You know that feeling when you watch something with incredible potential just… die? Not all at once, but slowly, like watching a beautiful old building rot because nobody wants to maintain it. That’s Red Dead Online for me. Still gets me worked up thinking about it, honestly.
I remember when the beta dropped in November 2018. Took a personal day from the construction site – told my crew chief I had food poisoning, which wasn’t entirely a lie since I was sick with excitement. Stayed up until nearly dawn creating my character. Named him Wyatt Jameson, partly after Wyatt Earp and partly because it sounded like someone who belonged in that world. I’d spent months in the single-player campaign just existing in that universe, and the idea of sharing it with other people? Man, I was ready.
Those first few weeks were rough as hell, but I didn’t care. Sure, there wasn’t much to do beyond hunting and the occasional stranger mission, but the foundation was solid. My daughter would hop online with me sometimes when she visited – she’d gotten me into gaming in the first place, after all. We’d spend hours just riding around, hunting deer, getting into shootouts with other players near Valentine. The world was so detailed, so alive, that even without structured content it felt like we were living in our own western movie.
The real hook came with the Frontier Pursuits update in September 2019. Finally, roles that meant something. I went straight for the Trader role because it appealed to my methodical side – same part of my brain that plans construction projects, I guess. There’s something satisfying about optimizing supply chains, even fake ones involving deer pelts and perfect rabbit carcasses. Spent hours learning the best hunting spots, memorizing which animals gave the best materials. My daughter went with Collector, riding around with her metal detector like some kind of Old West treasure hunter. We had this whole system worked out.
Then the Moonshiner update hit in December 2019, and holy shit, that’s when the game clicked for me. Having an actual business, a physical location that was mine, recipes to perfect – it felt like building something permanent in that world. My shack was up near Tall Trees, and I’d decorated it with all the care of someone furnishing their actual house. Named my moonshine “Jameson’s Justice,” which my daughter thought was corny as hell, but I liked it.
The story missions with Maggie were genuinely good too. Finally, some personality in the online world. Characters with actual motivations and dialogue that didn’t sound like it was written by committee. Those delivery missions had real tension – protecting a wagon full of ‘shine while other players tried to blow you up felt like something out of the movies. When we’d successfully deliver a batch, we’d celebrate at the bar with the dancing and drinking animations. Stupid little thing, but it made the world feel alive.
But then… nothing. Well, not nothing, but close enough. While GTA Online kept getting massive updates – new heists, properties, vehicles, entire new areas – Red Dead Online got scraps. The Naturalist role in July 2020 was fine, I suppose, but photographing animals and getting lectured by Harriet got old fast. Plus, she’d spray you with that sedative nonsense if you killed too many animals. Lady, I’m a trader – killing animals is literally my job description.
The economy was broken from day one and never got fixed. Gold bars were too expensive, everything cost too much, and new players couldn’t access content without grinding for weeks or opening their wallets. I felt bad for anyone just starting – by then I’d accumulated enough gold and cash to buy whatever I wanted, but newcomers were looking at a mountain of grind just to play the game properly. Not exactly welcoming.
The “Prestigious Bounty Hunter License” in December 2020 was insulting. Ten more ranks and a few missions – that’s not content, that’s padding. Same month, GTA Online got a whole new heist with an island location. The message was pretty clear: Red Dead was the neglected stepchild.
My daughter stopped playing regularly around then. “Let me know when they add something actually new,” she said. Still waiting to send that text.
By the time Blood Money arrived in July 2021, I was mostly playing solo. The update was… fine. The Capitale system was unnecessarily complicated, and the “opportunities” were just glorified missions with fancier cutscenes. I completed them all in a weekend and thought, “That’s it? That’s what we waited eight months for?”
What really gets me angry is how much they left on the table. The single-player game had everything – property ownership, complex heists, business management, a living world full of random encounters. Why couldn’t they bring that online? I wanted to plan bank robberies with my friends, buy a ranch and actually run cattle, rob those trains that constantly taunted us as they rolled through the world empty. The framework was already there in the code – they just… didn’t use it.
The community tried everything to get Rockstar’s attention. Remember the clown protests? Players dressed up as clowns and flooded the game, trying to show how abandoned we felt. I participated, posting screenshots of my ridiculous clown-faced cowboy on social media. It was simultaneously the most pathetic and most admirable thing I’d ever seen a gaming community do.
The final insult came in July 2022 when Rockstar basically announced they were done. Oh, they dressed it up in corporate speak about “focusing resources” and “supporting the community,” but the translation was simple: we’re abandoning this game to work on GTA 6. Thanks for your money, see ya.
I still log in sometimes, usually when I’ve had a couple beers and get nostalgic. The world remains absolutely gorgeous – riding through the Heartlands at sunset, watching storms roll across the Great Plains, listening to the ambient sounds of wildlife and distant civilization. It’s like visiting a perfectly preserved ghost town. Beautiful, but empty.
What makes me maddest is that this wasn’t a failure of design or player interest. This was a corporate decision, pure and simple. GTA Online makes more money, so that’s where the resources go. I get it – I understand how businesses work, been in enough budget meetings in my day job to see how these decisions get made. But as someone who invested hundreds of hours and real money into the game, it feels like a betrayal.
Sometimes I think about what could have been. Player-owned towns. Actual cattle ranching. Bank heists that required real planning and teamwork. Story content that expanded the world’s lore. Law enforcement roles that let you hunt other players’ criminal activities. Mexico opening up as a new frontier. None of these were impossible – they were obvious evolution of what was already there.
The community that remains is incredible, though. The subreddit still shares beautiful screenshots and roleplay stories. Dedicated groups still organize trail rides and events. There’s something heartbreaking about their loyalty to a game that its own creators abandoned.
I keep the game installed, just in case. Maybe someday there’ll be a surprise announcement, a change of heart, a recognition of what they’re wasting. Until then, Wyatt Jameson stands outside his moonshine shack, waiting for content that’ll probably never come, in a world too perfect to have been left behind.
Red Dead Online didn’t fail because it was bad. It failed because Rockstar decided it wasn’t profitable enough to care about. And that, more than any glitch or griefer, is what really pisses me off about the whole thing.
Timothy discovered retro gaming at forty and never looked back. A construction foreman by day and collector by night, he writes from a fresh, nostalgia-free angle—exploring classic games with adult curiosity, honest takes, and zero childhood bias.
