Battlefield 6 status: server issues and outage reports

Problems in the last 24 hours

The graph below depicts the number of Battlefield 6 reports received over the last 24 hours by time of day. When the number of reports exceeds the baseline, represented by the red line, an outage is determined.

Most Reported Problems

The following are the most recent problems reported by Battlefield 6 users through our website.

• Online Play (41%)
• Sign in (29%)
• Glitches (11%)
• Matchmaking (10%)
• Game Crash (8%)
• Hacking / Cheating (1%)

Live Outage Map

The most recent Battlefield 6 outage reports came from the following cities:

City	Problem Type	Report Time
Aberdeen	Hacking / Cheating	5 days ago
Argences	Matchmaking	7 days ago
Minneapolis	Sign in	7 days ago
Minneapolis	Sign in	9 days ago
Reims	Online Play	10 days ago
Pfaffenhoffen	Sign in	10 days ago

Full Outage Map

Community Discussion

Tips? Frustrations? Share them here. Useful comments include a description of the problem, city and postal code.

Beware of "support numbers" or "recovery" accounts that might be posted below. Make sure to report and downvote those comments. Avoid posting your personal information.

Battlefield 6 Issues Reports

Latest outage, problems and issue reports in social media:

• 
  BuschidoEra (@BuschidoEra) reported 5 minutes ago

  @KarolineGosling The problem is that the wrong philosophies won the wars. Schopenhauer and Nietzsche were defeated on the battlefield but never refuted.

• 
  BillsmafiaMFKA He/Bro/Daddy (@Emanuel56353090) reported 5 minutes ago

  @Battlefield FIX STRIKE POINT AND PUT IT BACK TO HOW IT WAS ********

• 
  Mo.aly (@snipermomo_1994) reported 8 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Plz, Recon class in Redsec solos is broken. at least Try to limit the number of usages of the drone. Make it limited to 3 times during the whole match.

• 
  Monifish 🙊🐟 (@spookyboogy24) reported 8 minutes ago

  @KyuniesBoyMikey The entire fandom knows this will be a big problem 🫣. That company must really hate us because they always throw us into a battlefield I'm so tired of fighting with hater 🥹

• 
  Mr Battlefield (@MrBattlefield0) reported 10 minutes ago

  @FunzaaTV @BattlefieldComm I agree with the VPN users that are tunneling to the United States or to another region because they don't have local Servers to host their own games. Hopefully when the Full Server Browser with persistence servers will fix this problem. These players need to host a server.

• 
  __Khz__ (@___Khz___) reported 11 minutes ago

  But the problem is who wanna learn battlefield and who are only thinking kd and my stat if im streaming it or for my own "ego" ...... Thats a part of the problem why the info the developers recive, is a disaster.

• 
  𝓓𝓮𝓵𝓾𝔁𝓮🇬🇧 (@drnope) reported 14 minutes ago

  @Jenny_1884 Yes, i feel lost and drifting, my health was very bad before the country took a death and violence nose dive. The result yesterday of AB and knowing his opinion on the key issues is almost the final straw. The labour madness will be totally the same and he will be shaking hands with the WEF when he see's his number. His number being what the pay will be for enslaving his countries citizens. To save us and save the world fiat banking should be the battlefield, not individuals and religion but the very system we are indoctrinated into from childhood. Being terminally ill opens your eyes to the sheer magic of life, the beauty, the creation, the value and life should be the religion.

• 
  RuaninhoBR - Hardware e Tecnologia (@gagaruano) reported 15 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Fix freezes on AMD Gpus in the Spawn Screen!

• 
  BillsmafiaMFKA He/Bro/Daddy (@Emanuel56353090) reported 16 minutes ago

  @Battlefield hey douchebags fix strike point. you ruined it and took it away. it was the perfect game mode

• 
  Karl Barx (@internetguy63) reported 19 minutes ago

  @facetedcarapace Anybody who played battlefield 1942 knows those things are impossible not to crash. It can't be done.

• 
  nichijou nana (@NiChiJo13797514) reported 20 minutes ago

  @theoldworldshow Honestly, so many of the world's problems after WWI can be traced back to the loss of the old ruling elites. The aristocrats, who were supposed to keep order, bled themselves dry on the battlefield.

• 
  Magnetosphere (@watchindy) reported 23 minutes ago

  @ProfStanciu @ProfStanciu to be walking inside myself as a regular civilian and fighting with my blood cells as if my body is the battlefield of everyone's problems

• 
  Hamburgler (@CurseYouBayle22) reported 24 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Fix the support challenge for pouches ffs

• 
  Billy_bSLAYER (🎸🎮💻⚾) (@BrianD_STdigi) reported 25 minutes ago

  @SgtDangerCow You can still play every single Battlefield game ONLINE to get that "nonsense sandbox", there is no reason to uninstall a game and never go back just because the studio made a "new" (more broken) game in the franchise.

• 
  MikeAnthony (@MikeAnthony) reported 27 minutes ago

  THE WINTER PUNCTURES Toronto had learned to fear winter, but that year the city learned to fear something colder. It began on a Thursday morning beside the harbour, when a dog walker found a woman sitting upright on a bench near the water. At first, he thought she was watching the grey lake. Her coat was buttoned. Her gloves were folded neatly in her lap. Snow had gathered on her shoulders like ash. Only when the dog began whining did the man step closer and see that her eyes were open. She was thirty-two, a marketing manager named Elise Morneau. No sign of assault. No stolen phone. No torn clothing. No footprints except her own, ending beside the bench as if she had calmly chosen to sit down and die. Her skin looked almost translucent beneath the morning light, and at the left side of her throat were two small punctures, clean as needle marks. Detective Mara Velez arrived before sunrise had fully reached the towers. Beside her, Detective Aaron Pike watched the forensic team work with unusual silence. “Animal?” he asked. Mara looked at the neat wounds. “What animal buttons your coat after?” The city gave them other explanations before lunch. Drugs. A medical episode. A secret lover. Toronto wore explanations like expensive coats. But by the end of the week, there was another body. Then another. The second woman was found in the stairwell of a condominium near King Street West, sitting against the wall between the twenty-first and twenty-second floors. Her name was Priya Shah. Twenty-six. Law student. The security cameras showed her entering the lobby alone at 11:08 p.m., smiling at her phone, scarf bright red against her black coat. At 11:11 p.m., the cameras cut to static. At 11:14 p.m., they returned. Priya was gone. The stairwell camera showed only three frames during the missing minutes. A blur of black fabric. A pale hand on the rail. Priya standing still, head tilted slightly, as though listening to someone whisper from inside the wall. The third victim was not a woman. He was a night cleaner at Union Station, a father of two named Tomasz Grzyb. He was found behind a locked service door. His keys were still on his belt. Two punctures marked his throat. His body held so little blood that the medical examiner used the word impossible twice. That was when the reporters named it. The Vampire Murders. Mara hated the phrase. It made the dead sound theatrical. It made terror marketable. But the city heard it and held on. The name spread through group chats, podcasts, news panels, and breathless threads where strangers argued over symbols. Everyone wanted a human monster, because human monsters could be caught. Mara was no longer sure this one was human. The first real lead came from a waitress at a private members’ club on Bay Street. She called the tip line at two in the morning, crying so hard the operator nearly disconnected. Mara and Pike met her in an all-night café off Spadina, where she gripped a paper cup under fluorescent light. “He was with Elise,” the waitress said. “Three nights before she died.” “What did he look like?” Mara asked. “Like money. Old money. Not Canadian old money. Older.” Pike’s pen paused. “He had black hair, not dyed, just too dark. Tall. Very pale. Beautiful in a horrible way.” She looked ashamed, then angry at herself. “He spoke quietly. Everyone leaned in. The room got quiet around him, like people forgot how to breathe.” “Name?” “He signed the guest book as Adrian Dragos.” The club’s cameras were worse than useless. The footage showed Elise sitting at a table near the window, laughing nervously, lifting a glass she never drank from. Across from her was a distortion. Not a black square, not a shadow, but a man-shaped failure in the image, as if the lens refused to agree that he existed. Mara watched the footage six times. Pike watched it once and crossed himself. “You Catholic?” she asked. “Not enough,” he said. They traced Adrian Dragos through hotels, flight logs, bank transfers, immigration databases, and Interpol notices. The name existed everywhere and nowhere. He had rented a penthouse near Yorkville with a passport from Romania. The same face appeared in New York, Prague, Singapore, and a private terminal at Pearson. Each image came from a different year. In one, dated 2003, he looked forty. In another, dated 2021, he looked forty. In a scanned newspaper clipping from London, 1978, he looked forty. Mara pinned the photos across the task room board. The detectives offered the usual ghosts: family resemblance, plastic surgery, deepfake, coincidence. Then the room became quiet. Mara looked at the eyes in every photograph. Dark, steady, amused. He looked like someone allowing himself to be seen just enough to make the chase humiliating. The penthouse was empty when they raided it. No furniture except a long dining table, one chair, and twelve black travel cases stacked beside the window. The table had been set with silver cutlery and a single crystal glass. The glass contained red wine, untouched. On the wall hung a framed map of the world. Red pins marked cities: Vienna, Istanbul, Manila, New Orleans, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, Cape Town, Reykjavik, Toronto. There was no bed. No mirror. No dust. On the table lay a handwritten note on thick cream paper. My apologies. I dislike being early. I despise being late. No signature. Forensics found fingerprints everywhere, but none registered in any database. They found hair too degraded to belong to a living person. They found soil in one of the cases, dark and mineral-rich. Analysis suggested central Romania, particularly around the Carpathians. Pike read the report and laughed once, without humour. “Transylvania. Of course.” Mara looked up. “Don’t say it like that.” “How should I say it?” “Like we’re detectives.” He leaned closer. His eyes were bloodshot from three days with almost no sleep. “Cameras break when he enters rooms. Bodies are drained. He doesn’t age. He keeps Romanian dirt in expensive luggage. What part of detective work covers that?” “The part where we keep going.” But continuing was not the same as understanding. The fourth victim disappeared before anyone found a body. Her name was Naomi Bell, a nurse from Scarborough. She finished a twelve-hour shift and sent her sister a voice note from the hospital car park. I’m exhausted. Going home now. Love you. In the background, after Naomi spoke, there was another voice. Male. Low. Almost tender. You should rest. Then Naomi laughed, softly, as if hearing the kindest thing ever said to her. Her car never left the lot. Mara listened to the recording alone in the task room after midnight. The voice crawled beneath the words. It seemed to know exactly where the listener was weak. She played it again and felt, horribly, the urge to close her eyes. Pike reached over and stopped the audio. “Don’t,” he said. She realised he had been standing in the doorway. “You heard it too?” He nodded. “What did you hear?” “My mother,” Pike said. Mara felt cold move through her. “That was not your mother.” “I know.” “What did it say?” He stared at the blank screen. “She told me to come home.” Two nights later, Mara saw Adrian Dragos. She had followed a lead to the Royal Ontario Museum, where medieval Eastern European relics had drawn donors, scholars, diplomats, and people rich enough to mistake history for décor. Mara carried her badge in a clutch. Pike waited outside. The exhibit’s centrepiece was a silver reliquary from a monastery near the old borders of Wallachia. Mara was watching the room when she found him near the far window. Adrian Dragos stood apart from the crowd, looking out at the city lights. He wore a dark suit without visible brand or fashion. His black hair was combed back. His face was not young, exactly, and not old. It had the stillness of a portrait kept too long in a locked room. Mara’s first thought was absurd. He is pretending to breathe. Then he turned and looked directly at her. Every sound in the museum thinned. The quartet continued, but the notes seemed distant. People moved around her with slowed expressions. Adrian smiled as if she had taken too long to arrive. She walked toward him. “Mr. Dragos?” “Detective Velez,” he said. His accent was faint, polished smooth by centuries or expensive schools. “You know me.” “I make a habit of knowing those who hunt me.” “I’m investigating several deaths.” “Yes.” “You’re not surprised.” “No.” “Should I ask where you were on the nights Elise Morneau, Priya Shah, and Tomasz Grzyb died?” “You may ask anything.” “And will you answer?” “I may answer nothing.” She stepped closer. “That sounds like something a guilty man says.” He looked amused. “A guilty man is still a man.” Mara’s hand tightened around the clutch. Pike should have been listening through her earpiece, but all she heard now was soft static and distant breathing. “What are you?” she asked before she could stop herself. Adrian’s smile faded. For the first time, his face became almost sad. “A consequence,” he said. The word unsettled her more than any confession could have done. “You took Naomi Bell,” Mara said. “I invited her.” “She’s missing.” “Many people are missing, Detective. Cities are built upon the missing.” “Where is she?” Adrian looked past Mara toward the reliquary. “Not all who are taken are dead.” Mara’s stomach turned. “Then bring her back.” “You speak as if I stole a purse.” “I speak as if I can arrest you.” At that, he laughed. It was quiet, almost delighted, and something in the glass cases trembled. “Arrest me,” he said. Mara opened the clutch. The lights went out. The museum fell into screams. Emergency lamps flickered red. Mara pulled her weapon, but a crowd surged between them. Glass shattered. In the alarms, she saw Adrian move through the panic untouched. Not walking. Not running. Simply appearing wherever the crowd opened. Then he was beside her. His hand closed around her wrist. It was cold enough to hurt. “You are brave,” he whispered. “That is rarer now. The century has made people loud, not brave.” Mara tried to raise the gun. Her arm would not obey. “Where is Naomi?” His face was inches from hers. His eyes were not black, she realised. They were red very deep down, like coals buried under ash. “In the dark between wanting and surrender.” She forced the words out. “I’ll find you.” “No,” he said gently. “You will find what I leave behind.” Then the emergency lights flared bright. He was gone. Mara staggered back. Pike burst through the crowd seconds later, shouting her name. Her wrist already showed the shape of his fingers, five pale marks blooming beneath the skin. The museum incident should have given them something. Witnesses. Footage. Physical evidence. Instead it gave them contradiction. Sixty-three guests remembered seeing a tall pale man in a dark suit. Not one remembered his face the same way. One described him as young. One as elderly. Another swore he had no reflection in the window. Every camera in the exhibit hall had recorded only snow: a blank white storm blowing sideways across the screen, though the cameras were indoors. The chief wanted silence. The mayor wanted reassurance. Reporters wanted blood. Mara and Pike wanted Naomi Bell alive, if alive was still a word that could apply. They found Naomi’s phone three days later inside St. Michael’s Cathedral Basilica. It was placed on the front pew before morning Mass, clean, fully charged, and set to record. Mara pressed play in the sacristy with Pike beside her and Father Callahan, an old priest with tired eyes, standing near the door. At first, there was only wind. Then Naomi’s voice. Detective Velez, if this reaches you, stop looking for me. Mara leaned closer. I’m not dead. I don’t know where I am. It’s cold here, but not like Canada. It smells like earth after rain. He says Toronto is only a station. He says the old roads are open again. Pike whispered, “Old roads?” Naomi’s voice cracked. There are others here. Women. Men. Some have been here days. Some say years. One girl keeps asking what year it is. He doesn’t hurt us when we obey. He says the world forgot how to believe in him, and that makes the feeding easier. A sound interrupted her. Not a door. Not footsteps. A scrape, like stone moving over stone. Naomi began to cry. He knows I’m recording. A second voice entered, low and close to the microphone. Of course I know. Mara’s blood turned to ice. Adrian continued, his tone mild, almost courteous. Detective Velez, your city has been generous. But do not think me cruel. Cruelty is waste. I am appetite with memory. I am hunger disciplined by centuries. I take what empires have always taken, only with better manners. Father Callahan muttered a prayer under his breath. Adrian’s voice softened. You believe this is a murder investigation. It is not. It is migration. The recording ended with Naomi gasping Mara’s name. Then nothing. For the first time since the case began, Mara went to church without irony. She sat in the back pew after everyone had left, staring at the crucifix above the altar. Pike sat beside her. Neither spoke for several minutes. Finally, Pike said, “My grandmother used to say evil never arrives ugly at first. It arrives charming, because charming gets invited in.” Mara rubbed the marks on her wrist. They had not faded. “You really believe we’re chasing Dracula?” Pike looked at the altar, then at the phone sealed in an evidence bag. “I believe whatever he is, he wants us to say the name.” “Why?” “Because names open doors.” That evening, snow blurred the city into shapes. Mara drove home after thirty hours awake, promising herself she would shower, sleep briefly, and return. Her apartment was on the seventh floor near High Park. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and knew before turning on the light that she was not alone. A man sat at her kitchen table. Not Adrian. This man was older, with a grey beard and a wool coat dusted with snow. He held his hands where she could see them. On the table before him was a wooden box bound in iron. “Detective Velez,” he said. “Do not draw your weapon. I am not here to harm you.” She drew it anyway. “Who are you?” “My name is Ionut Radu. My family has followed him longer than your country has existed.” Mara kept the gun raised. “Followed who?” The old man looked almost disappointed. “You know who.” Outside the window, a dog began barking. Then another. Then every dog on the street. Ionut pushed the wooden box forward. “He is not merely killing in Toronto. He is testing it. Its glass towers. Its cameras. Its disbelief. A city that does not believe in monsters is a banquet hall with unlocked doors.” Mara glanced at the box. “What’s inside?” “Old protections. Some true. Some useless. Faith matters more than objects, but objects help frightened hands remember faith.” “Why come to me?” “Because he touched you and did not kill you.” Her wrist burned. Ionut’s voice dropped. “That means he has chosen you for the game.” The kitchen light flickered. Mara looked toward the window. Seven floors above the street, on the outside of the glass, a hand rested against the pane. Long fingers. Pale skin. No reflection. The old man whispered something in Romanian and opened the box. Mara saw a crucifix, cloudy water, iron nails, old soil wrapped in cloth, and a knife with a handle carved from bone. The window fogged from the outside. Words appeared slowly in the frost. NOT YET. Mara lifted the gun with both hands, though she already knew how useless it felt. A shadow passed across the glass. The dogs below went silent at once. When she looked back, Ionut Radu was staring at the window with tears in his eyes. “He has been many names,” the old man whispered. “Prince. Count. Devil. Dragon.” Mara swallowed. “And now?” The old man closed the box. “Now he is everywhere.” Across Toronto, phones began to buzz. One alert, citywide. AMBER ALERT: MULTIPLE MISSING PERSONS REPORTED. Then another. Then another. Then twenty-seven more. By dawn, the city would count forty-three disappearances from hospitals, clubs, shelters, condos, subway platforms, and locked bedrooms. Every camera would fail. Every witness would remember a different face. Every scene would carry the same impossible trace of Romanian soil. But that night, before the numbers came, a private jet lifted from Pearson International Airport into the snow. On board, Adrian Dragos sat beside a darkened window with an untouched glass of red wine in his hand. Naomi Bell sat across from him, pale but breathing. Beyond her, in the cabin shadows, other eyes opened one by one. Adrian looked down at the city lights disappearing beneath the clouds. “Toronto was interesting,” he said. Naomi’s lips trembled. “Where are we going?” He smiled, and somewhere in that smile was a castle, a battlefield, a tomb, and a hunger that had crossed centuries without growing tired. “South,” he said. “There are warmer cities that have forgotten me.” The jet vanished into the storm. Below, Detective Mara Velez stood at her apartment window, holding the old crucifix from Ionut’s box. The frost words had begun to melt, but one mark remained on the glass: a small red pinprick, no larger than the wound on a throat. Her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered without speaking. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind over mountains. Then Adrian’s voice whispered through the line. “Detective,” he said, “when you are ready to believe, come and find me.” The call ended. And somewhere beneath Toronto, in a tunnel that did not appear on any city map, something ancient opened its eyes.

• 
  Gatzestreicheln (@FabianSchu96203) reported 28 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Holy **** now even your ingame shop in console is broken because you can’t choose a different row in one section in the shop at least on console You have to a special kind of trash to **** up in ingame shop

• 
  Battlefield Bulletin (@BFBulletin) reported 33 minutes ago

  Battlefield Studios says the Lighting Bug in #REDSEC is actually caused by different lighting-related issues (not one single bug), and will take several game updates in order to address what is causing this. The next content update for #Battlefield6 Season 3: High-Value Target, will include an "additional fix" targeted at lighting issues around Fort Lyndon, specifically near the Downtown area.

• 
  Marwan (@6db560c87fec4ea) reported 33 minutes ago

  @CallieSue1109 @Battlefield And that took them many days to fix

• 
  Ayushman (@Ayushman_31) reported 33 minutes ago

  Battlefield control aur pressure create karna ho to Devara already top contender lag raha hai. #DevaraRising #HOKNewHero

• 
  Gabriel K (@EGabrielK) reported 34 minutes ago

  @GokTurk_01001 @Emrulla48879475 @hermes_z You are talking about technical issues for a plane under development produced by an industry that hasn't produced anything similar and compare it against an airplane from a superpower that based its battlefield dominance in air power and has fought in hign intensity conflicts. 🤡

• 
  chris (@ChrisSlaske) reported 38 minutes ago

  @Battlefield nice job making the game go black screen with today's update. Guess you didnt fix it

• 
  Fred Velez (@Fredvelezcrypto) reported 39 minutes ago

  Morning BTC read: The chart is still not pretty. BTC rejected the $65.5K–$66.5K range high and is now sitting closer to the lower half of the current battlefield. Right now, I see the active range like this: Range high: $65.5K–$66.5K Mid-zone: $62K–$64K Range low: $60K–$61K Major line: $58.1K The liquidation heatmap also shows liquidity stacked below, especially around the $61K–$62K area, with deeper danger still near $60K. So yes, BTC can still sweep lower. But here is the key: this is not confirmed collapse yet. It is a market trapped in a violent range. The problem for bulls is ETF flows are not helping. Another red BTC ETF day. Roughly -$90.7M yesterday. That comes after -$82.2M the day before. So the market has: weak ETF demand negative structure liquidity below DXY still elevated and BTC below the reclaim zone That is not the setup for blind optimism. For bulls, the first job is simple: reclaim $64K–$64.5K. Then $65.5K–$66.5K. Until then, every bounce is just a bounce inside a damaged range. If BTC loses $62K cleanly, I think the market starts hunting $60K–$61K again. If BTC holds this zone and reclaims $64K+, then we can talk about stabilization. No need to overcomplicate it. BTC is not dead. But buyers have not taken control. This is still a trigger market. No confirmation, no conviction.

• 
  Michael E. Perry (@lcbchefperry) reported 41 minutes ago

  @Primary_Pianist The Book of Mormon describes whole peoples, cities, buildings, wars, kings, prophets, temples, records, armies, weapons, and massive battles. Mormon 1 says the land was covered with buildings and the people were almost as numerous as the sand of the sea. Mormon 6 describes roughly 230,000 Nephites killed at Cumorah. Ether 15 describes nearly two million Jaredite “mighty men” killed, plus wives and children. Imagine someone claimed that an ancient Israelite civilization existed somewhere in North America. Not a tiny campsite. Not one immigrant family. A real civilization. Imagine it had a final battle where the dead were roughly the size of Irving, Texas population 238K. Then imagine another earlier civilization in the same sacred history lost a male fighting population roughly the size of Houston 2.4M, plus women and children. Now imagine this civilization supposedly had cities, temples, written records, named places, religious systems, kings, trade, weapons, metalwork, and centuries of history. Then ask: Would it be plausible for a civilization of that size and complexity to vanish with no confirmed city, no confirmed inscription, no confirmed Hebrew or Egyptian writing, no confirmed Nephite place name, no confirmed Israelite temple, no confirmed Book of Mormon battlefield, no confirmed “reformed Egyptian,” and no material culture that clearly identifies it? That is the issue. A small family can disappear genetically. A civilization of that scale should not disappear historically, archaeologically, linguistically, and materially. So the problem is not merely DNA. DNA is one missing footprint. But the larger issue is that almost every expected footprint is missing. At some point, “the evidence disappeared” stops being an explanation and starts becoming a shield against testing the claim.

• 
  Kelly Detonated (@KellyDetonated) reported 48 minutes ago

  We can blame eachother for this but truth be told the whole Doha Deal was a disaster, and is still problematic today. Now, it can be something accept for what it is, learn and get better now, or we can pretend it isn’t there. I’ve accepted it, and hope we address that money is still going to the Taliban. Qatar is exceptionally clever when it comes to laundering money, while slapping on a bow and smiling saying it’s something else. We don’t operate this way, but they do, no matter how many shiny gifts and “peace” deals it brokers. It seems Soviet inspired, so maybe they learned from the best. Idk. It would be wise to have a completely neutral mediators, moving forward, that nobody involved has any conflicts of interest and a proven track record of success. We must use the icky stuff as a point of reference no matter how bad it stings to do so. My thoughts are that this is a clear case for strategic, long-game warfare that isn’t necessarily fought on a battlefield. We also need to admit that our reward system is very different than the middle eastern countries. We want everything done now. They are ideology driven. We’re built different. So this would require any agreements to include some language requiring enforceability that can’t be broken until it’s complete.

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  Helles Sachsen (@HellesSachsen) reported 53 minutes ago

  @LReborn11 @MerelHazebroeck @JayinKyiv Exactly, on the battlefield it offers them hardly any advantage over large conventional bombs, but the number of their problems multiplies. They don't even know if they'll actually work anymore; in the end, they'll just embarrass themselves.

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  FaresAlAbdalli (@Knight14015) reported 53 minutes ago

  @Battlefield Ok fix middle east servers

• 
  ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ ฏ (@voidsrus4) reported 1 hour ago

  the problem with battlefield 6 being a live service game is all the cosmetics are designed for children. there are cosmetics i would probably buy, they won't sell them. and the game despite their best efforts is still too hard for children

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  NickNaylor 🇧🇷 (@biglover9813) reported 1 hour ago

  @BattlefieldComm Nerf M320. Fix the matchmaking: every game turns into basecamp, if you go well in a match, the next one you are punished. Change the TTK, no more 3BTK guns like SCW (1000RPM btw)

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  מכחול 🖌️ (@michgold1) reported 1 hour ago

  @sfrantzman Yes, currently there is no intention to create entirely mixed units, but the army's promises can be broken (and have in the past) and certainly there is no guarantee for what would happen in the battlefield.

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  iBRAR (@ibrar_dev) reported 1 hour ago

  @Battlefield 6 is broken and unbalanced man. Two douche bags can circle a map and abuse the too-low and too-close mechanics and there is no reliable to take then down. Aerial superiority continues to plague the game. BLOPS 2 had a mobile SAM site almost 20 years ago! Battlefield has jack ****!