A reflection on the concept of choice in video games with Baldur’s Gate 3.

The mechanics of choice have become a fundamental gameplay element in the collective imagery of many players. Many agree that it creates a much deeper emotional and narrative involvement for the one holding the controller. That said, it is not necessarily true that only open games, where choices shape the story, leave a lasting impact on us. Linear games, with a rigid narrative thread drawn by the author, also have the power to leave an indelible mark on our experience, as demonstrated by generations of games over the decades. We are aware of this, yet a branching adventure still has that certain something that makes it irresistible. These branching narratives remind us of the very essence of gaming, in its purest form, like the one found in the famous tabletop role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons, created in the 1970s by Americans Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson. As Deborah Ann Wolf brilliantly summarizes in an interview with Jon Bernthal, the goal is not so much to “win,” but to weave a collaborative story that takes us back to the time when, as children, we invented worlds and stories in the garden, according to our whims and imagination.

Choice systems, ubiquitous in role-playing games, fulfill the need to capture the essence of a board game while offering much more than that. These choices allow us to confront our own morality with that of imaginary worlds, thus turning the player into the true hero of their own story. This mechanism, far from being merely a storytelling tool, becomes an inexhaustible source of interest and discussion. It encourages comparisons of different paths, whether with our friends, family, or even our favorite streamers. It was while traversing the wild lands of Faerûn in Baldur’s Gate 3 that I truly began to intellectualize my relationship with choice in video games. Larian Studios’ masterful work hits hard by highlighting a crucial but often underestimated element: chance. Whether it’s in moral dilemmas, the illusion of choice, or the construction of our own journey and character, choice is omnipresent and responds to various and subtle game design imperatives. This article offers the opportunity to revisit the question of choice in video games, examining it from every angle, to explain why there will be a before and after Baldur’s Gate 3 in my heart.

Morality and consequences.

When we talk about choice in video games, the aspect that immediately comes to mind is moral dilemmas, where we must decide based on our own human values. The ethical questions in video games have a unique dimension that often goes beyond what we find in other forms of art. This is due to the interactivity inherent in these works, which immerses the player, controller in hand, right into the heart of the reflections each situation prompts. The player thus becomes a fully integrated participant in the narrative process, not just a passive observer. Leigh Alexander even went so far as to call these experiences “passive arts” to highlight this fundamental difference. The choices we make in these interactive worlds affect us not only on an intellectual level but also emotionally and personally, as they have direct consequences on our adventure. It’s not the same to see two characters torn apart in a movie over a disagreement as it is to face an inevitable confrontation with a companion who has been with us for dozens of hours. The choices in these games place us face to face with the tangible consequences of our actions, making them a feature particularly cherished by players.

The argument of replayability, which drives us to revisit these games to explore other narrative paths, is valid, but in my view, it doesn’t fully account for the depth of our attraction to this type of experience. What we really enjoy is confronting ourselves. I am deeply convinced that what generates this visceral and hard-to-describe pleasure is the surge of adrenaline that occurs when we apply our own principles to situations that present dilemmas we would never face in our daily lives. Moral choices are fascinating because they aren’t merely about game design mechanics. It’s not about choosing the most strategic path to achieve a goal or selecting the most suitable weapon to defeat an enemy. These are often momentary choices that, while significant, don’t necessarily lead to a premature end to the game. In most cases, the choices affect the narrative arc or certain gameplay elements, but don’t completely compromise the adventure. These moments force the player to invest not only in the game but also in its narrative, as they change it in very specific ways.

However, when we delve deeper into the subject, it becomes clear that choice systems have certain limitations and sometimes rest on fragile foundations. The name Peter Molyneux often comes up when discussing morality and choices in video games. His most iconic creation, Fable, is frequently seen as a game that explores morality, as the player’s character is shaped by their decisions. These choices affect the character’s appearance and even the gameplay, altering the physical appearance of our avatar based on our actions. For example, if we choose to mistreat innocents on our path, rob them, or make particularly cruel decisions, devil horns will eventually grow on our hero’s head. On the other hand, if we follow a more virtuous path, a halo will appear, and we’ll be rewarded with a posture reminiscent of a 1950s comic book hero.

The major issue with Fable lies in its overly simplistic and caricatured view of good and evil. The aesthetic choices we see are rooted in a very Manichean, almost Judeo-Christian framework. Moreover, and this is where the problem lies, the moral choices have little to no real impact on the progression of the story. It doesn’t matter whether we are an angel or a demon; the stakes remain largely the same. The final enemy is identical, and our character is always forced to save the world. As a result, the consequences of our choices turn out to be trivial, offering little material for genuine reflection on our actions. In the end, the choices often boil down to more superficial concerns: do you want to wear angelic or demonic armor? The difference is mainly seen in the gameplay approach — one player may choose to marry a villager and play with a dog, while another might destroy everything in their path.

Other studios, like Bioware, have tried to push the mechanics of choice further by developing alignment or “Karma” systems. The idea was to go beyond Molyneux’s proposition so that our choices would not only affect our character’s appearance or equipment but also their personality and the relationships they have with their companions. The prime example is, of course, Mass Effect, whose influence on players is undeniable. Shaping our adventure through alignment choices between Paragon and Renegade played a major role in the appeal of Shepard’s trilogy. I myself spent hundreds of hours exploring this fascinating galaxy, and the pleasure of seeing the multiple possibilities offered is one of the reasons for my loyalty to the series. Yet, after several years of reflection, this system now seems somewhat outdated and poorly balanced. My love for the franchise was slightly tarnished when I realized that playing “naturally” by following a neutral moral path locked many interaction possibilities during certain events. For example, to influence the conflict between the Geth and the Quarians, it becomes necessary to take a clear stance, either for the Geth or for the Quarians. The game almost forces you to embody an idealized figure or, conversely, a real bastard. Those, like me, who prefer a more nuanced approach or one without Manichean choices find themselves in a position where their decisions have no truly significant impact, either narratively or in terms of gameplay.

This is where The Witcher 3 managed to stand out. Alongside Geralt of Rivia, we roam the Northern realms and face dilemmas that are more complex and nuanced than ever. Here, there is no certainty about whether we’re making the “right” or “wrong” decision. What’s striking about CD Projekt Red’s title is its ability to perfectly capture the spirit of Andrzej Sapkowski’s novels, injecting real depth into the concept of the “lesser evil.” Every choice is a marker in an ocean of uncertainties, where no easy answers exist — and that’s what makes the game so rich.

Evil is Evil. Lesser, greater, middling… Makes no difference. The degree is arbitary. The definition’s blurred. If I’m to choose between one evil and another… I’d rather not choose at all.

Geralt of Rivia

For those who are not familiar with the literary adventures of the Witcher, The Lesser Evil is a short story that offers both a tragic and fascinating look at the reality of morality, choice, and evil, while reinventing the Snow White tale. From this perspective, the lesser evil becomes less of a tangible concept than a matter of choice, and it is our own morality that determines the threshold of acceptance for what each of us might define as “the lesser evil.” Geralt himself believes he can protect himself from moral dilemmas by refusing to choose, only to realize that non-choice is, in fact, a choice in itself — a choice that, one way or another, forces him to take a stand in the face of an increasingly impossible danger to ignore.

Although the game, released in 2015, does not push the idea of a total absence of choice as far, it maintains throughout the adventure a rejection of Manichaeism. It is impossible, indeed, to predict with certainty the outcome of a situation, and this uncertainty quickly becomes tangible. Take, for example, our exploration of the swamps of Velen: at a crossroads, we encounter the soul of a creature trapped in a tree. At this precise moment, we have a choice: release the creature to harm the Moires who are holding orphaned children captive, or eliminate it, as it seems to be a potential threat. Whatever we choose, there is no real “happy ending” possible. If we opt for the more radical solution, the children are doomed to end up as stew for the witches. But if we choose to release the creature, the children survive, yes, but an entire village will be ravaged by its passing. In this scenario, and if the player accumulates bad choices, it’s even possible to helplessly witness the suicide of a makeshift ally. These are heavy choices with consequences that weigh on our conscience throughout the story.

The uncertainty of the consequences in the short, medium, and long term constantly confronts us with our own morality, a dynamic that Baldur’s Gate 3 captures brilliantly. A successful conflict situation is one that, in the moment, destabilizes us, only to catch up with us hours later, sometimes in unexpected ways. This way of recording our actions, engraving them into the very heart of the game to return them to our faces at the right moment, sets these two European titles apart from Bethesda’s productions, which often fail to offer any tangible repercussions of our choices once the quest is completed. The consequences in those games are not as immediate or as concrete.

However, while choices stand as a magnificent narrative tool, it remains impossible to fully shape one’s adventure, even in a game as permissive as Baldur’s Gate 3. It’s an inevitable paradox for a video game work, which, while offering impressive freedom of choice, remains trapped within its gameplay and narrative framework. This is why so many titles have made the illusion of choice a fundamental driving force in their progression, offering a captivating and dynamic experience, but always under the guidance of a pre-established structure.

Choice as an illusion

In 2012, Telltale Games released its adaptation of Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead comics. Until then, the studio was primarily known for its mixed adaptations of franchises like Jurassic Park and Back to the Future, but the first season of The Walking Dead quickly garnered unanimous praise, both commercially and critically, as evidenced by its triumph at the 2012 Video Game Awards. This game chose to step away from Rick Grimes’ journey to focus on a new group, led by Lee Everett and Clementine, navigating through the heart of Georgia. Like other Telltale games, this series is structured in episodes and adopts a point-and-click style of gameplay. From the start, the game promises that our choices will have an impact on the unfolding story. However, upon replaying, we quickly realize that this impact is far more limited than we might have imagined. Sure, there are subtle variations, but they don’t change the course of the story. At best, our relationships with certain characters will evolve, or another group member will temporarily take a central role. But the adventure will inevitably proceed as it was meant to, and what must happen, will happen, relentlessly.

However, it would be unfair to say that Telltale’s formula doesn’t work. Why would that be the case? The answer lies in the quality of the writing and the direction. Ultimately, the fact that we can’t truly influence the events matters little because this aspect takes a backseat to the strength of the group dynamic. With each exchange, even the most trivial, the player must be careful to manage the emotions of their companions or, conversely, choose to irritate the one they find most insufferable. I still think about Larry, probably one of the oldest and most bitter characters I’ve encountered in fiction. Every opportunity to push him to the edge, I took it with a certain enjoyment.

However, what truly propelled the first season of The Walking Dead to the top was the bittersweet relationship that develops between Lee and Clementine. This relationship perfectly embodies the illusion of choice. From the moment the two characters meet, the player quickly understands that the essence of this adventure lies in the impact of Lee’s decisions on how the young Clementine perceives the world, now left all alone. A powerful bond is formed immediately when we save the little girl, abandoned by herself in her house, as the apocalypse devastates everything around her and her parents are nowhere to be found. The child becomes a perfect vehicle for morality, as she symbolizes innocence. In fact, this is what makes the impact of our choices, whether visible or not, eventually take a backseat. What matters most is the reaction of our companion, and it is this reaction that drives each of our decisions.

Telltale’s The Walking Dead thus takes on the form of a meditation on education and the transmission of values between a parent and their child. Although the majority of the adventure is predetermined by the developers, and the narrative path we embark on cannot be changed, it is the characters’ reactions to our actions, especially Clementine’s, that deeply resonate. I vividly remember her hesitations during key moments of the story, as I questioned the example I was setting for a child. Should I or should I not take this object that seems to belong to someone? Should I apply the law of retaliation to the one who wronged me, while Clementine watches, her worried gaze fixed on me as my hand rises threateningly under the pouring rain? This subtle design choice compensates for the lack of a sufficient budget to create a branching adventure and offers a truly original approach to choice, far from the traditional concepts in this type of game. In a sense, this video game experience was my first contact with parenthood, seven years before I became a parent myself.

I am convinced that it is this dimension that allowed The Walking Dead to leave a lasting impact on players. This game was a unique work, launched at the perfect moment, and it struck everyone who played it because of its ability to confront us with our own humanity, without ever issuing judgments or offering material rewards. The game only needed the gaze of a child to emphasize the weight of each of our actions. Such a stylistic exercise could not be repeated, and that is probably why the following seasons, although they improved on the formula, didn’t generate as much discussion.

When the illusion of choice is mentioned, another game oddly comes to mind. I know this title might raise some eyebrows: The Last of Us Part II. Let’s be clear: Naughty Dog’s work is decidedly linear. The player moves through a well-defined framework, with no possibility of diverging. But there is one moment, during the second day in Seattle, where the game seems to suggest that the player might have a say in the course of events. This occurs during the confrontation between Ellie and Nora, one of those responsible for Joel’s death.

The choice of the illusion of choice here lies in how the game makes the player believe they can decide the outcome of this moment. Pressing the square button initially seems like a free action, but the staging, emotions, and scene construction clearly show that this violence is inevitable for the progression of the story. The player cannot choose to spare Nora. If they were to refrain from pressing the button, they would witness Ellie’s face contorted with grimaces filled with hatred. A disturbing feeling then takes hold of our heart, as the red hues of the scene’s color grading and the deep bass sounds intensify this long descent into hell. The joyful and rebellious child from the first game no longer exists, consumed by the broken being that the harsh world of The Last of Us has shaped.

In The Last of Us Part II, the illusion of choice is a powerful tool that reinforces the thematic depth of the narrative. The player believes they have agency in the moment, but in reality, they are being led down a pre-determined path that mirrors Ellie’s own emotional journey. The game’s manipulation of player perception makes it clear that violence is not only a necessary part of the plot but also a means of emphasizing the futility of vengeance. Despite the player’s perceived control, the game guides them toward the same emotional conclusion, underlining how both Ellie and the player are trapped in an unbreakable cycle. The experience becomes less about the action itself and more about the consequences that follow, both in terms of character development and emotional resonance.

By giving the player a physical action like pressing a button to strike, the scene amplifies the experience of violence by making it more personal. It’s not just about watching a cutscene; the player has a direct responsibility in this moment. This process becomes a way for the developers to force a confrontation with the player regarding the act of violence they’ve just committed. The goal here is to provoke discomfort, guilt, or disgust. It’s not just a spectacular scene, but an invitation to reflect on the violence enacted and its repercussions on the character and, by extension, on oneself. This scene is an excellent example of the illusion of choice, as it not only serves the narrative but also immerses the player in the psychological experience of the character. The subtle manipulation of this illusion of control demonstrates how The Last of Us Part II excels in its emotional approach, even though the player has, in reality, no way of escaping the character’s fate.

Your own Odyssey

The concept of choice in video games has evolved significantly over time, and it now goes beyond the classic narrative framework where the player must simply choose from a limited set of responses in a predefined situation. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild did not invent the open-world adventure. Other titles, like The Elder Scrolls or even the first Zelda, had already introduced this kind of structure. However, the masterpiece of the Nintendo Switch has sparked in players a deep desire to become the true master of their adventure. The game offers unparalleled freedom, allowing each player to choose their own path and shape their experience autonomously. Nothing is imposed, and everyone can follow the journey they prefer. Some will head straight for the Gerudo, others will explore the lands of the Rito. Some will spend hours wandering, driven only by curiosity, while others, more daring, will charge directly to the castle, ready to face the formidable Ganondorf. At every moment, it’s the player who decides how to use the vast sandbox Nintendo provides.

Breath of the Wild allows players to explore any region as soon as they complete the tutorial phase on the Great Plateau, although some places remain difficult to access due to enemies or environmental conditions. The topography of Hyrule, with its mountains, rivers, and forests, creates a variety of exciting situations. The genius of Zelda lies in how it flips the traditional logic of discovery: the map, initially blank, becomes a space for customization. It’s up to the player to annotate it, marking the locations they spot, rather than following a set of points of interest. The player becomes the explorer of their own journey. The lands of Hyrule are vast and designed in a way that constantly encourages the player to look up to the horizon. Thanks to its famous sightlines, the game subtly guides the player to observe their surroundings, and they quickly realize that Hyrule, far from being an empty world, is always full of surprises. It could be an obvious shrine, a camp, or even the royal castle, but also a mountaintop or a heart-shaped lake. It’s no longer just a simple crossing from one point to another, but a true journey where every choice matters. As a result, it’s unlikely that two players will experience the same adventure, as their choices dictate the events. The relationship with space becomes almost divine, an invitation to exploration, where one charts their own path while remaining receptive to the world’s invitations.

Anyone who has embarked on the adventure in Hyrule knows how the environment constantly encourages us to make choices. The interactions between objects, the environment, and elements (wind, fire, rain, water) are essential. For example, a player can use a fire arrow to light a torch or cause a lightning strike during a storm to illuminate a fight. These elements, like the famous observation towers, are not always easy to access, and it’s common to have to search for an alternative path. The solutions come from observation, intuition. And this is where the game reveals its full ingenuity: players can handle situations however they see fit. It might involve climbing a mountainside to glide with the paraglider, or using tricks like throwing a metal object to attract lightning and start a fire. Every small victory, every moment of cleverness, provides a sense of satisfaction. These sensory mini-rewards, far from being pointed out, are achieved through careful observation and a willingness to work with the game’s elements.

Where the experience reaches new heights of ingenuity in how it encourages us to bypass constraints is that we can manage things as we see fit. There may be a mountainside nearby to climb, then glide through the air with our paraglider to soar over the thorns, if the thought of using our bow doesn’t cross our mind. Just as it’s entirely possible to take advantage of a storm by throwing a metal object into the vegetation to attract lightning, thereby triggering a life-saving fire. Every journey thus becomes a true gameplay challenge. The small sense of pride we feel when we take the time to look back at the path we’ve traversed thanks to our ingenuity is one of the many sensory mini-rewards in these two adventures. Nothing was given to us, nothing was pointed out. We assembled the pieces of an environmental puzzle with the exhilarating hope that the developer hadn’t thought of that possibility.

Where we would have rushed through this section in record time in other works, here, every little journey becomes a true gameplay pleasure, because we’re asked to work with constraints that are never final. The game constantly invites us to think about every one of our actions. We see this logic reflected in the various biomes that await us, which don’t just serve to punctuate the adventure with diverse atmospheres. Indeed, wandering through a snowy region has a real impact on the gameplay, as our good old Link reacts to different temperatures, which slowly depletes his health bar until he eventually succumbs to the harsh weather. Therefore, it’s necessary to think about our environment in order to progress. From there, and as often in these two journeys, a whole range of possibilities opens up. Depending on our equipment, donning a padded outfit for the freezing temperatures might suffice. It’s also possible to become immune to the cold by preparing good meals with a fire we’ve lit ourselves, which grants resistance bonuses to the cold for a limited time. The clever ones will quickly realize that wielding a flaming torch or equipping themselves with fire-type weapons are other more subtle ways to overcome nature. In many ways, Breath of the Wild celebrates choice in its purest form and reminds us that even the smallest action, when placed in a well-designed game framework, can radically change our relationship with the game.

Few games have managed to follow in the shadow of the revolution sparked by Zelda. However, Elden Ring stands as a remarkable heir to Eiji Aonuma’s masterpiece. Like the 2017 Game of the Year, Elden Ring offers players an interconnected, thriving world of incredible richness, with varied zones that perfectly integrate to form a breathtaking whole. Each region has its own character and its own challenges. Right from the moment it leaves its mausoleum, the player is faced with the grandeur of the Lands Between. The horizons irresistibly draw us in, inviting us to dive into the adventure.

However, Elden Ring sets itself apart from Breath of the Wild. It doesn’t rely on systemic mechanics or complex interactions between the elements of the world. The player derives enjoyment from their choices of direction, the surprises waiting around the corner: dungeons, crypts, bosses. Elden Ring is a game of wild generosity, rewarding boldness, the unknown, and exploration. While it’s possible to follow the golden paths marked by the grace sites, it quickly becomes clear that straying off the beaten path often leads to the most beautiful rewards—whether they are gameplay-related, narrative, or simply visual.

One of the major choices in Elden Ring lies less in the progression of the story and more in the wealth of possible builds for your avatar. The character creation and customization system is impressively flexible. Players can design a character suited to their playstyle, whether it’s a warrior, mage, or hybrid. The choice of weapons, spells, and talismans deeply impacts combat and allows for a great variety of strategies. The possibilities are so vast that each player can create a unique character, even though some basic builds may overlap. It’s one of the rare games where you can restart the adventure over and over, with different experiences each time, whether through the creation of a distinct character or by choosing alternate paths.

At a time when many single-player narrative games struggle to meet sales targets to be considered profitable, games with modular and open-ended adventure structures are experiencing undeniable success. The last two entries in The Legend of Zelda have surpassed 50 million copies sold combined, smashing the records set by previous titles. Elden Ring, meanwhile, has exceeded 25 million copies sold, surpassing the 10 million mark of Dark Souls III. Social media and the streamer phenomenon have amplified this new era of sharing, where it’s no longer necessary to wait for recess to discuss our video game adventures. With just a click, we can exchange ideas on Twitter, Discord, or compare our journeys with those of our favorite streamers. Baldur’s Gate 3, perfectly in sync with this new dynamic, arrived in our living rooms in the summer of 2023. Although its approach to offering a modular adventure differs from that of Zelda or Elden Ring, Larian Studios has successfully leveraged the specifics of the CRPG genre to provide near-unlimited replayability, taking into account the narrative depth unique to this type of game.

All roads lead to the Baldur’s Gate: A funnel-shaped narrative structure.

Baldur’s Gate 3 is not an open world game. It consists of a series of more or less open zones and smaller, more confined locations spread across the three acts that make up this long adventure. It’s not possible to go directly to Baldur’s Gate. The journey will be long, and it’s not about claiming the vast stretches of Faerûn as we see fit. The linearity of the progression through the major game areas enhances the sense of the arduousness of the journey. Its multi-layered plot captivates from the very first scene thanks to the strangeness of the Dungeons and Dragons universe. The mix of medieval fantasy, interdimensional flying ships, and octopus-headed men who seem straight out of Lovecraft’s imagination could seem absurd if described on paper. Yet, and I was the first to be surprised when I started the adventure with little conviction, it all works wonderfully. It felt like I was discovering what medieval fantasy should be in its purest and most absolute form. Of course, for someone like me who had never played a CRPG before, there were plenty of concerns at the start of the adventure. I feared the main story would lose momentum after a solid prologue, but I was relieved to find that wasn’t the case.

The first arc marks the player’s introduction to the world of Faerûn. After escaping the Mind Flayers, we are left in the wilderness, at the edge of a druid grove and not far from a terrible goblin camp ready to spill blood across the region. This segment of the adventure comes close to perfection and embodies the meticulousness of Larian Studios, who spent nearly three years in early access preparing their cards. The first hours of the journey are about finding our bearings and meeting other individuals afflicted with the same curse that haunts us, making them our unfortunate companions as we embark on a quest for a cure. Along the way, we encounter several promising yet ultimately misleading leads, entangling us in local conflicts without actively engaging in the larger plot. This gives us plenty of time to complete available tasks while familiarizing ourselves with the game’s mechanics and the rules governing its world. But it’s mostly an opportunity to take the time to discover the heart of the game: its characters.

In Baldur’s Gate 3, you are literally your character. Most players naturally play their first run by adopting the reactions and stances they imagine they would have if such situations occurred in real life. Of course, it’s possible to add the Dark Urge narrative arc to your character, forcing you to contend with the murderous impulses that invade your mind. However, this is generally a choice reserved for a second playthrough. So, with nothing left to discover about your avatar, the player’s focus can be fully directed toward the joyful companions ready to accompany them. They go by the names of Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Minthara, Minsc, and Jaheira. Their past, filled with personal demons and sometimes conflicting ambitions, gives a choral aspect to the adventure. Like in a series, such as LOST, we get to know them through dialogues and the twists and turns of our grand story. The first two acts cleverly weave together the side stories of our companions and the major threat of the Absolute cult, before leading into Act 3 where everything converges. It’s a funnel-shaped structure that culminates in a final act so expansive that it could be a game on its own, as dense as it is and filled with the numerous stories it must close, sometimes by merging them.

In Baldur’s Gate 3, everything, from the most basic dialogue to the major character arcs, illustrates the theme of self-discovery and liberation from an oppressor. Many side quests reflect this, whether it’s breaking free from a master, like Astarion, escaping the religious oppression suffered by Shadowheart, breaking a pact with the devil, as in Wyll’s case (the hero who sold his soul to save his people), or, in Gale’s case, freeing himself from his ex-girlfriend. Similarly, the so-called “bad” choices lead us to oppose this moral arc, as they favor domination and the oppression of others. By the end of the game, we are either the liberator of Baldur’s Gate or the enforcer of tyranny in the service of the Absolute. The heart of the experience therefore lies in the decisions the player makes throughout the first two acts, leading up to their arrival in the vast city. Tacitly, the game quickly makes us realize that even the most trivial conversation could come back to haunt us hours later.

Shadowheart has one of the most interesting narrative arcs in the game, as she must choose between fulfilling her ambition to become a Night Tribune by killing Nightsinger or turning her back on Shar by saving Lady Aylin. This is a pivotal choice, one that wasn’t made without hours of preparation to uncover her mysterious past, where she verbally expresses her deep desire to become a Night Tribune. But what’s fascinating is that the deeper we delve into her story, the more we realize that Shadowheart is just a victim, indoctrinated from childhood by the cult of Shar, which tore her away from her parents. The same can be said for Astarion’s choice, where he must decide whether to replace his former master, Cazador, and become an ascendant vampire. The price? Only 7,000 vampire souls. But as we explore his choices further, we see that becoming all-powerful is a defense mechanism against the abuse he suffered. What’s truly tragic is that this ascent only reinforces the cycle of abuse. In reality, convincing him not to rise to power is convincing him to become the person he secretly wants to be.

The brilliance of Baldur’s Gate 3’s writing and narrative construction lies in the fact that it constantly presents players with choices, forcing them to face characters whose desires and ambitions directly conflict with what they truly need. Creating a conflict between a character’s desires and needs is one of the best ways to craft complex characters within a story. It’s a writing mechanic that has been proven effective and is often seen in many ensemble narratives. I’ll mention LOST again, but Damon Lindelof’s series perfectly illustrates my point, as the heart of its story is to depict the existential journey of individuals lost in their lives, who must learn to love others and themselves in order to understand what they truly need. This writing technique is more difficult to apply in games because both choices need to be valid and equally satisfying, so as not to penalize the diversity of players. Baldur’s Gate 3 wisely avoids punishing the player for their choices, whether they opt for a tragic or redemptive narrative, or whether the misfortune of a dice roll turns against them.

What’s even more interesting in Larian’s work is that the player can also choose not to choose, to stay out of their companions’ personal stakes. We are free to let them make decisions for themselves, but what adds spice to the situation is that, despite our desire to stay out of their affairs, they are still impacted by the way we’ve played throughout the adventure. This makes the narrative truly complex and deep, giving it the feel of a spiderweb that stretches across the entirety of the funnel-shaped structure I mentioned earlier. Few games make every action the player takes a choice that can have repercussions. It’s not just about answering yes or no in a dialogue or picking one target over another. Stealing from innocents or exhibiting unbridled savagery will influence the moral compass of our group. Some will follow us down to hell, while others, more virtuous, like Karlach, will be ready to confront us, even at the cost of their lives. On the flip side, if we act with unwavering virtue, even a scoundrel like Astarion will reveal unexpected facets of his character.

The entirety of the Baldur’s Gate 3 adventure is based on a choice that requires continuous involvement from the players. The fate of Faerûn depends entirely on how we interact with those who are part of our journey, as well as our behavior during sometimes seemingly trivial phases of the game. This game is an uninterrupted series of choices, whose outcomes are not solely determined by our will. Indeed, and this is why my adventure on the road to Baldur’s Gate inspired me to dive modestly into the concept of choice in video games, Baldur’s Gate 3 places chance at the center of its gameplay experience, giving it the elegant quality of a dice roll.

Beneath the sway of chance.

As I’ve already mentioned, Baldur’s Gate 3 takes place in the Dungeons & Dragons universe. It is set in the medieval fantasy world of the Forgotten Realms, primarily on the western coast of the Faerûn subcontinent, known as the Sword Coast, to the north of which lies the city of Baldur’s Gate. Larian Studios’ title is firmly rooted in the official lore of the franchise owned by Wizards of the Coast. While Swen Johan Vincke’s team could have simply reused these contextual elements, they chose to center the tabletop role-playing experience at the heart of the project. The legendary dice roll thus becomes a key component of the game design in this beautiful adventure, allowing the video game medium to convey the sense of peril that has made tabletop role-playing games so captivating for nearly five decades.

There are never any small decisions or easy actions when you hold the controller during your quest against the ranks of the Absolute. Every time we attempt something, we must roll the dice. Want to pick a lock? Roll the dice. Want to intimidate an opponent because your character has enough points in the necessary skills to gain an advantage in a verbal joust? Roll the dice. Baldur’s Gate 3 displays these rolls, first showing the die with the target score, along with any bonuses or penalties that your character and companions’ traits may provide. It’s a perfect translation of the act of holding a die in our hands, weighing it before rolling, and then watching it as it tumbles. The way the die resonates on the virtual surface of the rolling area is flawless, the clicking sound precise, and the tension builds as its roll slows down, revealing the number it has in store for us.

It’s exhilarating to infiltrate the heart of an enemy camp and take an action that requires an 18, with no skill modifiers to assist us, knowing that failure could take the situation in an unexpected and potentially bloody direction. Lady Luck is then our only ally. Throughout its adventure, Baldur’s Gate 3 is filled with unparalleled tension. We know exactly what we need, but we’re never certain we’ll be able to get it, because not everything is within our circle of control.

RPGs have long offered dialogue options based on certain character traits and skills. In Skyrim, for example, your ability to persuade NPCs is calculated based on your avatar’s speech skill. There’s no luck involved. Other titles, like Mass Effect, are much more direct: you don’t have to worry about failing a skill check because dialogue options will be grayed out if you don’t have enough Paragon or Renegade points to select them. Then there are titles like The Witcher or even Cyberpunk, which can quickly take on a “Simon says” feel in their approach to choice. To caricature: if Geralt asks a peasant to give him his purse or loaf of bread, the peasant will comply according to the player’s choice.

Baldur’s Gate 3 takes the opposite approach, aiming to emulate an actual tabletop Dungeons & Dragons session. It’s not because the player wants something that they’ll get it, even if it seems like they have all the cards in hand. This game mechanic confronts us with the unpredictability of life, bringing a unique dimension that I hadn’t experienced before in a Western RPG. The animation of the dice roll, simple and unadorned, proves to be far more satisfying than just clicking on a dialogue option. It gives each decision a new intensity. The dice rolls, and we are left there, suspended in its movement, holding our breath for those few crucial seconds.

The dice of fate don’t just accompany us during the so-called critical moments, but at every step of our adventure. Whether we’re in a swamp or an ancient tomb, dice are constantly being rolled in the background, depending on our attributes. If our party includes a specialist in Perception, we’ll have a higher chance of detecting traps or hidden treasures. On the other hand, if we lack Survival skills, every step through the marshy wetlands of Faerûn becomes a potential risk.

We wanted to put the dice at the center because that’s what they are in tabletop games. We didn’t want to hide them, but at the same time, we didn’t want to scare people with them either. So, we had to find a system that would allow for all these passive skill checks to take place.

Swen Vincke

I am well aware that Baldur’s Gate 3 is not the only RPG to incorporate an element of randomness and unpredictability, or even to integrate dice into its gameplay. The purpose of this piece is not to make it a sacred text that invented everything, but simply to share my love for a title that is so colossal and audacious. Others might be tempted to talk about Kingdom Come: Deliverance and how your attire or hygiene level can influence your social interactions without any clues being given to the player, who must rely solely on their own insight when starting a conversation with a character. Others might praise the random dice distribution at the beginning of each cycle in Citizen Sleeper, allowing the player to decide how to allocate their use over the coming day. However, this new entry in the Baldur’s Gate series feels like a real turning point for the entire RPG industry. It is undoubtedly a game that will leave its mark, even if a few studios have tried to explain to players that due to its exceptional nature, we should not expect it to become a new generational standard. Baldur’s Gate 3 is unique, and it will be hard to follow in its footsteps. Nevertheless, it seems to me that it is the symbol of the public’s appetite for bold, all-in proposals that break free from the academic framework popularized by Bethesda and Bioware productions since Knights of the Old Republic. On my end, I know that this adventure will stay with me for life and has profoundly changed my relationship with role-playing games and choice. Baldur’s Gate 3 is a promise of infinite adventure where certainties have no place. One day I’ll return to Faerûn, for the pleasure of a new dance among the dice.