How Pokémon’s Latest DLC Still Falls Short of Palworld in One Major Area

Overall, I genuinely adore the Bubbly Basin region in Pokémon Pokopia. The aquatic atmosphere is simply enchanting, and discovering a post-apocalyptic Cerulean City stirred up a wave of nostalgia. Water-types have always held a special place in my heart, so seeing them take center stage is wonderful, and the overall ambiance down in the depths is immaculate. You know what completely shatters that magic, though? Having to slam the brakes on my adventure the exact second Popplio asks me to construct a grand temple.

By comparison, Palworld rarely fills me with warm, fuzzy feelings; most of the time, I find its gameplay repetitive and tedious. Yet, this Pokopia project has unexpectedly made me yearn for how remarkably industrious and dependable your Pals can be. Sure, the Pokémon here handle the actual construction phase, but gathering the staggering variety and volume of raw materials is a grueling timesink. I wouldn’t mind foraging if I weren’t simultaneously forced to clear an immense, debris-laden, sand-choked, overgrown plot of land entirely by hand for Popplio. In a game ostensibly about cooperative community-building, I frequently find myself channeling the classic John Travolta Pulp Fiction meme, looking around in utter bewilderment because nobody else is lifting a finger.

I will give credit where credit is due: Palworld excels at delegating labor so that tasks actually reach completion. While you venture out to discover rare resources or upgrade your gear, a dedicated workforce of specialized Pals simultaneously farms, harvests, extracts ore from the earth, crafts medicine, and pushes forward with construction projects. They show up ready to assist with whatever you need. Admittedly, developer PocketPair likely designed this mechanic to lean into that slightly cynical “Pokémon-with-guns” trope of forcing your creatures into forced labor. Even so! At least the entire weight of civilization wasn’t resting exclusively on my shoulders.

Meanwhile, how is Popplio contributing? Mostly by floating around looking adorable. Stunfisk and Mudkip (well, ignoring the fact that Stunfisk lacks feet) practically sprinted off to play hide-and-seek. Corsola is happily munching on watermelon I personally cultivated for them. Cloyster is busy smacking Corphish over the head—and judging by the affectionate heart popping up above Corphish afterward, they somehow enjoy it. Horsea has comfortably settled into the executive office chair I gifted them, ensuring maximum comfort while maintaining absolute zero productivity. All the while, I am down in the trenches mining pearls, crafting fences, hanging doors, smashing boulders, and scraping every stubborn seashell off the ocean floor, acutely aware that an mountainside of chores still awaits me. Why won’t anyone lend a hand? My frustrated appeals simply echo into the abyss, ignored by creatures seemingly devoid of functional ears.

Clearing just half of the site took me a grueling seven minutes, meaning the entire endeavor will easily demand a quarter-hour of my time. In the grand scheme of gaming, that is barely a blip. But what makes it grating is that it’s a mandatory roadblock dictated to me by the game—an intentional pacing halt that feels profoundly obnoxious. When I voluntarily slap down an enormous park expansion and have to painstakingly terraform the landscape to fit my vision, that’s entirely my choice, and I can abandon the project whenever I please to pursue more enjoyable pursuits. This temple, however, hangs over my head like an inescapable bureaucratic obligation.

I will finish it, eventually. But since not a single soul down here cares enough to assist, I think I’ll pivot and bring modern electricity to these undersea denizens first. Not out of spite, mind you—those submarine dwellings genuinely need the power grid.