The frenzy surrounding live‑service games that dominated the industry for much of the last ten years is now widely recognized as a misstep. The notion that every new title should be built as a live‑service product—a belief that any game could be turned into a perpetual revenue stream—has drained billions of dollars, consumed countless development hours, and eroded both consumer goodwill and the intrinsic value of many intellectual properties. Executives chased a fantasy of endless micro‑transactions, often at the expense of solid game design.
Major publishers and console makers spent years mining their back‑catalogues, convinced that somewhere among their legacy franchises lay the next Fortnite‑style cash cow. The risk‑reward calculus was skewed: the probability of a live‑service hit was minuscule, yet decision‑makers rationalized that a single blockbuster would offset a string of failures. In practice, this optimism proved unfounded.
The actual hit‑rate for live‑service titles was far lower than anticipated, meaning the perceived risk was dramatically understated. Moreover, the market’s capacity to sustain several large‑scale live services simultaneously was vastly over‑estimated. Perhaps the greatest blind spot was the sheer difficulty of running a successful live‑service game; the line between a profitable, well‑loved experience and a despised, revenue‑draining flop is razor‑thin.
The fallout was industry‑wide. Few companies emerged unscathed, and many are still grappling with financial distress that can be traced back to over‑investment in these high‑risk ventures. The most visible consequences—layoffs, cancelled projects, studio closures—have fallen on employees and teams who had little say in the strategic choices that led to those outcomes.
While many firms felt the tremors of the live‑service craze, Sony stands out as the most emblematic example. Its aggressive pivot toward live‑service titles has become a cautionary tale, from the bold proclamation to launch a dozen such games by March of this year to the subsequent, painfully slow retreat marked by disastrous launches and project terminations. Jason Schreier’s recent reporting on Guerrilla Games’ "Horizon Hunters Gathering" illustrates the broader issue.
The title, originally conceived as a live‑service experience, performed so poorly in internal testing that it is being re‑engineered as a traditional multiplayer game without ongoing service elements. This mirrors other cases, such as "Dragon Age: The Veilguard," which was re‑shaped from a live‑service concept into a single‑player experience late in development.
What makes this situation particularly striking is that Guerrilla has devoted virtually all of its post‑"Forbidden West" resources to "Hunters Gathering." In other words, there is currently no major sequel to the Horizon franchise in active development. Whether or not the reworked game ever ships, the hidden cost to Sony is immense: one of its most acclaimed first‑party studios will not deliver a flagship exclusive for the PS5 era.
"Horizon: Forbidden West" launched at the tail end of the PS4 cycle, appearing on both PS4 and PS5, and its successor is now likely to arrive well into the PS6 lifespan. This represents a catastrophic misallocation of talent and time. Horizon was a cornerstone of Sony’s PS4 success, delivering a high‑profile exclusive that reinforced PlayStation’s reputation for creating both new franchises and revitalising older ones. Yet studios renowned for crafting expansive single‑player experiences were redirected from their core strengths to chase live‑service ambitions.
The inevitable failures of those projects mean that, for at least half a decade, those studios have produced little of lasting value. Guerrilla is not alone. Observers can spot similar gaps across Sony’s release calendar.
Naughty Dog, for instance, has not shipped a new original title since 2020; its PS5 releases have been remasters while a planned "Last of Us" live‑service game was cancelled. Other studios like Sucker Punch and Santa Monica have somehow avoided the worst of the fallout, but their relative exemption raises questions about internal decision‑making that will likely become the subject of future insider accounts. The timing of this pipeline disruption is especially damaging.
The perception that the PS5 lacks compelling, exclusive, next‑gen titles has become a meme, even if the console still offers a respectable library. The absence of key studios and franchises from the lineup reinforces a narrative that Sony’s first‑party slate is thinning just as the company prepares to market what will likely be its most expensive console to date. Sony now appears to be in damage‑control mode, attempting to revert to the development philosophy that powered the PS4 era while salvaging what remains of its costly live‑service experiment and the multi‑billion‑dollar Bungie acquisition intended to fuel it.
Yet modern game development is a long‑lead‑time endeavour; high‑quality releases require pipelines established five years in advance. No amount of cash can conjure a robust lineup overnight. Financial reports may gloss over strategic blunders as isolated line‑item losses—ten million here, a hundred million there—yet the true cost lies in opportunity. When premier studios waste years on misguided side projects, they effectively forfeit an entire console generation.
This loss is not captured on an accountant’s balance sheet; it manifests as diminished brand equity, weakened consumer trust, and a lingering perception of scarcity that can persist long after the abandoned live‑service titles fade from memory. In the broader history of the industry’s missteps, Sony’s ill‑judged pivot to live services may prove to be the most costly of all. The hidden expense—years of creative talent diverted from flagship exclusives, a fractured first‑party pipeline, and a tarnished reputation—will likely echo through the company’s future generations of consoles and games.