Video games in general have a surplus of weapons. It's gotten to the point that if I had any freelance budget, I'd commission somebody to count them up.
Just give me an approximate running total for the industry at large, so that whenever next a shiny-eyed producer regales me with the prospect of enchanted lazurite rapiers at a preview event, I can quietly ask how many enchanted lazurite rapiers we're talking about, then open my laptop and generate a scrolling image akin to those comparison pages for stars and planets - a cosmic mountain of points and pommels, with the new game's armoury forming a pixel-wide foothill in the bottom left corner. "Are there not enough enchanted lazurite rapiers," I will kindly enquire, as the producer sobs brokenly into my shoulder.
In the absence of an artform-wide disarmament project, with shame-faced RPG adventurers handing over their runic heirlooms to local constables, games could at least teach their players to think more about each individual weapon: its design and history, how it fits into some on-going story.
Bladesong seems helpful on that front. It's a blacksmithing game where you make swords to play out the tale of a mighty fortress, "one of mankind's last remaining bastions after the gods have banished themselves".
It doesn't look a lot like blacksmithing, mind you. It's a spotlit model-editing garage that burgeons with icons, fields and sliders for things like "distal taper" and "flamboyance".