Battlefield 6 Outage Map

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Battlefield 6 Issues Reports

Latest outage, problems and issue reports in social media:

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  Outsider (@AlbinSalkic) reported 7 minutes ago

  @WesOlesen @LauraLoomer @netanyahu Money is a huge problem, but even worse is American youth giving their lives on battlefield for Israel interests.

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  chris (@ChrisSlaske) reported 8 minutes ago

  @Battlefield season 3 update. Another update that doesnt fix anything except giving us a clear all button

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  KansasArchaeologist (@KSArchaeologist) reported 8 minutes ago

  Two days after the battle a group of soldiers found Comanche near the battlefield. He was badly wounded and he was taken back to Fort Abraham Lincoln and ultimately survived the ordeal. In April 1878 he was retired from service at 21 years old. He was kept at Fort Meade near Sturgis, South Dakota from 1879-1887 when he was returned to Fort Riley in Kansas where he was given the honorary title of “Second Commanding Officer” of the 7th Cavalry. He died on November 7th, 1889 from colic, and is one of only 4 horses in US military history to have a military funeral with full military honors. But he was not buried. Comanche was taken to Professor Lewis Dyche at the University of Kansas in Lawrence and taxidermied to be displayed. In 1893 he was shown at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago at the Kansas Pavilion with Professor Dyche’s panorama of North American Mammals.

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  Zarodnii 🍁 (@zarodnii) reported 10 minutes ago

  @Battlefield @BattlefieldComm fix your damn game! After the stupid update my game keeps freezing!

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  PaulsCorner-VerseQuest (@TNTJohn1717) reported 10 minutes ago

  The Danger Of Spiritual Ignorance Key Passage: 2 Corinthians 2:11 “Lest Satan should get an advantage of us: for we are not ignorant of his devices.” (2 Corinthians 2:11) Introduction There is a dangerous kind of ignorance that wears a Bible under its arm, says “Amen” at the right places, talks about holiness, quotes verses on separation, and still helps the devil because it does not understand his devices. That is what 2 Corinthians 2:11 is warning about. Paul is not talking to lost pagans in a tavern. He is not talking to idolaters bowing before Diana. He is not talking to philosophers in Athens or Caesar’s household in Rome. He is talking to a church. He is talking to saved people. He is talking to Corinthians who had already been corrected, grieved, disciplined, and instructed. And he says, “Lest Satan should get an advantage of us: for we are not ignorant of his devices.” A church can be saved and still be stupid about Satan’s methods. A church can stand against one device and fall for another. A church can finally deal with sin, then turn around and help Satan by refusing to restore the repentant. The context matters. Paul is not giving a general demonology lecture so saints can become fascinated with devils. He is not encouraging believers to chase shadows, name demons, map principalities, or blame every bad mood on some spirit in the curtains. He is dealing with a specific church problem. A man had sinned. The church had disciplined him. The punishment was sufficient. Now the man needed forgiveness, comfort, and confirmed love. Why? “Lest perhaps such a one should be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow” (2 Corinthians 2:7). Then Paul adds, “Lest Satan should get an advantage of us.” That means Satan was waiting around the edges of church discipline, looking for a second opening. He had already worked through sin. Now he wanted to work through excessive sorrow. He had already used the man’s fall. Now he wanted to use the church’s failure to restore. That is how subtle the devil is. The danger of spiritual ignorance is that a church can think it is defending holiness while actually serving one of Satan’s devices. That ought to make every Bible believer sober. The devil does not always walk into a church wearing a red suit and carrying a pitchfork. Sometimes he comes with tolerance and says, “Do not judge sin.” Other times he comes with severity and says, “Never forgive him.” Sometimes he promotes compromise. Other times he promotes cruelty. Sometimes he says, “Let the leaven stay.” Other times he says, “Keep crushing the repentant man after the leaven has been purged.” If you only know one side of his work, you can still be used on the other side. Paul says, “we are not ignorant of his devices.” The church had better prove that by knowing when to discipline, when to forgive, when to comfort, and when to shut the devil out before he turns holy language into an unholy weapon. Chapter One Satan Gains Ground Through Ignorant Saints Paul says, “Lest Satan should get an advantage of us.” That means Satan is not merely looking for open wickedness in the alley. He is looking for an advantage inside the assembly. He wants ground. He wants leverage. He wants an opening. He wants to take a church’s weakness, emotion, ignorance, anger, pride, grief, fear, or imbalance and use it against the work of God. A man who thinks Satan only works through obvious sin has already missed half the battlefield. The devil can use fornication, drunkenness, pride, bitterness, false doctrine, gossip, and division. But he can also use unbalanced zeal, unbiblical severity, unresolved sorrow, and unforgiveness dressed up like holiness. Ignorant saints are useful to the devil because they can be sincere and still be dangerous. A church can honestly think it is protecting purity while it is failing to obey God’s command to restore. The Corinthians had once been wrong for tolerating sin. They were puffed up when

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  big_markyt (@big_markyt) reported 21 minutes ago

  @tboe012 @EA_DICE I've deleted it twice since release, considering doing it a third time and leaving it alone as it's not enjoyable. I agree on gunplay too, some of the lads I played with yesterday were struggling with lag issues, too, going as high as 400 ping

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  Doitlooklykiwuzlefoffbadnboujee (@Natur3boiB) reported 21 minutes ago

  When it's time to dance on the battlefield, we leaving our phones, Don't come outside with that fake gangster ****, leave it at home Like a hurricane hit, whole bunch of bodies all up in my dome The flunkies and the crash dummies be the first ones gone!!

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  Margo (@MargoinWNC) reported 22 minutes ago

  Well, William Wallace wasn’t actually Braveheart in real life. That was actually Robert the Bruce. From a historical accuracy perspective, Robert the Bruce did not betray William Wallace as the movie portrays. My dad (who lived in Scotland and loved its history) watched Braveheart and was so mad at the historical errors, he had to tell me all of them-down to the fact the battlefield used in the movie was wrong. The battle was fought at a narrow bridge which was key to their strategy to force the English over and ambush them. So now, you have to know too.

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  LèTrunks (@TrunksInu) reported 26 minutes ago

  Facebook has a new flag most creators don't know exists. "Limited originality of content." It freezes your earnings. No warning. Just $0. Fix: 100% original posts. No reposts. No AI spin. Your words. Your angle. Warriors don't borrow someone else's battlefield. 🔥

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  N8D (@USN8D) reported 29 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm BF6 is just a placeholder FPS till something better drops. Game is dead, broken and riddled with third party software in anything competitive. EA/Dice should just hang it up. The last decent thing created was BF3 and 4.

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  TygerSparky (@tygersparky) reported 31 minutes ago

  My take on the recent controversy concerning the Sony Playstation decision to no longer produce discs for their systems starting in 2028. Of course everyone is allowed to hold any opinion they want to on this move. I realize that your current opinion would likely be shaped based on your current buying preferences. But I would say that anyone defending this move or who is complicit and okay with Sony doing this is simply another example of someone focusing on the environment one step in front of them instead of actually looking to the future and seeing the inevitable outcome of this decision. I'll be up front, I have been buying things digitally for years. The last disc-based game I bought was The Witcher 3 on the Xbox One. But for me, that is because I don't look as fondly at modern games as I do games from my childhood. Given that, I still appreciate the option of having a disc copy of the game. If there was a game I absolutely fell in love with today, I would want to own a physical disc version of it. I have about 150 Xbox 360 discs and 125 PS2 discs, not to mention PS1 and Nintendo carts/discs in my current collection. For those like Asmongold and others who actually see no problem with this change, I would point to two past games in the current market to see exactly why having a physical option is absolutely superior. First: Battlefield Bad Company. This game was originally released on the PS3/Xbox 360 less than 20 years ago. However, EA delisted this game from digital storefronts in 2023, just 15 years after release. If you don't have an account that currently owns the game, you can't (legally) play a digital copy of this game. However, you can still go out and find a disc copy of the game and enjoy the awesomeness of that single-player story. Second: GTA San Andreas. If you have an original Xbox disc of GTA:SA from 2005, you can pop it in an Xbox or even an Xbox 360 and actually play the original game, complete with the original soundtrack of the game. If you put that same disc in an Xbox One or Series console, you will instead be forced to play the 2014 remaster mobile port which has updates to the game and the soundtrack. Some people consider this remaster to be an inferior version of the game because of these updates and changes. But thankfully, the original game is preserved on the disc and is still playable on original hardware. Another argument that I have heard is that most games come out with Day One patches. However, having a patch on release day doesn't mean that there isn't a playable version of the game on the disc already. It might have some unintended bugs, but if there is a playable form on the game on the disc, that is obviously infinitely better than not having any form of it available except in digital format where you are, again, at the mercy of the corpo storefronts if they allow you to download a copy of the game (even if you paid for it). And even then, it is still a modified version of the original game. There is absolutely no good argument from a consumer's perspective for a company to stop physical disc production. The benefit is completely and totally for the corporation. They save money, DO NOT pass that savings on to the consumer, and get an even tighter grip of maintaining full rights over the distribution and access of their games and content. They can take away that access at any time and offer their customers no compensation. Sony, and any other company who decides to go this route, absolutely deserves any backlash and revenue drop they get from these decisions. And I hope that their bottom line actually feels the pain of going this route. If I wanted to be discless and have zero options, I would move to PC. At least then I have access to the operating and file systems and can actually backup whatever version of a game I am playing for preservation. Not to mention, I have control over the hardware in it and can get the exact look and play of a game that I want. Convenience and nostalgia are why I continued to play my games on my Xbox. But with these systems becoming even more like just a pre-built PC in a box, they are doing little to nothing to actually give me a reason to continue to invest in their platform. Taking away the physical option is one more nail in their coffin. And don't get me started on this push for cloud-based game streaming. I'm 100% out on that. And a happy July 4th to everyone in the U.S.

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  實果 (@Suhyeem) reported 31 minutes ago

  The war didn't begin with explosions. The first thing that crumbled was the "consistency" of the reports. Military conflict records usually follow a single flow: occurrence, engagement, losses, and assessment. However, this flow didn't hold true in this theater of operations. Reports from multiple countries existed simultaneously as "official logs," each contradicting the others. As a coordinator in the International Intelligence Analysis Bureau, I was responsible for resolving these contradictions. Being a woman doesn't mean anything in this job. But when I descend to the field, for some reason, my "physicality as an observer" becomes acutely aware. The first anomaly report concerned an Apache helicopter engagement record. One source claimed it was "shot down by a low-altitude drone," another claimed it was "deactivated by electronic warfare," and yet another claimed "contact itself wasn't even observed." The same location, the same time, the same unit. Yet, only the "reality" of the battlefield didn't match. Adding insult to injury, F-35 fighter jet attrition data began to surface. The numbers were exaggerated. The number of destroyed aircraft varied from source to source, ranging from "multiple aircraft" to "the majority of the force." However, the problem wasn't the numbers. Every report had an abnormally high degree of certainty. "Confirmed," "Definitive," "Undoubtedly" These phrases were simultaneously applicable to the same event. I held my breath in front of the terminal. A war wasn't happening. The very "definition" of war was divided. At that moment, the monitoring system issued a single warning: 《Synchronization Anomaly in Reference Theater》 I didn't know yet. That this war wasn't a clash of weapons, but a clash over "real-world reference points." And that at its center existed an unnamed "Observer Protocol."

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  Sam 🇧🇷 🇯🇵 (@SamThoughts91) reported 34 minutes ago

  @mxrcologist @OnlyJ46515 @connectwkyoraku So your argument is just calculations from your own head? This isn't a contest of who destroys more of the battlefield. The Espada simply get outplayed by hax. Remember, even a "clone" caused a huge problem for Yamamoto.

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  William Peynsaert (@PeynsaertBill) reported 37 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

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  WillMoraes (@entabike_mtb) reported 38 minutes ago

  @OlenaRohoza 35% of Ukraine's territory conquered, and you talk about not achieving victories on the battlefield? What is your problem?