GR: As a critic who has reviewed games professionally for over six years, I have on more than one occasion wanted nothing more than to tell the reviewing process to fuck off. Unsurprisingly, nearly all those moments came when I played a title from Saints Row. Its unapologetic, no-holds-barred, stick-it-in-your-craw attitude—a colossal middle finger to clean, proper, and respectful game design in the name of unadulterated fun in the purest sense of the word—has a way of rubbing off. To the point of chafing. Yes, I feel it for days.
Saints Row IV takes the previous installment to the next logical step, or as "logical" as Saints Row can get anyway. By the end of the opening tutorial mission, the 3rd Street Saints elevate themselves from mere pop superstars to a group so idolized by the American public that the entire crew becomes the cabinet of the White House, and you become the one and only President of the United States. As per your order, the Oval Office is decked out in purple, hallways are installed with stripper poles, and your staff handles every bureaucratic affair to keep your life as carefree and hedonistic as possible. That is, until aliens invade the world, kidnap everyone you care about, and give you a very handy reason for wanton destruction and kickassery.