NO HOPE FOR THE LEFT
One question lingered in my mind throughout my playthrough of Red Thread Games’ narrative adventure Dustborn: is this meant to be sincere, or is it parody? In the end, the answer hardly matters, because the result is the same. Intentional or not, Dustborn is unapologetically pathetic in its attempt to portray the political left. We are depicted as whining, immature, dysfunctional, stupid, hypersensitive, and manipulative. Our supposed redeeming quality is our superpower: our voices, which we use to impose our will on others. We can bully, trigger, cancel, push, hoax, and more.
This may sound like a joke, but it isn’t. These are literal abilities that the protagonist, Pax (she/her), can use in both dialogue and combat. She uses them frequently while leading a band of misfits across an alternate, fascist version of America. They are fugitives following a successful heist in their homeland of Pacifica (formerly California), posing as a touring band en route to Nova Scotia, Canada. Their stolen cargo is a flash drive disguised as a plush toy, containing government secrets.
In this version of history, JFK survives the assassination attempt and grows increasingly paranoid. He establishes Justice, a new branch of law enforcement with an explicit mandate to use oppression as a crime-fighting tool. On paper, it’s a promising setup. In execution, it collapses under the weight of a disastrous cast of characters, cringeworthy dialogue, janky gameplay, and haphazard storytelling that goes nowhere. The game is presented in a cel-shaded comic-book art style with colorful environments. While visually serviceable, it accompanies what may be the worst “comic” I’ve ever been forced to read.
The narrative structure is immediately grating. Text boxes flash by before you can read them. The story jumps back and forth unnecessarily, beginning mid-escape, then backtracking to explain earlier events, followed by a separate comic-book prologue. The result is a fragmented mess that feels artificial and contrived. There’s no organic sense of progression—just the illusion of mystery created by withholding information. A linear structure with character-driven backstory would have served this game infinitely better.
Your initial band consists of Pax, the edgy frontwoman; Noam (they/them), a smug blonde snob; Sai (she/her), a neurotic and overweight Muslim woman; and Theo (he/him), a Mexican sympathizer. Many more join along the way. The group is presented as hyper-diverse—“every minority imaginable”—except, of course, it isn’t. There are no albinos, no Native Americans, no gingers, no explicitly gay characters, no one with chronic kidney disease. Diversity here is selective, performative, and oddly narrow.
What they do share is their status as “anomals”—essentially freaks with superpowers. Noam can gaslight people. Sai can alter her body with her voice. Theo has no powers at all; he’s just… there. A later character can heal others by reciting poetry. I wish I were joking.
Together, they are the Dustborn: a punk-rock band with a political agenda. This makes absolutely no sense. You are fugitives attempting to lie low while transporting state secrets across a fascist regime—yet you loudly perform anti-fascist concerts wherever you go. The game never conveys urgency or danger. In fact, you personally perform the concerts, timing button presses while trying not to cry-laugh at lyrics like:
“We’re the Dustborn / this bug is airborne / we’re the new porn / our kind is newborn.”
Most of the game consists of exploration and dialogue, manipulating, provoking, canceling, or intimidating your way across the country. Each chapter introduces new locations and often a new anomal to recruit, quickly overcrowding your tour bus. You also collect “echoes”—harmful voices lingering in people’s minds—which unlock new vocal abilities while symbolically freeing “normies” from government brainwashing. Apparently, only anomals are capable of independent thought, which is as insulting as it is absurd.
If these characters are meant to be enlightened, why is their dialogue so painfully stupid? Adults in their thirties speak like self-absorbed teenagers, hiding behind buzzwords while endlessly rehearsing their insecurities. They argue constantly, rehash the same conflicts, and confront you over events that occurred before the game even began. The companions refuse responsibility, then complain when you make decisions—something they do incessantly. Even Pax joins in when Theo, the reluctant leader, attempts to assert himself.
You can steer your companions’ personalities: should Theo be a boss or a friend? Should Noam become a romantic interest or leave the country? Should Sai think logically or emotionally? I despised the entire cast so thoroughly—including the manipulative, unbearable Pax—that I deliberately pursued the worst possible outcome for everyone. I wanted them miserable. The game technically delivered, though without the catharsis I hoped for.
Combat is equally embarrassing. At least once per chapter, conflict escalates into physical altercations—an incoherent, janky mess of a system. In a misguided attempt at inclusivity, the developers made it impossible to die. When your health hits zero, someone revives you and the fight resumes. This completely removes any sense of stakes. Combat animations are floaty, unresponsive, and poorly animated; the sound design offers no feedback. The system is so broken that you’re allowed to skip combat entirely—and you absolutely should. Doing so also renders the weapon upgrade system irrelevant, saving precious time.
Any opportunity to speed up this journey should be taken. The dialogue oscillates between boring and infuriating. I skipped essential conversations whenever possible. Campfire chats were met with a firm “No thanks.” On the rare occasions I endured longer exchanges, I found myself groaning as characters discussed sausages as sexual metaphors, ruminated on vitiligo, or argued over the robot chauffeur’s gender. I fell asleep mid-conversation more times than I can count.
What shocked me most was learning that the game’s writing was led by Ragnar Tørnquist, creator of The Longest Journey and Dreamfall—games I once loved. This, by contrast, inspired increasing hatred with every passing hour.
I hated the mandatory button-holding interactions. I hated the sluggish movement. I hated the childish voice acting. I hated Pax’s lethargic delivery. I hated the mini-games. I hated the music. I hated the anemic puzzles. I hated the story—or lack thereof. After roughly 22 agonizing hours, I reached the ending feeling not just exhausted, but genuinely depressed about the state of the political left. Whatever Tørnquist’s intentions were, he failed spectacularly. This is not his lane.
At its core, Dustborn is an exercise in identity politics taken to its most atomized extreme—obsessed with difference at the expense of solidarity. It panders inward while alienating everyone else. It presents “the left” as an ideology for misfits alone, rather than for working people. It assumes identity matters deeply to everyone, when in reality it matters primarily to the individual. To most people, it simply doesn’t.
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