launch, but the damage was already done: it became the poster child for how *not* to monetize a beloved franchise. | © DICE

Cropped Call of Duty Infinite Warfare — Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare (2016)

The dislike campaign around its reveal trailer wasn’t just internet noise—it was *Call of Duty* fatigue hitting critical mass. After multiple years of futuristic movement and sci-fi shooters, a big chunk of the audience wanted the series to feel grounded again, and space dogfights plus boost-heavy combat looked like doubling down on the exact direction they were tired of. Multiplayer didn’t help its case with players who missed “boots on the ground,” and the perception that it was chasing trends made every design choice feel more irritating. Ironically, the campaign earned defenders for committing to a full-on sci-fi vibe, but it got drowned out by the larger backlash. Bundling *Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Remastered* with certain editions also fueled the idea that nostalgia was doing the heavy lifting to sell the new game. | © Infinity Ward

Cropped Assassins Creed Chronicles Russia — Assassin's Creed Chronicles: Russia (2016)

A gorgeous setting can’t save an *Assassin’s Creed* entry that keeps slapping your hand for improvising. Russia’s 2.5D approach looks stylish, but a lot of levels feel designed to be beaten “the correct way,” and experimentation often ends with instant-fail stealth or a blunt “desynchronized” restart. Controls and combat can come off stiff, which makes precise sneaking less satisfying and more like tiptoeing through a puzzle with one solution. The chase sequences are another common pain point—tight timing, harsh punishment, and little room to recover if you make a small mistake. The cool bit of trivia is that Nikolai Orelov wasn’t born here; he originated in *Assassin’s Creed* comics, so the game had a ready-made hook and still ended up remembered more for frustration than for story. | © Climax Studios

Cropped Halo 5 Guardians — Halo 5: Guardians (2015)

Marketing sold a tense manhunt mystery, then *Halo 5* delivered something far less sharp—and fans took that personally. The story spends much more time with Spartan Locke’s squad than with Master Chief, which wouldn’t be a problem if the writing made the new crew instantly iconic, but many players found the characterization thin and the stakes oddly muddled. Bringing Cortana back in a villain-coded role also split the community, because it rewires an emotional arc people thought was already complete. Outside the narrative, missing split-screen co-op was a genuine dealbreaker for *Halo*, and it made the whole package feel less “Halo night” and more “online-only shooter.” Even the multiplayer, praised for feel and Forge, carried side-eye thanks to REQ packs and randomized unlocks feeding Warzone’s power toys. | © 343 Industries

Cropped Final Fantasy All the Bravest — Final Fantasy: All the Bravest (2013)

Calling it a game is generous when so much of the “gameplay” is tapping and waiting. Battles play out as a bare-minimum nostalgia parade—classic sprites, familiar spells, iconic music—wrapped around a loop that quickly turns into a paywall-shaped wall. A fatigue timer pushes you to stop playing unless you spend, and the in-app purchases aren’t subtle: extra character slots, revives, and boosts feel like the real design goal, not a bonus. What made fans especially furious was the pricing vibe—charging up front while still stacking aggressive monetization is a one-two punch that reads as pure cynicism. It’s remembered less as a fun spin-off and more as the moment *Square Enix* tested how much *Final Fantasy* goodwill could be squeezed for quick cash. | © Square Enix

Cropped Gears of War Judgment — Gears of War: Judgment (2013)

Arcade scoring and a constant end-of-chapter report card is a weird fit for a series that’s usually about grim momentum and ugly survival. The “Declassified” modifiers can be fun once or twice, but they also make the campaign feel like a challenge playlist instead of a proper *Gears of War* story, especially when the narrative stops so often to tally points. Multiplayer is where the loudest resentment lives: it made big identity changes, including pulling the classic Down-But-Not-Out flow and even swapping out the usual COG vs. Locust vibe for mirrored teams. Some modes had good ideas (OverRun gets brought up a lot as the bright spot), but for many fans it’s the entry that tried to “fix” what wasn’t broken. | © Epic Games

Re6 msn — Resident Evil 6 (2012)

When a horror franchise starts chasing bombast, it’s easy to end up with a game that’s loud but not scary. *Resident Evil 6* sprawls across multiple campaigns that feel like they’re auditioning for different genres—one leans spooky, another goes full military shooter, another becomes a chase-heavy monster movie—so the tone never settles long enough to build dread. The action is relentless, the set pieces are constant, and the quick-time events show up so often they stop being “surprises” and become interruptions. Inventory and pacing can feel like you’re sprinting from cutscene to corridor to explosion, with co-op sometimes undercutting tension instead of enhancing it. As a blockbuster it’s busy; as *Resident Evil*, it’s the entry many people cite as the identity crisis. | © Capcom

Cropped Medal of Honor Warfighter — Medal of Honor: Warfighter (2012)

The pitch aimed for gritty authenticity, but the result often played like a checklist of modern military shooter habits without the pacing to make them sing. Missions bounce from breach to firefight to scripted spectacle, yet the campaign struggle is that it rarely builds a clean arc—just clusters of “stuff happening” stitched together with jargon-heavy chatter. Reviews also hammered technical roughness: glitches, awkward polish, and an uneven feel despite running on the same Frostbite tech people associated with slicker shooters. Even the more personal story beats can land flat because characters are sketched as types rather than people, which makes the melodrama feel forced. It’s telling that this *Medal of Honor* revival ended up being remembered less for a comeback and more for being the installment that stopped the series cold. | © Danger Close Games

Cropped Duke Nukem Forever — Duke Nukem Forever (2011)

Fourteen years of hype is the kind of pressure that turns “throwback” into “museum exhibit” the second the shooting feels stiff. The humor didn’t just age—it fossilized, leaning hard on shock gags and smirking one-liners that many players found more exhausting than edgy. Mechanics are oddly constrained for an old-school mascot: you’re often stuck with a limited weapon setup, chunky platforming, and pacing that lurches between dull corridors and tone-deaf set pieces. Technical friction didn’t help either—loading, jank, and a general lack of modern smoothness made the whole thing feel like it arrived from an alternate timeline where game design never moved on. Instead of a triumphant return for *Duke Nukem*, it became the punchline to its own legend. | © Gearbox Software

Cropped Metroid Other M — Metroid: Other M (2010)

Putting Samus Aran in the spotlight sounded exciting—until the writing and structure made her feel like a stranger in her own series. The biggest sore spot is the “Authorization” system: you technically have abilities, but you’re told not to use them until Adam says so, which turns classic *Metroid* progression into a weird obedience mechanic that fights player instinct. On top of that, heavy narration and long, often unskippable cutscenes drag against what fans love about the franchise’s quiet isolation and environmental storytelling. Controls split people too, especially the forced perspective shift for aiming missiles, which can feel clumsy in tense fights. The collaboration itself is an interesting footnote—*Team Ninja* muscle applied to *Metroid*—but it’s remembered as the entry where atmosphere and character got traded for melodrama. | © Nintendo

Cropped sonic the hedgehog — Sonic the Hedgehog (2006)

Next-gen *Sonic* was supposed to feel like a big, confident reset, but what players got was a mess that’s infamous for reasons you can feel in your hands. Controls and physics are slippery in the worst way, the camera fights you at speed, and the game’s constant loading breaks any momentum it accidentally builds. Glitches and jank aren’t just “funny”—they routinely derail platforming, combat, and even basic navigation, turning levels into trial-and-error chaos. The story didn’t escape unscathed either, with tone-deaf melodrama and a human romance angle that became a franchise punchline. Add in how often you’re pulled away from Sonic into slower alternate playstyles, and it’s easy to see why this became the shorthand example of a rushed, unpolished release. | © Sega

Pokemon dash — Pokémon Dash (2004)

A *Pokémon* racing spin-off on the shiny new DS sounded like an easy win, then the actual racing arrived and felt like a tech demo that forgot to become a real game. Steering with the stylus is the gimmick, but it’s also the problem: it’s tiring, imprecise, and way less fun than using buttons for tight turns and clean recoveries. The structure is thin, with repetition setting in fast and very little of the “collect, battle, grow” flavor people associate with the franchise. Even the roster vibe disappoints—your identity is basically “Pikachu in different costumes,” which makes the whole thing feel strangely small for a brand built on variety. The one interesting milestone it can claim is being the first *Pokémon* title on DS, but that trivia doesn’t make the moment-to-moment any less bland. | © Nintendo

Cropped Street Fighter The Movie — Street Fighter: The Movie (Game) (1995)

Digitized fighters can look cool for five minutes, and then you realize you’re stuck playing a stiff, awkward brawler that trades responsiveness for novelty. Because it’s built around the movie cast, movement and attacks often feel floaty or oddly timed, and the animation reads more like cut-up footage than crisp fighting game silhouettes. Balance isn’t kind either—matchups can feel lopsided, and the whole thing lacks the refined “I lost because I got outplayed” clarity that makes *Street Fighter* sing. It also carries the weird baggage of being a game based on a film based on a game, so it’s compared to the series’ best entries by default and comes up short in almost every mechanical way. The fun fact is there were separate arcade and console versions under the same name, which only adds to the confusion around a game people mostly remember as a curiosity. | © Capcom

Cropped Mario is Missing — Mario Is Missing! (1993)

Booting up a *Mario* game and being handed geography homework is a whiplash that still hasn’t fully worn off. Instead of platforming, you’re mostly hunting clues, reading plaques, and answering questions, which can be genuinely educational but painfully slow if you came for classic *Super Mario* energy. The pacing drags, the challenge is mild, and the “where do I go next?” loop can feel more like filling out a worksheet than solving an adventure. Luigi starring should’ve been a charming twist, yet it landed as a consolation prize because the core fantasy—running, jumping, and improvising—just isn’t there. Nintendo’s characters are basically the wrapper here, and that mismatch is why fans tend to treat it as a misfire rather than a hidden gem. | © The Software Toolworks

Cropped Zelda The Wand of Gamelon — Zelda: The Wand of Gamelon (1993)

The quickest way to make *The Legend of Zelda* fans wince is to mention the CD-i era, and this is one of the main reasons. Controls feel stiff and awkward, combat is clunky, and the overall flow lacks the puzzle-box elegance that defines the series at its best. The presentation became infamous too: full-motion animated cutscenes and voice acting that come off unintentionally hilarious, turning story beats into meme fuel instead of mythic drama. Level design can feel confusing in a “cheap” way, with unclear progression and frustration replacing that classic sense of discovery. It does have a notable hook—Princess Zelda as the playable lead—but it’s remembered less as a bold pivot and more as a cautionary tale about what happens when the franchise’s fundamentals aren’t in the room. | © Animation Magic

1-20

A great franchise earns trust—then one bad entry can burn it in a weekend. Whether it’s a clunky reboot, a sequel that forgets what made the series click, or a spin-off that feels like it escaped QA, these are the games that left fans staring at the credits like, “Wait… that’s it?”

This isn’t about dunking on every flawed idea; it’s about the rare disasters that landed with a thud despite big names on the box. Expect rushed releases, baffling design pivots, broken launches, and a few “how did this get approved?” moments that prove even the best series can whiff hard.

Facebook X Reddit WhatsApp Copy URL

A great franchise earns trust—then one bad entry can burn it in a weekend. Whether it’s a clunky reboot, a sequel that forgets what made the series click, or a spin-off that feels like it escaped QA, these are the games that left fans staring at the credits like, “Wait… that’s it?”

This isn’t about dunking on every flawed idea; it’s about the rare disasters that landed with a thud despite big names on the box. Expect rushed releases, baffling design pivots, broken launches, and a few “how did this get approved?” moments that prove even the best series can whiff hard.