The quickhack system is not stealth gameplay—it is not hacking—it is remote execution presented as a power fantasy.
It works because the game has already convinced you that your targets stopped being people the moment they accepted augmentation.
When you ping an enemy's cyberware and execute a quickhack—forcing them to shoot themselves, to fall, to seize—you are not outthinking an opponent. You are exploiting a protocol, and the enemy has no counterplay, no dodge, no last-second awareness that saves them.
The game calls this "intelligence" when you do it; it calls the same thing "recklessness" when they do it to you. You don't use quickhacks on the unaugmented because the system won't let you—and this is not a limitation but the argument itself: augmentation is consent to be treated as a compromised system. Every ripper doc visit, every kiroshi implant, every military-grade neural link is a door you've left open in your own code.
You are not winning through skill or strategy because the architecture of the world has made consciousness itself a tradeable vulnerability—and the game's most celebrated builds, the quickhack infiltrator, require zero combat skill. The system asks: what happens to human autonomy when your own body becomes publicly readable code?
Load a quickhack-focused save and spend 30 minutes using only non-lethal takedowns and conversation—no quickhacks, no combat—and notice which encounters become genuinely difficult and which ones reveal themselves as mechanical theater.
Read the design interview 'Quickhacks and Cyberpsychosis' from the official Cyberpunk 2077 artbook where the developers discuss the feedback loop between body modification and loss of agency, which suggests they understood this argument better than the marketing ever implied.