Shinobi: Art of Vengeance lands on PS5 like a ceremonial sword forged in marketing glitter and factory sunlight. Sega calls it a triumphant return; I call it a well-lighted corridor leading to a glossy exit sign. It looks so good you could water-ski off its reflections, and still manage to forget the plot.

As Skyler Vaughn, I test claims against code the way a monk tests a lava lamp for heresy: by banging on it until it either glows or leaks. I read privacy policies to the end, because nothing says ‘reliable ninja’ like a terms-of-service scroll that doubles as a fortune-cookie manifesto. I also track who pays for free, which in this case means tallying the tiny icons that appear during a loading screen.

The visuals are so gorgeous you could frame them and hang them in a museum of glossy disappointments. The ninja’s cloak ripples with more detail than some cities have streetlights. Yet every time you slice a boss, a chorus of marketing buzzwords erupts as if the game is auditioning for a TED Talk.

The returning ninja sounds like the same guy who signed off on the lunch menu at the office: confident, slightly exhausted, and somehow still available for a sponsored livestream. The cutscenes are so silky they could sprain your retinas, and the plot follows the ancient trope of vengeance as a service plan. It’s a gorgeous product demo that forgot to ship the actual product.

The stealth sections are clever enough to hide you from enemies and your own self-respect, which is a trick nobody asked for. The sound design leans into dramatic silence as if the game is teaching you calibrated patience via a vibrating controller. And yes, the ninjas still move with the precision of a calendar invitation that forgot to include the meeting.

Combat is a fireworks show with a price tag, and somehow the explosions come with a lease agreement. The fighting system feels responsive, which is a relief when the rest of the package keeps reminding you it’s almost a corporate slideshow. You’ll pull off stylish combos until the scoreboard reminds you that your enthusiasm is the real microtransaction.

Performance on PS5 is smooth enough to pretend your couch isn’t a crime scene of snacks. The haptics give you the sensation of clutching a katana while also clutching your wallet. The game earns its gorgeous veneer; it just forgot to pack a few pockets for the actual gameplay.

Still, for all the glimmer, the game stirs a philosophical itch: do you buy a ninja’s art or just a collector’s edition of trust? In the open-world segments you’ll wander like a refrigerator tour guide, pointing at vegetables while asking ‘where’s the real meat?’. Perhaps the blinding polish quietly nudges you toward upgrading ‘best PS5 SSD 2TB’ to store all the cutscenes.

Even the soundtrack feels like a consent form for your ears, gliding through epic choruses that sign away your afternoon. The voice acting alternates between noble warriors and a call-center script about returns. You start to wonder if the ninjas are fighting crime or fighting for better UI.

SEGA’s corporate lore looms large, like a dragon perched on a conference table, swatting away any idea that players might actually control the narrative. The motive is clear: nostalgia is a solvent, and the game’s entire economy runs on nostalgia’s fumes. The result is a map of levels that looks beautiful enough to wallpaper a luxury yacht but plays like a map of your own procrastination.

Progression feels like a parade of silhouettes; you unlock new abilities that look flashy but rarely change the core rhythm. It’s the kind of game where every stealth corridor is a red carpet with cameras and no one will admit they can’t hear themselves think. The ninja’s suits glitter with the sustained glow of a million product shots, and no, you cannot borrow one for your next Zoom call.

Level design occasionally surprises you with clever tricks, then promptly sells you a wall of cosmetics to celebrate the cleverness. It’s almost fun until you realize the real reward is a tiny banner that says you’ve spent time, which is basically a rival currency to sleep. The PC loadout option might be missing, but the console-era charm is very much present — upgrade ‘external PS5 cooling fan’ if your rig melts under the ambiance.

From a distance, the campaign looks like a love letter to old SEGA arcade cabinets; up close, it’s a carefully tuned response to fan petitions, drought-compatible with executive dockets. The game’s world feels lived-in, even if the mission structure lives in a perpetual beta test. You can admire the shinobi’s runes, then realize they’re just icons telling you to click next.

The villain’s henchmen are all too aware of the modern obligation to monetize every blade of grass, so they slip microtransactions into every alley like breadcrumbs for a very patient raven. The narrative keeps hinting at something deeper, but what you actually get is a montage reel of flashbacks to past games you’ve already finished in 1990.

Graphically, it’s a monument to reflections — water surfaces, sword blades, and your own expectations, all in perfect equivalence. The engine hums with the confidence of a startup that finally found a budget line for ‘epic ninja montage gurus.’ Yet the whole experience is so polished it gleams with the quiet confession that the Ninja Series has retired to a spa weekend you can’t afford.

Combat pacing alternates between serene duels and frantic panic, like an opera where the conductor fired the orchestra and handed you the baton. Boss fights are spectacle for the sake of spectacle, not revelation for the sake of meaning. You’ll finish with a sense that you just watched a movie trailer that forgot to include a plot.

The game rewards you for patience with a teardown section that looks like a tech demo and plays like a lullaby to your inner completionist. Some levels use lighting to narrate mood better than dialogue, which is both impressive and slightly alarming.

Accessibility options exist, which is nice, if nice means ‘we used to ignore you but now we tolerate you for two hours.’ The UI, however, remains an obstacle course for anyone who remembers how to close a menu without a tutorial. In other words, it’s user-friendly if your definition of friendly includes a gauntlet-wielding exasperation of parenthood.

Evaluation: gorgeous, triumphant, and suspiciously good at persuading you that you should care about an old ninja’s grievances while forgetting to give him a personality beyond the trailer.

Conclusion: Shinobi: Art of Vengeance is a gorgeous hustle masquerading as a comeback, a velvet rope between you and your spare weekend. It moves with the grace of a ninja, and charges with the efficiency of a start-up. And if you wanted a stealthy way to empty your calendar, congratulations — you’ve just found the rear exit of every modern AAA release.

Final verdict: Shinobi: Art of Vengeance is a gorgeous hustle masquerading as a comeback, a velvet rope between you and your spare weekend. It moves with the grace of a ninja, and charges with the efficiency of a start-up. And if you wanted a stealthy way to empty your calendar, congratulations — you’ve just found the rear exit of every modern AAA release.