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After 40-odd hours with Gears of War 4, I have just one burning question: how on Earth did this game, the game with characters amassed from leftover dinosaur parts and a rifle you can chop timber with, grow up to be so bloody sensible?
Much of what used to define Epic's series - the sordid wisecracks that positively squelch on impact, those mid-mission swings from apoplectic rage to mushy sentimentality - has been removed or dialled back, as familiar as everything may seem on the surface. It's the return of the prodigal son, now a squeaky-clean graduate with a minor in Renaissance architecture (much of the game's terrain is based upon research trips to north Italy). Sure, he swears like a trooper and isn't above punching the odd skull to pieces, but the days of bellowing about "getting cooties" from mutant offal are well behind us.
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