The game had something fresh. It chose nostalgia instead.
Every long-running franchise eventually faces the same quiet reckoning: the weight of its own history pressing against the possibility of something new. Resident Evil Requiem begins with a genuinely fresh voice in Grace Ashcroft — fearful, resourceful, unencumbered by mythology — only to surrender her midway through to the gravitational pull of legacy and the comfort of the familiar. It is a story less about survival horror than about the difficulty of survival itself, when what must be survived is the franchise's own past.
- Grace Ashcroft's opening hours generate real dread — scarce ammunition, a stalking butcher-knife zombie, and a vulnerability that makes every corridor feel genuinely dangerous.
- The alternating perspectives between Grace and Leon create a compelling rhythm of fear and relief, a design tension that briefly feels like the game's defining achievement.
- The shift to Raccoon City and Leon's solo storyline breaks that rhythm entirely, trading horror for hollow nostalgia callbacks that reward franchise devotees while leaving newcomers stranded.
- A late attempt to restore the dual-character structure arrives too little and too late — the final boss is a rote shooting exercise, a deflating end for a game that once made players hold their breath.
- Requiem's core failure is a loss of creative nerve: it had a fresh protagonist and a distinctive structure, then abandoned both in favor of the franchise's comfort zone.
Resident Evil Requiem enters a franchise turning thirty with a genuinely promising idea: pair a frightened newcomer, FBI agent Grace Ashcroft, with series veteran Leon Kennedy, and let the contrast do the work. Grace moves through a medical facility with almost nothing — every bullet counted, every threat avoided rather than confronted. A creature called only "the girl" and a massive zombie with a butcher knife haunt her chapters with a specificity that doesn't require franchise knowledge to feel. You don't need to know the lore. The fear is self-evident.
When the game shifts to Leon, the relief is almost physical. Enemies that were impossible obstacles become targets. That same butcher-knife zombie falls to a few shotgun blasts. Then control returns to Grace, and the dread snaps back. This rhythm — vulnerability, then capability, then vulnerability again — is the game's best idea, and for a while it feels like it might be enough.
Then the structure collapses. After a confrontation that feels earned, Grace is taken by a new villain and Leon goes looking for her in Raccoon City. For longtime players, those ruins carry meaning — the police station, the puzzles, the nuclear ghost of a city destroyed to contain a virus. For everyone else, it is just empty space between you and the story you actually wanted to follow. The game slows to a trudge. The dual-character dynamic disappears. There is only Leon, moving through rubble, making comments designed for people who have memorized a thirty-year timeline.
A late-game laboratory briefly restores the switching structure, but Leon remains dominant. He fights the final boss — a plant creature with obvious weak points — in a session of mindless target practice. A game that once made you count your bullets ends by asking nothing of you at all. Requiem had something genuinely fresh in Grace Ashcroft, and then, halfway through, lost faith in her. What remains is a game that chose the comfort of homecoming over the harder work of being new.
Resident Evil Requiem arrives at a peculiar moment in the franchise's life. The series turns thirty this year, and with it comes a sprawling legacy—nine mainline games, countless spinoffs, remakes, movies, a television adaptation. For someone who has played through a few entries but not all of them, stepping into Requiem feels like walking into a conversation already in progress. The game seems to understand this tension. It introduces Grace Ashcroft, a new character, an FBI agent defined by her fear and hesitation. Alongside her walks Leon Kennedy, a series stalwart, a man who has survived horrors most people cannot imagine. The pairing works because it creates a rhythm: vulnerability and capability, dread and relief, taking turns.
The first half of Requiem is genuinely unsettling. You spend most of your time as Grace, moving through a medical facility with almost nothing to defend yourself. Every bullet matters. Every step is calculated. The game forces you to think before you act, to creep past threats rather than confront them. There is a creature called only "the girl," and a massive zombie carrying a butcher knife—both of them terrifying in their specificity. Grace's story feels self-contained. You do not need to have played Resident Evil 2 or understand the deeper mythology to feel the weight of her situation. The connections to the broader franchise exist, but they do not demand your attention.
When the perspective shifts to Leon, the tone changes entirely. Suddenly you have weapons that work. Enemies that felt impossible to avoid become targets. That butcher knife zombie, the one that stalked you through hallways as Grace, falls in a few shotgun blasts. The relief is physical. Then you return to Grace, and the tension snaps back into place. This push and pull—fear, then power, then fear again—becomes the game's greatest asset. It is a design choice that could have carried the entire experience.
But then something breaks. After a confrontation with the girl that feels earned and satisfying, Grace leaves with a new villain who appears almost without warning. You are no longer switching between perspectives. You are Leon now, and you are hunting for Grace in Raccoon City. For longtime players, Raccoon City carries weight. It is the setting of Resident Evil 2, where Leon was a rookie cop. It was eventually destroyed by nuclear fire to contain a virus. The game wants you to feel something standing in those ruins.
Instead, you move through a wasteland. The police station where Leon once worked is there, reduced to rubble. Leon comments on a puzzle he solved years ago. These moments are designed for people who have lived inside this franchise, who carry its history in their bones. For everyone else, they are just more obstacles between you and the story you actually want to follow. The game drags. It feels like an action movie that has forgotten why you came to see it in the first place. The dual-character dynamic that made the first half compelling has vanished. There is no more tension, no more rhythm. There is only Leon, moving through empty spaces, looking for Grace.
A high-tech laboratory arrives near the end, and the game switches between Grace and Leon again. For a moment, you think the original design might reassert itself. It does not. Leon remains the primary character. He fights the final boss—a plant-like creature with obvious red pustules, the kind of thing you shoot until it stops moving. It is underwhelming. A game that began by making you afraid, that made you count your bullets and hold your breath, ends with a mindless target practice session.
Requiem's failure is not that it relies on series lore. It is that it abandons what made it distinctive in order to do so. Grace Ashcroft was the game's strongest idea, and the game itself seems to lose faith in her halfway through. For players who have not memorized the Resident Evil timeline, who came here for horror rather than homecoming, the back half feels like a betrayal of a promise the opening made. The game had something fresh. It chose nostalgia instead.
Notable Quotes
For a game that sets up Grace as the primary protagonist, it's disappointing that Leon basically takes over as the main lead, even fighting the final boss.— The Verge reviewer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the game feel compelled to bring Leon in at all? Why not just follow Grace through the whole thing?
Because Leon is recognizable. He is a known quantity. The developers seem to have believed that newer players needed a familiar face to trust, that Grace alone might not be enough to carry a full game.
But the reviewer played other entries in the series. They knew who Leon was.
Right. And even knowing that, the shift felt like a loss. The game's strength was in its constraint—Grace's fear, her limited options. Leon removes that constraint entirely.
So it becomes a different game.
It becomes a longer game. Not necessarily a better one. The dual perspective was working as a design tool, creating actual emotional contrast. Once that's gone, you're just moving through space.
What about the nostalgia callbacks? Are they inherently bad?
Not inherently. But they only work if the player has the context to receive them. If you haven't played Resident Evil 2, Leon commenting on an old puzzle is just noise. It's the game talking to someone else.
And the final boss?
A letdown. After spending the first half making you afraid, the game ends by asking you to shoot a plant until it dies. There's no tension in it. No horror.