How I Learned to Stop Scrounging and Buy Materials in Star Wars Outlaws

It’s 2026, and I still find myself booting up Star Wars Outlaws whenever the stars outside my window feel a little too quiet. Kay Vess and her merqaal companion Nix have become old friends, and the lure of upgrading my blaster or souping up my speeder bike never really went away. But for the longest time, I played the game like a hungry womp rat: scurrying from crate to chest, scanning every corner of Toshara, Akiva, and Tatooine, searching for that elusive piece of polycarbonate or a lousy coil of wire. Some nights, the hunt felt as satisfying as finding a clean cup in a moisture farmer’s kitchen. Other nights, it felt like being stuck in a narrative loop with a malfunctioning protocol droid. Then I blundered onto a truth so simple that it rearranged my entire relationship with the game: you can just buy the materials you need.

I remember the exact moment the revelation hit me, not with the crash of a thermal detonator but with the quiet clink of credits changing hands. I was in Jaunta’s Hope, fresh off a mission that had left my blaster feeling like a backfiring relic. I needed a power cell upgrade, but after two hours of foraging I was still one component short. Frustration bubbling up like an overheated hyperdrive, I wandered over to a vendor stall just to sell off some junk. To my surprise, the armorer’s list of wares included not only finished weapons but raw upgrade materials. I blinked. Then I blinked again. All that time, I had been treating the open worlds of Outlaws as a giant, planet-sized loot box, when the real treasure was sitting in plain sight, behind the counter of the nearest merchant.

That night, I became a convert to the Church of the Easy Shopping Run. Now don’t get me wrong—scavenging while exploring has its place. While I’m already out in the field, picking up bits of salvage feels organic, like collecting interesting pebbles on a long walk. But when I’m just a few materials short and the next story mission is calling me like a Klatooinian lullaby, I fast-travel straight back to a major town and buy exactly what I need. The credits drain at first felt scary, like watching your drink credits disappear into a sabaac pot. Then I realized the game practically throws credits at you for doing anything fun—heists, contracts, even slicing into Imperial computers. It’s a closed loop: do adventures, earn credits, spend a fraction on materials, go back to adventuring. My grinding days were over.

Navigating this vendor-based shortcut requires a tiny bit of galactic geography, but by 2026 the community has it memorized like an old spacer’s star chart. Certain materials only appear on specific planets, and not all vendor types stock the same categories. For instance, I once spent a ridiculous amount of time hunting for Bantha Wool, picturing myself cornering a skittish bantha on Tatooine with a vibro-clipper. Turns out, a textile merchant in Mos Eisley sells it by the bolt. Looking for blaster modifications? Armorers. Speeder components? Mechanics. There’s a quiet pleasure in learning these patterns—it’s like realizing that the chaotic swirl of hyperspace actually obeys a map, and suddenly every jump feels deliberate instead of desperate.

This shopping habit reshaped how I see the game’s economy. Before, credits existed for outfits, Nix treats, and the occasional bribe. Now, I earmark a tidy sum for the “materials fund,” a sort of rainy-day stash that I top up when I pass through a town. The interface makes it painless: one menu, a few clicks, and my blaster’s ion cell is full capacity. I often think back to my scavenging obsession and chuckle. I was like a Jawa sorting through a pile of scrap, hoping to find a fusion cutter, when all along I could have just walked into Watto’s shop (figuratively speaking) and paid off the difference.

Adopting this method also freed up my mental bandwidth. Instead of obsessing over every glowing container, I started noticing the world itself. The gorgeous verticality of Mirogana’s layered markets, the wind-swept dunes outside Bestine—details that I once blurred past in my material frenzy. I found hidden outfits, obscure datapoints, and even a few quest chains I’d missed on my first playthrough. All because I stopped grinding for circuits and started treating upgrades as a simple transaction. The irony isn’t lost on me: by being lazier, I became a more thorough explorer.

If you’re reading this in 2026 and still clinging to the old ways, I get it. The idea of buying something that’s technically lying in a crate somewhere feels like paying for air. But let me offer a metaphor that stuck with me: scavenging for materials in Star Wars Outlaws the hard way is like trying to fill a starship’s fuel tank one drop at a time from a leaking fuel line—you can do it, but it’ll take forever and you’ll be miserable. The vendor route is more like pulling into a proper spaceport refueling station: a quick stop, a credit chime, and you’re off again, running contraband under the noses of Imperial patrols.

Of course, you’ll still need to move between planets to unlock the full catalogue. Tatooine, Kijimi, Akiva, and Toshara each have their star materials, and certain vendors won’t talk to you until you’ve earned some reputation. But once your standings are decent, the whole network opens up like a familiar street market. I keep a mental list:

• Tatooine: Bantha Wool (textile merchant), Blaster-specific parts (armorer)

• Kijimi: Cold-weather vehicle mods (mechanic), Ashiga-only materials

• Akiva: Jungle-adapted components, rare synthfabrics

• Toshara: Speeder basics and widely available alloys

For any missing piece, I just pop into the nearest town. With the Nintendo Switch 2 version running smoothly in my hands at 40 frames per second, fast-travel is snappy, and the loading screens are just long enough to let me sip some caf. It’s become a comforting ritual: pause, buy, un-pause, and back into the action.

I won’t pretend I never search chests anymore. Sometimes, when I’m deep in an Imperial base and a loot crate glows temptingly, I’ll grab the spoils out of habit. But now it’s a bonus, not a necessity. That psychological shift changes everything. Star Wars Outlaws stops being a chore of resource micro-management and turns back into the sprawling scoundrel fantasy it was meant to be. I spend evenings pulling off heists with Nix, double-crossing syndicates, and discovering dusty corners of cantinas—activities that feel distinctly more “outlaw” than picking through junk piles.

So here’s my advice to all the Kay Vess impersonators out there, still scrounging in 2026: put down the scanner, head to the nearest hub, and open your credit pouch. The galaxy’s material supply is one quick transaction away. You’ll wonder why it took you so long, and then you’ll grin because you’ve finally got the time to truly misbehave among the stars. After all, a smooth downgrade in busywork is a massive upgrade in fun, and in a life of lawless adventure, that’s the only upgrade that ever really mattered.