Even in the rain-slicked, neon-drenched streets of 2077, CD Projekt Red has always been a studio that likes to wink at its own history. From the weathered arcade cabinets humming with retro classics to graffiti tags that could have been lifted straight out of another realm, Night City has never been shy about its love for video game lore. With the launch of the Phantom Liberty expansion and the game-changing 2.0 update, that tendency has only deepened. Players have stumbled upon everything from poignant memorials to Edgerunners characters to little nods that bridge the gap between genres—and perhaps the most charming one yet involves an old-fashioned rotary phone and a tune that will transport anyone who’s ever wandered the Continent.
During the opening hours of Phantom Liberty, V finds themselves in a grimy back alley, making a call on a battered payphone. The game invites players to punch in any sequence of digits, a small mechanical detail that feels almost out of place in a world dominated by neural links and holo-calls. It is exactly the kind of interactive quirk that invites experimentation, and naturally, players began dialing the weathered posters plastered on the wall nearby. Most numbers lead to dead ends: a tinny music loop, a disconnected tone, or the eternal purgatory of a busy signal. But one sequence, first shared on a community subreddit by an eagle-eyed detective of the dark future, unlocks something far more magical.
Punch in the right digits, and the line crackles not with voice, but with a swell of strings and a melody that has haunted taverns and battlefields alike. It’s the main theme of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. There is no context, no explanation—just a few seconds of that unmistakable score echoing into V’s ear. The moment is pure genius because it doesn’t need to explain itself. Cyberpunk 2077 has always treated Geralt’s world as a piece of its own pop culture, and hearing that tune in a dingy corner of Dogtown feels like stumbling upon a vinyl record from a forgotten era. The phone itself seems almost proud of its secret, as if the battered handset knows it’s been holding onto a little treasure just for those curious enough to ask.
What makes the reference truly shine, though, is the reaction of the people standing right there. Johnny Silverhand, the digital ghost with a permanent chip on his shoulder, does something rare: he smiles. Not a sarcastic smirk or a cynical grimace, but a genuine, soft grin that flickers across his pixelated face as the music begins. It’s a brief window into the man behind the rebellion—a guy who apparently spent his downtime getting lost in a fantasy RPG. V, on the other hand, just stands there baffled, brow furrowed in total confusion. It’s a perfect little comedy beat that says, “Hey, not everyone gets the reference, and that’s okay.” Honestly, if you’re going to go dialling random numbers in an espionage thriller, you have to accept a bit of weirdness, man.
This isn’t the only time The Witcher bleeds into the chrome-plated dystopia. Veterans who took the Corpo life path will remember exploring V’s sleek office during the prologue, only to discover a retro gaming magazine lying casually on a desk. Its cover proudly displays an illustration of Ciri and the The Witcher 3 logo, a relic from a time when CD Projekt Red’s fantasy epic was already being treated as a beloved classic. By 2077, the game would be nearly a century old—practically medieval by technological standards. That explains why Johnny’s reaction feels so personal. The theme song isn’t just a catchy tune to him; it’s a direct line to a memory, a moment when he first booted up a dusty console and got lost in a story about a white-haired monster slayer. Nostalgia washes over him, and for just a second, the anarchist rockerboy is just another gamer lost in a melody.
The Phantom Liberty expansion and the accompanying 2.0 overhaul have also added other emotional layers to Night City. Players recently uncovered a quiet graveyard tucked away in the Columbarium, where memorials for several Cyberpunk Edgerunners characters stand in somber silence. Among them is a heartbreaking tribute to David Martinez, whose dreams and tragedies now feel like they’ve been woven directly into the fabric of the city. These gravesites don’t shout for attention; they wait patiently for someone to find them, much like the phone number on that alley wall. It’s a design philosophy that rewards curiosity with a gut punch of feeling.
It’s worth stepping back and appreciating how these secrets work together. CD Projekt Red could have easily packed Phantom Liberty with only high-octane set pieces and spy-thriller tension. Instead, they seeded the world with moments that ask players to slow down. The payphone easter egg doesn’t require a quest marker or a glowing waypoint. It trusts that someone will eventually look at a tattered poster and think, “What if?” That trust in the community mirrors the very secrets themselves: small, personal, and utterly unforgettable. And really, what could be more punk rock than hiding a medieval ballad inside a cybernetic future?