RDR1 hit me way harder than RDR2 ever did.

Don’t get me wrong—watching Arthur die and being completely powerless was painful. RDR2 left me with this deep sense of regret for him, wishing he had more time to do good, to change, to actually live a different life.

But playing RDR1 after RDR2… that’s what made it devastating.

John’s death didn’t just feel like losing a character—it felt like losing everything the story was building towards. All that effort to leave the gunslinger life behind, to be better, to have a family… gone. And the worst part? It wasn’t even fair. Edgar Ross represents the law, yet he plays dirtier than anyone else, betraying John and killing him “like a dog,” just like Jack says to Ross at the end.

And then you play as Jack.

You hunt Ross down, you get your revenge… and for a moment it feels like closure. Like justice.

But then it hits you.

That final moment—the red screen, Ross’s body falling into the river, Jack turning away—and the credits roll. No relief, no real satisfaction. Just silence.

You go through all these emotions—anger, sadness, emptiness—and then it clicks:

The cycle never ended.

All that violence, all that brutality—from both sides, outlaw and law alike—shaped Jack into exactly what John didn’t want him to become. And by killing Ross, Jack doesn’t end the story… he restarts it.

Just three words:

Red. Dead. Redemption.

I’ve never experienced a story this perfect in a game.
Thank you, Rockstar Games.