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Dungeon Master
Welcome to Dungeon Master, PC Gamer’s regular RPG column. This week, Harvey Randall is once more stepping onto this site to argue that you should make your RPG companions obstructive, flawed little nightmares, or you’re passing up storytelling gold.
In my Honour Mode playthrough of Baldur’s Gate 3, I romanced Gale—you can see my full thoughts on our under-appreciated wizard boy here. What solidified him as one of my all-time RPG romances, however, wasn’t his wit or his very nice hair. It was a conversation in which he acted like a petty little bastard.
After your first amorous night together, Gale—like any self-conscious bloke might do—asks you how he performed in the bedroom. If you respond: “It was fine,” he fully has a sulk, stopping just short of making a thread on r/AITA.
“Nobody weeps because the weather is fine,” he says while his voice actor, Tim Downie, puts as much quiet, brooding petulance as he can into his words. “No monarchs were overthrown because their ruling was fine. No artworks were burned because they were masterpieces, but merely fine.”
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Then he threatens to blow himself up, calling himself “a fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power. Perhaps it would be better to not shake such a vessel.”
I want to point out, Gale sucks for this—it’s an absolutely toxic, unpleasant, and thorny response to being told you were just acceptable in the bedroom, so much so that it horseshoes around to being meme-able. But it also cemented why I liked his romance, why I liked him—because it makes him three-dimensional, fleshed-out.
It helps that it works for his character, too. Gale was essentially groomed by the god of magic. In his first relationship since trying to impress someone who has complete and utter power over him, he’s going to be sensitive to criticism. Especially after his ex told him to blow himself up—his insecurity is believably petty, because he’s measuring himself to perfection.
It’s this willingness for companion characters to be unpleasant that makes BG3’s cast fly off the screen. Larian’s writers weren’t afraid of people hating or disliking their characters—many of them are actively hostile to you, or have moments where they can turn against you entirely. And the more I thought about it, the more I’ve come to realise that that is, in fact, the point.
Hate-love relationships
The strength of any RPG’s structure, story-wise, is in its genre conventions. Simply put, most RPGs have the following set of circumstances:
- There is a world-ending threat (or at least, something that will muck stuff up on the regional/continent level).
- You have companions who’ll accompany you on all your adventures.
Now, if you’re a writer, you might think to yourself: Well, I better make these people bearable to get along with. If you’re going to be spending 50-100 hours with somebody, they need to be pleasant to be around. And while that has to be true of some of your party members—an RPG cast benefits from having a Karlach, Minsc, Tali, or Wynne in it—it’s a terrible assumption to make for your entire crew.
It’s throwing away gold, for one: You have a reason to put the most eclectic, weird mix of strangers into a huge ‘get along or the world ends’ t-shirt. Characters who’d otherwise have absolutely zero reason to so much as look at each other, who would otherwise hate each other, must interact for the greater good.
This friction is the fuel for any great RPG—no, more than that. It’s why they work in the first place. The grinding of flaw against flaw is the mill that makes the bread of some of the genre’s best banter. Take Alistair and Morrigan for instance. On paper, these characters would be the worst two to form a party with. But you should put them next to each other, because Morrigan’s dry cynicism and Alistair’s cheerful wit is extraordinarily entertaining when they’re inches from ripping each other’s throats out.
And listen, I hate to harp on Dragon Age: The Veilguard more than I already have—especially since, given the development hell it went through, its writers may have wanted to do more with its cast, but simply couldn’t. But it’s unfortunately a good illustrative example of where this goes wrong.
As our own Lauren Morton pointed out, the cast doesn’t argue with you, they don’t bicker with each other, they don’t have conflicting or impactful beliefs that dent the narrative (or your opinion of them) in any way.
They are all just blandly kind of likeable—or if they are unpleasant, they’re unpleasant in ways that are vaguely-defined and blurry around the edges. Taash comes the closest to having an abrasive personality, and at the end of everything, they’re really just sort of headstrong and opinionated in a way that’ll make some people annoyed. And because of the story’s resistance towards engaging in darker themes, they just come across as immature.
In a way, Veilguard’s characters feel like empty vessels designed for the indistinct glob of fandom to project onto. Large fanfiction nets built to trawl for as many diehards as possible—and don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against fanfiction. On the contrary, I think if your game has the sauce, you’re going to have a smut-happy fandom whipped into an eager frenzy.
But there’s a level of insecurity that radiates off characters who are built this way, a Netflix-esque, focus-tested glazed-over look in their eyes. And it’s why I just can’t love them.
It’s all about bias, baby
Human beings are weird creatures. We’ll project emotions and feelings onto inanimate objects if we have to—slap a pair of googly eyes on a roomba, and guarantee you’ll come up with a nickname for it within the week, if not the next hour.
This affection for imperfection applies to how we form social relationships, as well. There’s a name for it—the “Halo effect”. Basically, if you form a positive opinion of someone, you’re more likely to rationalise or dismiss their less pleasant behaviour further down the line.
The dark side of this is that we sometimes overlook awful behaviour from the people we love—but it’s not an inherently terrible thing. Human beings are messy, we’re flawed, we make mistakes, and if we didn’t have a little softness for the people we care about, we probably wouldn’t get much done. Giving grace to those closest to us is natural.
And I think this is why RPG characters that are thorny, unpleasant, and flawed tend to be treated with more affection than ones that are written to be frictionless—they map to a more accurate experience of what it’s like to actually be friends with somebody.
You form an initial impression of them, negative or positive, and then when you get to know them better—when you’re all socially bonded—the emotional systems we’ve developed for group cohesion kick in and give you the same chemical punt. Without those flaws to challenge our impressions of that NPC, they don’t feel “real” in the same way.
[Flawed characters] map to a more accurate experience of what it’s like to actually be friends with somebody. “
There’s even some science backing this up. Studies have shown that oxytocin, a chemical responsible for social bonding, kicks in when we read stories. Much of the same neurological processes we use to form connections in real life apply to a stellar narrative, too—it’s why people get so attached, and why a good yarn can bring you to tears.
Which, I think, is why frictionless RPGs characters just don’t work. If you don’t create the same feeling of growing attached to someone—a strong first impression, later counterbalanced by discovering flaws or virtues—then there’s an uncanniness to it that forces us to disconnect.
The term “immersion” gets bandied around a lot, but it really applies here. The success of a good story, particularly a character-focused one, is in how it pulls you in—and if I don’t feel like I’m playing an RPG with real, vivid characters who I might dislike on occasion, I’m going to start tuning out.
You need to add scenes that rub people the wrong way—actions that are genuinely questionable, beliefs that are genuinely unpleasant. Not for every character, and not to every harsh extent, but that variety is still mandatory. In other words, in order for them to be loved, you need to be okay with your RPG characters being hated.
