Ratchet & Clank: Rift Apart Isn’t Just a PS5 Showcase — It’s the First Game That Makes Me *Believe* in “Next-Gen”
Ratchet & Clank: Rift Apart Isn’t Just a PS5 Showcase — It’s the First Game That Makes Me Believe in “Next-Gen” I booted up Rift Apart on launch day, watched the first rift tear open between two vers
Ratchet & Clank: Rift Apart Isn’t Just a PS5 Showcase — It’s the First Game That Makes Me *Believe* in “Next-Gen”
I booted up Rift Apart on launch day, watched the first rift tear open between two versions of Megalopolis, and immediately paused—not to admire the graphics, but because my thumb slipped off the DualSense trigger. Not from fatigue. From surprise. The controller jolted, then went stiff, like I’d just yanked a live wire out of a wall. A second later, Ratchet landed, thunk, on a mirrored city street, and the haptics shifted to a low, gritty hum, like pavement vibrating under boots. I laughed out loud. Not at the joke. At the sheer, dumb confidence of it.
This isn’t just another Ratchet game with prettier textures. It’s the rare sequel that treats its own legacy like scaffolding—not sacred ground.
Okay, Let’s Talk About Rivet (Because Everyone Else Is Pretending She’s Just “Another Ratchet”)
Rivet isn’t a clone. She’s a correction.
Ratchet’s always been earnest, wide-eyed, a little too trusting—the kid who believes in galactic peace and gets his wrench fixed by a robot who quotes Shakespeare. Rivet? She’s got scars. A missing arm replaced by a jury-rigged plasma cannon she built herself. Her voice doesn’t crack when she’s scared—it tightens. And her jokes land like thrown wrenches: sharp, precise, slightly dangerous.
Switching between them isn’t just a gimmick for load-screen cuts. It’s narrative shorthand. You’ll play a sequence where Ratchet breezes through a security checkpoint with charm and a well-timed distraction. Then, rip, you’re in Rivet’s boots, scanning the same hallway, spotting the hidden laser grid before it activates, sliding under it sideways while her prosthetic whines in protest. Same level. Different survival instincts. One’s optimism weaponized. The other’s trauma turned tactical.
And yeah, the writing leans into it: Rivet calls Ratchet’s hoverboots “over-engineered glitter.” He calls her grenade launcher “a bit much.” They don’t instantly bond. They negotiate. Which is way more fun than forced buddy-comedy.
The Rifts Are Fun—Until They’re *Too* Fun
The SSD-powered dimension-hopping is, objectively, stupidly impressive. You fire a rift anchor, lock onto a shimmering portal mid-air, and whoosh—you’re in a canyon where gravity flips, or inside a frozen reactor core where every footstep echoes like a dropped anvil. No fade-to-black. No “loading…” text. Just there, instantly, with ambient audio snapping into place before your eyes fully adjust.
But here’s the thing no one’s saying: after about four hours, you start anticipating the next rift. Not with wonder—but with mild dread. Because sometimes, the game throws you into a new zone right as you’re lining up a perfect shot, or mid-puzzle solution, or, worst of all, while you’re trying to land a platforming jump. The tech is flawless. The pacing? Occasionally ruthless. There’s no “pause to breathe” built in. It assumes you’re as hyped as it is. I’m not always. Sometimes I just want to stare at a weird alien billboard for five seconds.
(Also: the pocket dimensions—tiny, self-contained arenas for boss fights or timed challenges—are brilliant. Tight, focused, zero fat. But they also make the main story levels feel… oddly spacious. Like walking into a cathedral after spending all day in a garage.)
Weapons That Feel Like Personalities (Not Just Stats)
Remember when weapons in shooters used to do things? Not just deal damage, but change how you move, or force you to think differently?
The Pixelizer turns enemies into low-res, wobbling sprites—and makes their gunfire pixelate mid-air, giving you half a second to dodge. The Bouncer fires grenades that ricochet off walls AND enemies, so you learn to aim at the floor behind a group, not at them. And the RYNO 8? Yeah, it’s ridiculous. But it’s intentionally ridiculous—a comically oversized railgun that makes your entire screen vibrate like a phone on silent. You don’t use it. You conduct it.
What’s wild is how few of these feel like “oh, cool upgrade.” Most come with actual trade-offs. The Envy Blaster drains ammo fast, but each shot slows time just for you. So you’re not faster—you’re just less slow. It’s subtle. It’s stressful. It’s brilliant.
And the upgrades? They’re not just +5% damage. You can mod the Proton Drum to chain lightning only to enemies wearing helmets—or add a homing pulse that ignores cover but leaves you exposed for a full second. Choice has weight. Even the “fun” weapons demand respect.
Clank Puzzles: Yes, They’re Back—And No, They’re Not Annoying
Look. I’ve skipped Clank sections since Up Your Arsenal. Not out of hate, I love Clank, but because they always felt like mandatory detours. Like being handed a Rubik’s Cube during a car chase.
Here? They’re woven in. You’ll be chasing a villain across a collapsing bridge, leap onto a floating platform, and, click, Clank drops into your HUD. Now you’re rotating gears while dodging falling debris, timing jumps between logic gates, and solving a sequence where pulling one lever repositions three platforms simultaneously. It’s not “puzzle time.” It’s “platforming time, but Clank’s running the physics engine now.”
And yes, they’re hard. I died six times on the Viceron prison sequence. But every failure taught me something: how fast Clank rotates, how long a gear stays engaged, where the safe window is to jump after a rotation completes. It’s tactile. It’s fair. It feels earned.
The Real Magic Isn’t in the Tech—It’s in the Texture
There’s a moment late in Savali where you’re sprinting across cracked desert plains, dust kicking up in real-time particle swirls, and a sandworm bursts out—not as a scripted event, but as a hazard that changes the terrain permanently. You backtrack later, and the worm’s tunnel is still there, half-collapsed, usable as a shortcut. NPCs remember your choices—even small ones. Help a mechanic fix a broken drone in Zurkie’s, and she’ll toss you a rare ammo mod later, in Blizar Prime. Not via quest log. Just hands it to you, says, “Figured you’d need this.”
That’s the stuff that sticks. Not the 120fps cutscenes (though those are slick), but the tiny, unadvertised moments where the world feels lived-in, not just rendered.
So Who’s This For?
Not just fans who miss the PS2 era. Not just PS5 spec-sheet nerds. This is for people who still get weirdly excited about finding a hidden ledge, or realizing a weapon does something unexpected, or hearing a character say something that sounds like something a real person would mutter under their breath.
It’s for players who want spectacle and substance—and who don’t mind if the spectacle occasionally trips over its own hype.
Is it perfect? Nah. Some side quests drag. The map-O-Matic trophy requires grinding that feels at odds with the game’s breakneck pace. And yeah, I wish Rivet had one more quiet scene where she just sits, watches rain fall on a different planet, and doesn’t have to save anyone for five minutes.
But it’s alive. Vibrant. Unapologetically fun, even when it’s trying too hard.
I put it down last night after beating the final boss—not with relief, but with that weird, low-key buzz you get after laughing with friends for too long. Slightly tired. Definitely grinning. Already thinking about which weapon I’ll re-upgrade first.
That’s not next-gen. That’s just good game design. Finally, again.
References & Further Reading
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