Battlefield 6 Outage Map

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Battlefield 6 Issues Reports

Latest outage, problems and issue reports in social media:

• 
  Keyfer (@BamaSquama) reported 3 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Yall fix not being able to play with 3 friends in a party without someone getting stuck in the pre game lobby yet? Or still clueless about that issue?

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  Arachnomancer 😷 9x💉🕸 ️🕷️🌵 (@WithSpiders) reported 5 minutes ago

  @cocomarvgrows completely ignoring the fact that tens of thousands of people are dying on the battlefield. Most people probably wouldn't have a problem with that. But I am not "most people." I find the idea of completely tuning out the horrors of our time and pretending everything is fine 2/3

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  𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈 ℛ𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓎 (@RubianPrincess) reported 8 minutes ago

  If need be, Rainy would explain the situation to Whitney, but as of right now she needn't know of her dealing with the Grand Regent Dreinna. She hoped it would not place a strain upon their friendship. "I don't think Whitney will be a problem, but it may hinder my friendship with her. Only time will tell." Oddly enough, she'd hear Dreinna mention that her Viltrumite people possessed a weakness. Rainy was curious as to why she'd tell her such. Perhaps to gain her trust even further as an ally? The Rubian Princess had a weakness too, but she wouldn't dare reveal such to someone she'd just met a few hours ago. Doing so would be a foolish mistake. "I see. I'll keep that as a side note, Dreinna. I believe every being in existence has their weaknesses. Unfortunately, on the battlefield these things tend to get exploited the most. I am aware that Saiyans possess a weakness in their tails, but some have been able to overcome this. Perhaps there is something you can do to overcome your weakness to sound as well."

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  Adrock (@Adrock318) reported 10 minutes ago

  @Battlefield The options menu is broken in the firing range since yesterday's update. It doesn't load. @DRUNKKZ3 @tiggr_

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  Jared Randall (@whisperontruth) reported 11 minutes ago

  the Pentagon is quietly shifting AI spending from research labs to the actual battlefield edge. $PLTR has been in this lane for years but the real money now is in whoever wins the contracts to run inference at the tactical level. that's a different and much harder problem.

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  PaulsCorner-VerseQuest (@TNTJohn1717) reported 17 minutes ago

  book that does not address what people are actually asking may be doctrinally correct and still miss the battlefield. If people are confused about whether Christians go through the Tribulation, answer that. If they are hearing that the KJV is outdated, answer that. If they are afraid they lost salvation, answer that. If they are being told Israel has no future, answer that. If they are being seduced by prosperity preachers, answer that. If they are being pulled into Catholic tradition, cult doctrine, or Calvinistic fatalism, answer that. Ministry writing is not just “write what you feel like.” It is see the need, search the Scriptures, expose the error, feed the flock, and strengthen the saints. That is how a resource library becomes a lighthouse and not just a pile of pages. Chapter Seven — How You Can Serve in the Work Not everyone can do everything, but almost everyone can do something. That is the point. Some can pray daily for the work, for wisdom, for protection, for open doors, for strength, and for the right people to find the right studies at the right time. Prayer is not a small contribution. Paul repeatedly asked believers to pray for him: “Brethren, pray for us” (1 Thessalonians 5:25). Some can share posts on X, Facebook, Quora, YouTube, or wherever they have a voice. Some can send a study to a friend, a pastor, a family member, a new believer, or someone tangled in false doctrine. Some can buy premium books or charts from the webshop. Some can donate. Some can report site problems, typos, broken links, or checkout glitches. Some can help by leaving comments, asking good questions, or suggesting topics that people are wrestling with. Some can serve by refusing to be silent. If a study helped you, say so. If a chart clarified something, share it. If an essay answered a question, point someone to it. If a book strengthens your doctrine, tell somebody. The world is not shy about spreading error. Cults are not shy. Catholics are not shy. Calvinists are not shy. Charismatics are not shy. Bible correctors are not shy. Prosperity preachers are not shy. New Agers are not shy. The devil’s crowd knows how to distribute material. Bible believers need to stop acting like truth should hide in a closet and hope somebody accidentally finds it. “Let your light so shine before men” (Matthew 5:16). That does not mean show off. It means do not cover the lamp. Others can serve by becoming examples in their own homes and churches. Use the material to teach your family. Use a chart to explain doctrine to your children. Use a sermon outline to prepare a Bible lesson. Use a commentary to study a passage before church. Use apologetics resources to answer a coworker. Use eternal security studies to comfort someone under fear. Use prophecy resources to calm someone who is being panicked by headlines. Use practical Christianity resources to strengthen your walk. The best way to support a Bible ministry is not merely to admire it, but to multiply its usefulness. A resource sitting unused is like bread left in a basket. It may be good bread, but it needs to be passed. Conclusion The Lord Jesus Christ did not leave His people an example of selfish consumption. He left an example of service, sacrifice, humility, truth, labor, and obedience to the Father. He fed the hungry, but He did not flatter the carnal crowd. He washed feet, but He did not create permanent spiritual spectators. He gave truth, then demanded that men walk in it. He called disciples, not customers. He built servants, not religious consumers. That is the spirit that must govern any serious Bible work. If VerseQuest is going to continue growing into a large resource for the Body of Christ, then the people who benefit from it should think biblically about how to help. Not every person can give. Not every person can buy. Not every person can share in the same way. But every person can ask the Lord honestly, “What can I do?”

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  woisau (@woisau1) reported 17 minutes ago

  The internet is turning into a battlefield of deepfakes, AI-generated scams and digital poisoning. Most projects talk about the problem. @umanitek is actually solving it. Powered by @origin_trail’s Decentralized Knowledge Graph, they’re building the Umanitek Guardian — a human-centric AI defense system that detects, verifies and neutralizes harmful content in real time. Verifiable. Decentralized. Private. No more centralized “fact-checkers” with agendas. Real trust infrastructure for the AI age. Protecting humans instead of platforms. This is tech that actually matters. $TRAC + Umanitek = the immune system of the future internet.

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  Pọ́ọ̀lù (@__abioye_) reported 18 minutes ago

  @ofootball__ That Canada vs. Qatar match was painful to watch—truly painful. Let's hope Ismail Koné is not badly injured, because that pitch was a battlefield of bad decisions and broken rhythm. The game was so poor, Qatar made Canada look like a Premier League side. Let that sink in. Absolutely amazing—and not in a good way.

• 
  William Peynsaert (@PeynsaertBill) reported 23 minutes ago

  War wasn't always about shooting babies in the head from a very safe distance, Israeli style. They rushed us into line. The officers shouting, using their swords almost like a measuring stick to align us. We fell down behind a wooden fence. In mud. It was the first day in two weeks it had finally stopped raining. We wished to sink into that mud until only our noses would stick out and let us breathe. As soon as that feeling hit me came the question: ‘But how will I shoot my rifle at them then?’. It’s fear clashing against this bizarre masculine honor that makes you want to kill people so you won’t feel mortified after. We heard them before we could see them. They were Coburn’s boys. A full brigade. Five regiments zeroing in on us. Hungry, some of them shoeless. Moving towards us like a multicolored quilt with bayonets sticking out. That’s one of the many odd things about them, many of them have completely different uniforms, and yet if you look at each of them individually, no matter what they are wearing, brown jackets, gray jackets, blue jackets taken from our dead or captured supply wagons, white shirts, red shirts, no matter, you just know: That’s a Confederate infantryman. And he will kill me if I don’t manage to kill him first. But like I said, first we heard them. At first it was like I could hear their silence, if that makes sense. That moment the marching stops, the shuffling through trees, the cling clang clong of metal, canteens dangling from belts, officers cocking pistols, men loading their rifles. Then nothing. The sound of the rustling of the trees, inviting play and sharing food on the grass, not state sanctioned murder. The sound that doesn’t penetrate your ears, but your gut, your bones, of 2,000 heartbeats and their breathing speeding up, as they work up their dander to come at you. And then they surge forward. Mysteriously, cause you don’t see or hear anyone give a command. After that you see them, you see them come out of the tree line, into the open, but still too far to get a good shot at them. Then your heart drops right into your stomach, like someone pushed over its scaffolding in your chest. They start running. You feel the ground vibrate. And the yelling. The yelling. It’s not yelling. It’s the sound of something that’s decided that all it now lives for is to tear right into you and just rip you apart. A vicious lash snapping out of 2,000 throats that seems to grab you by the back of your neck to pull you into the abyss. That’s when many piss themselves. I did too. Am not as much ashamed of the fact that I pissed myself as I am grateful that at least I didn’t have **** running over my legs. At least piss dries and it’s not so obvious. For a second you hope they will realize we are behind a fence, we will have 400 yards of open field to pour our rifles into them and they will be smart about this and turn back. But that’s not how they are built. There’s a frenzy in the air. For them nothing in the world exists anymore. Only you as their destination, their final communion with their existence on this earth and the only way you can convince them to stop is to shoot them to pieces. With some even that doesn’t work and they’ll still run, shot up, to at least get one slash or stab or smack at your firing line. They’re madmen. Very focused madmen. And they stink. They reek. Weeks of not washing. Months of wearing the same uniforms. So now it’s not just the screaming. It’s the bubonic plague, but it moves and it’s screeching. The sound they make cuts. Like a wounded animal you’ve angered and it has nothing to lose and will have your blood no matter what you do now. They’re not even halfway and some of the guys next to you become like little children. They drop their rifles. First they crawl. Then they get up. Running. Some stay, but yell: ‘Our line is breaking. We can’t hold them.’ This then makes more of us skedaddle to the rear. God knows where to. Just back, away from here. Anywhere where those fatalistic lunatics aren’t. You shoot your rifle before you realize you never took aim. You forget to reload even though you’ve gone through the whole routine a hundred times. You forget, even though the veterans have warned you, you would forget. They told you to focus on nothing but that routine in your head, nothing else, but it’s too late. You watch your own hands and they’re doing everything wrong. You pick up a rifle left behind by a fellow soldier who bolted back, back to mama, or wherever to. You shoot that one. You count to ten to steady yourself and it takes all your energy to reload. To get it right. Your brain has never had to do anything harder, and yet you know it’s not that complicated. You curse your own brain for not functioning properly when it should be doing all it can to keep you alive. Then the first guys actually get hit. You see bullets knock through cheeks. Flesh gets torn off faces. Like you smash a pumpkin with a small pick ax. When a bullet hits a human body it’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable. It’s a unique dull popping sound. A small pebble piercing a bag of water. Now you are reloading AND praying this doesn’t happen to you or if it does that at least you get hit right in the heart so you are done with this. Your biggest fear is to be hit between your legs. Or that you turn a certain way and a bullet tears out both your eyes, but you survive. And if a head shot is coming, please, Lord, let it be fatal. You don’t want to have a hole in the middle of your face, nose gone, for the rest of your life. Imagine life where your chances with women dwindle to zero. Even hookers would refuse you. Their screaming intensifies. It no longer sounds like anything a living creature can produce. It’s like the volume of it is debating with you and trying to convince you to let go, to die, to embrace the mercy of dying right here and now. Then comes that moment that you know. If you wait even 20 more seconds one of them will literally jump at your throat, pin you to the ground and strangle you to death by pushing his rifle against your throat with both hands. It’s already happening to one of your acquaintances five yards away. And yet you do nothing to pull the assailant off him. It’s pointless to try and reload. This is where your bayonet training should kick in. But it doesn’t. You weakly throw your rifle at them. Thinking it will fly like a spear. It does no such thing. It just sticks in the ground. Now you run. You run like a little boy who’s five years old and thinks he will never see his mum and dad again if he doesn’t run. You run like a lost boy searching for his parents at a busy market and believes the market is endlessly big and home can never be found again. You step on a wounded comrade and in a flash you notice you pushed his nose into the mud. This may make you responsible for his death. Yet you don’t stop. You don’t go back to turn him around. Now it’s like every aspect of you that you could ever be proud of stepped out of your body and is sitting with that comrade you drove deeper into the mud. You crash through the lines of a friendly brigade that is now forming to stem the rebel tide. From the look on your face some of them are already trying to turn back, but their officers are still in control and shove them back into line. For a second you think: Where are your officers? Why couldn’t they keep us steady? Once behind this fresh brigade you collapse on a tree log. There’s a few seconds of relief, but then shame. Teamsters trying to get ammunition wagons closer to the front already know what happened to you. They pity you. A small sniper unit is way up in a tree behind you. One of them loading rifles on the ground for his comrades above looks at you and ask: ‘You alright their, mate? They’re on us thick like fleas. They’re turning our flank. Damn rascals are outnumbered two to one and they’re mauling our flank.’ Your head hangs between your legs and you say ‘it’s a real mess out there, we had no artillery support’, but the guy probably never hears you, your voice doesn’t go as loud as you intended. You know you are making excuses. They ran towards your line. They did the more dangerous part. Artillery or no, the line should have held. Besides, in these thick woods it’s nearly impossible to use artillery effectively. That’s why they dare to attack an enemy that outguns them. They chose the worst possible nightmare of a battlefield cause they are desperate enough and this wilderness doesn’t make a difference anymore. They are used to conditions that break most humans, your side isn’t. You get 4,000 calories to eat most days. They get 1,200 on a good day. Even their corpses decay differently. Theirs just get bleached over time, the corpses on your side swell and then break open. An officer drags you from the tree log. ‘Get yourself a gun, lad.’ He shoves you towards about 20 wild eyed young guys like yourself. One asks: ‘Who’s this glory hunter?’ A guy answers: ‘It’s some lieutenant with the 3rd Vermont. He has something to prove, I guess.’ The lieutenant comes back with about ten more men and a new crate of rifles. He shoves a rifle into your hands. ‘Form a line. The boys up yonder need us.’ You’re thinking: not this madness again, but you can’t just make off now. As the lieutenant orders this makeshift infantry company forward, a courier rides up on a magnificent black horse. ‘Orders of general Burnside, everyone fall back to the bridge immediately. The rebs are rolling up our flank.’ You ask if he knows anything about the rest of the front. All he says is: ‘Not good.’ He then rides off to find the divisional commander to order a retreat all long this line. The lieutenant is visibly dissapointed, but gives in. ‘Alright then, boys, follow me.’ Once you are far enough removed from the fighting a feverish, compelling urge takes over. You want to apologize to the boy you stepped on. You stop boys passing by, put both hands on their shoulders, shake them and say with a pleading voice: ‘I am sorry, I am so so sorry. Please believe me, I am sorry!’ Each time one shoves you away you grab another one. One has to bite you in your fingers so you let go of him. This continues until one with the most innocent, big, watery green eyes says simply: ‘I forgive you.’ With tears streaming down your cheeks you explain what you did. The boy’s eyes go moist too, but with a very steady, calm voice says: ‘After this war, whenever you can pick someone up, pick them up. That’s all you have to do. You are forgiven.’ The boy, though not older than you, strokes your cheek and your hair like a father would, then walks away, in search of his own regiment. That is how Henry got saddled with running the first homeless shelter in a boom town out west a few years after Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomatox. A role he half hates, half loves, and can’t quit, because as soon as he thinks of going back to farming like he did before the war, he feels that wounded man’s head under his foot again. #gettysburg #acw

• 
  ErisQT 💜 Hiatus (@ErisQT) reported 24 minutes ago

  hey @EA @awscloud @EA_DICE fix your servers for dallas I'm having 80 latency

• 
  Penguinsrockrgr8 (@penguinsrockgr8) reported 24 minutes ago

  @Battlefield You still need to fix the official servers running worse than portal servers

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  Zolyode (@R_eh_mika) reported 25 minutes ago

  @yuhMaxine @Battlefield Do you know how SBMM work, and why it does that ? because I can't play neither modern COD or Battlefield and its going to make me crazy If I can't find a solution to that problem...

• 
  Stevo3854 (@stevo3854420) reported 26 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Your entire game is broken. From black loading screens, graphical glitches, bullet registration, ridiculous ranked squad rules that you can't squad with lower ranked friends then they immediately squad you with complete noobs. Let's not even mention the insane amount of hackers!

• 
  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ (@ARCADIONRULE) reported 27 minutes ago

  more so the proof, of a meaningful struggle. The battlefield, strewn with all manner of frightening-looking weaponry, distorted. Blades, poles, machines and every grounded utensil of agony dissolved into an erratic, glitch-like pulse. The arena was freshly reset to its -

• 
  Nickmdrummer (@nick_mDrummer) reported 28 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm "Previously, if an XP Booster expired before the end of a match, it could miss out on applying to the Match Bonus awarded at the end of that round." This game is clearly in beta. How many hidden errors does it have?