I have a soft spot for virtual golf, to the point where I actually have a Golden Tee arcade machine proudly stationed in my house. Back in my teenage years, EA’s Tiger Woods games were my go-to whenever I needed to unwind—they were my comfort zone. Even now, with a set of real golf clubs gathering dust in the garage because, let’s face it, life’s too hectic to spare a few hours for the greens, I recognize that a golf game could neatly fill that void.
Eyeing a lull in my gaming schedule, I thought the fresh launch of PGA Tour 2K25 might just be the ticket. I had a decent run with 2K’s initial venture into golf simulations, so I decided to dive into this instead of EA’s latest version—to see how much they’ve upped their game over the past years. With confidence, I launched Steam and shelled out for the Premium Edition, eager to start playing a bit early. At first, my excitement was through the roof.
Reflecting on my somewhat hazy memories of the 2021 version, it’s evident that 2K has done a commendable job refining their 2025 edition. It’s got a slicker, more polished feel to it; the interface is more intuitive and user-friendly. I’m especially fond of the assists system, which brings to mind similar features from games like Forza Motorsport. It’s a brilliant way to blend realistic simulation and fast-paced arcade fun into one engaging package.
Essentially, if you’re into a more arcade-like experience reminiscent of the beloved PS2-era Tiger Woods games, you’re looking at 100% of Experience for each round. Yet, the more you challenge yourself by switching off these features, the more EXP your custom career player racks up beyond the base amount.
The racing game comparison is spot-on. In Forza, I typically disable the racing line for an extra EXP boost because I feel confident enough without it. Here, being pretty sure of my driving skill, I’ll turn off assists like those for crosswinds to make things more interesting. But when it comes to putting, which I’m awful at, I keep the assists on.
After adjusting my preferences, I could earn 120% of the standard EXP, and more seasoned players can rake in even more with their skillful play.
EXP is quite the deal. It paves the way to rewards, player level-ups, and amassing the currency needed for gear and other goodies. While the array of assists makes the game feel breezy and enjoyable, I like knowing that I can go for a tougher, more realistic experience whenever I’m in the mood.
This design really complements the career mode, where you’re not obligated to play every hole—by default, you might tackle just four or five, while the AI handles the rest. It lessens the pressure, although playing all 18 without shortcuts is just a settings tweak away. Off the course, you have training mini-games, press conferences, and player rivalries to keep you entertained.
It all circles back to the charm of older golf games—they’re more than just simulations; they’re about having fun. Real-world golf is an accessible sport—grab some clubs, maybe borrow them, and hit a course with buddies for not much at all. In video games, it’s about handling a pro career, savoring a relaxing experience rather than the real-life stress-inducing challenge. Trust me, real-life golf is nerve-wracking for me.
But here’s the rub: something sinister lurks beneath the surface of what could’ve been a perfect blend of casual and hardcore golfing. It’s a problem aggravated by the first stealthy update that dropped soon after the game’s release.
The development of your custom golfer—your ‘myPLAYER’—relies heavily on in-game currency. You earn some as you go, sure. But if you’re hoping to expedite your way to better clubs, nice clothes, or enhanced player stats, you’re often nudged towards buying VC (Virtual Currency) with real money.
This approach is nothing new—you earn currency, invest it to progress—that’s gaming 101. Yet selling currency for actual money feels like a crafty shortcut—or perhaps a tad unscrupulous. But 2K…oh, they’re really testing players’ patience.
During early access, the game offered a reasonable rate of VC accumulation. Upon full launch, however, a sly patch tweaked the economy, stealthily slashing VC gain. Reddit’s buzzing with outraged players doing the math, showing that reaching level 99 now demands a staggering 214 hours, up from 92. Costs for leveling or snagging essential gear have soared by as much as 60%. The prior progression wasn’t zippy, but 2K apparently decided it wasn’t torturous enough to encourage spending, so they shamelessly dialed up the grind straight out of the gate.
Even as I stumbled upon this shocking discovery myself—earning less VC post-patch—a trip to Reddit opened my eyes to the staggering reality. Steam reviews have taken a nosedive, with “greedy” frequently thrown around. The best descriptor? “Predatory.” That’s it. How about another from me? “Disgusting.” I’ve got a few more choice words, but let’s not print those. Imagination, folks.
On the whole, I adored PGA Tour 2K25—a brilliant experience until this player progression sham surfaced, totally puncturing my enthusiasm. Before, my grievances were minor: slow menus, laborious transitions, annoying pop-ups. Now, they pale compared to this aggressive cash-grab progression system, reminiscent of a free-to-play mobile game, where success online demands either a marathon grind or…guess what, more cash. Seeing how they’ve throttled the pace to steer players towards microtransactions, I find myself bowing out.
Frankly, if this were a free-to-play game, you could argue the merits of such antics. But it’s not. Players handed over upwards of a hundred pounds for this, with the standard edition still a hefty sixty quid. It’s a steep joke. And a shame, really, because the game is spectacular—possibly the finest in a decade. But like missing a simple putt for a bogey, 2K created magic and then promptly let it slip through their fingers. What a pity.
