I was working at Software Etc. in 1996 when Broken Sword: The Shadow of the Templars (or Circle of Blood, as it was called in the US) arrived in our shipment. I remember unpacking the box and being immediately drawn to the cover art—a mysterious hooded figure against a backdrop of ancient symbols. My manager, Rick, who had the most gloriously awful combover you’ve ever seen, noticed my interest and said, “Take it home this weekend. European adventure games are different.” Rick was right about exactly two things in the three years I worked for him: this game, and that the Dreamcast would fail. Batting .500 ain’t bad.
That weekend changed my gaming trajectory. I’d played plenty of point-and-click adventures before—I practically lived on a steady diet of Sierra and LucasArts games throughout high school—but Broken Sword was something altogether different. It felt…grown-up. Not in a “gratuitous sex and violence” way, but in its approach to storytelling, art, and puzzle design. This wasn’t cartoon logic or slapstick humor; this was a bona fide historical conspiracy thriller that just happened to be a video game.
The game opens with American tourist George Stobbart sitting at a café in Paris when a clown enters, places an accordion under a table, and leaves. Moments later, the accordion explodes, killing an old man who’d been sitting nearby. It’s a shocking start, made all the more impactful by the game’s gorgeous hand-drawn animation. I still remember the way George’s scarf fluttered as he was blown backward by the explosion—a small detail that showed the care Revolution Software put into every frame.
The interface was elegantly simple, even by 1996 standards. Right-click to look, left-click to interact. No verbs, no inventory Tetris, just clean design that got out of the way of the story. I’d been wrestling with Sierra’s increasingly convoluted interfaces for years, so this felt like a breath of fresh air. The game respected my intelligence enough not to require me to specify whether I wanted to push, pull, lick, or juggle every object I encountered.
The relationship between George and French photojournalist Nicole “Nico” Collard formed the emotional core of the game. Their chemistry was palpable, thanks to excellent voice acting and writing that managed to be both witty and natural. George was charming but slightly bumbling, while Nico was sharp and no-nonsense. They felt like real people, not the cardboard cutouts that populated so many games of that era. I remember my roommate Dave, who had zero interest in gaming, actually sitting down to watch me play because “the story’s pretty good, actually.”
And what a story it was—a globe-trotting conspiracy involving the Knights Templar that took you from Paris to Ireland, Syria, Spain, and beyond. Each location was rendered with incredible attention to detail. The Parisian streets felt distinctly French, with cafés and architecture that reeked of authenticity. The castle in Ireland captured that misty, ancient atmosphere perfectly. The game never fell into the trap of making every location feel samey, which happened all too often in adventure games of that era.
The historical research that went into Broken Sword was evident in every scene. You could feel that the developers had done their homework on Templar history, sacred geometry, and medieval architecture. As someone who’d majored in history before dropping out to pursue the lucrative career of video game retail (my parents were thrilled), I appreciated that the game didn’t just use history as window dressing—it was woven into the very fabric of the mystery.
The puzzles in Broken Sword struck that perfect balance between challenging and fair. Most followed a clear internal logic: you needed to find a way into a building, distract a guard, or decode an ancient manuscript. The solutions made sense within the context of the world and the characters. I never felt like I was reading the developer’s mind, which was a refreshing change from some of the more obscure LucasArts and Sierra puzzles I’d encountered.
Well, except for the goat. THE GOAT. Anyone who’s played Broken Sword knows exactly what I’m talking about. Early in the game, you encounter a goat tied to a post in a field in Ireland. This seemingly innocuous farm animal became the bane of my existence for an entire weekend. The puzzle required a specific sequence of actions involving a stick, a patch of grass, and careful timing. I tried everything. EVERYTHING. I called in sick to work on Monday (sorry, Rick) just to keep working on this puzzle.
When I finally solved it, I experienced a feeling of triumph so intense it was almost embarrassing. I actually jumped up from my chair and did a victory lap around my apartment, highfiving my very confused cat. My downstairs neighbor banged on his ceiling with a broom handle, which only added to the celebratory atmosphere. That damn goat became such a notorious difficulty spike that Revolution Software actually toned it down in later rereleases, which I consider cheating. Kids these days don’t know the trauma that forged our generation’s problem-solving skills.
What really set Broken Sword apart from its contemporaries was the mature storytelling. It wasn’t “mature” in the marketing sense of the word—there wasn’t gratuitous sex or violence—but rather in how it treated its audience. The game assumed you were intelligent enough to follow a complex historical conspiracy, to care about character development, and to appreciate subtle humor. It never winked at the camera or broke the fourth wall. It committed fully to its world and its story.
The art style deserves special mention. The backgrounds were hand-painted and absolutely gorgeous, with a European comic book aesthetic that gave the game a distinct visual identity. Characters were traditionally animated, fluid and expressive in a way that 3D games of the era couldn’t match. The way George would raise an eyebrow when examining something suspicious, or how Nico would cross her arms when impatient—these small animations added layers of character development without a word being spoken.
I remember being particularly impressed by a scene in a Parisian hotel where the lighting changed as clouds passed overhead, reflected in the marble floor below. It was such an unnecessary detail, but it made the world feel alive and dynamic. I spent an embarrassing amount of time just watching the light patterns change before continuing with the actual game.
Revolution Studios, founded by Charles Cecil, created something special with Broken Sword. It didn’t have the mammoth budget of some American games, but the passion of its creators shone through in every aspect. It felt like a labor of love, crafted by people who cared deeply about adventure games as a medium for storytelling.
I finished Broken Sword in about a week, playing late into the night after work, subsisting on microwave burritos and Mountain Dew. The ending was satisfying—the mystery resolved, the villains defeated, but with enough loose threads to make the world feel like it continued beyond the game’s boundaries. I sat through the entire credits sequence, partly out of respect for the creators and partly because I wasn’t ready to leave this world behind.
I wasn’t alone in my appreciation. Broken Sword developed a devoted following, especially in Europe where adventure games maintained their popularity longer than in the US. The series would go on to spawn several sequels, though none quite captured the magic of the original for me. The shift to 3D in the third game (The Sleeping Dragon) was particularly jarring after the beautiful 2D art of the first two titles.
The series evolved over time, with each entry trying something slightly different. Broken Sword 2: The Smoking Mirror continued the hand-drawn aesthetic but focused more on ancient Mayan mythology. The third and fourth games moved to 3D and introduced action elements that received mixed reactions from fans. The fifth game, The Serpent’s Curse, returned to the 2D art style after a successful Kickstarter campaign, which I backed instantly and without regret.
I’ve replayed the original Broken Sword several times over the years, most recently on my tablet. The game has aged remarkably well, both visually and mechanically. The puzzles that once took me days to solve now take minutes, but the satisfaction remains. It’s like revisiting a favorite book or film—you know what’s coming, but the experience is still worthwhile.
I’ve tried to get my nephew into the series, with limited success. “Why can’t I just shoot the bad guys?” he asked, which nearly resulted in me writing him out of my will. But then, watching him struggle with some of the puzzles, I saw that same spark of satisfaction when he figured something out on his own. Maybe there’s hope for the next generation after all.
What’s fascinating about Broken Sword is how it predicted the mainstream popularity of Templar conspiracy theories years before The Da Vinci Code made them a cultural phenomenon. When Dan Brown’s book became a sensation in 2003, I remember thinking, “Broken Sword did this better, and seven years earlier.” I still believe that. The game treated its historical elements with respect while still crafting an entertaining thriller around them.
The legacy of Broken Sword lives on in the many narrative-focused adventure games that followed. You can see its DNA in everything from Telltale’s early titles to Life is Strange. Its approach to mature storytelling, beautiful art direction, and character-driven narrative helped expand what games could be at a time when the industry was increasingly focused on action and spectacle.
For me, Broken Sword represents a pivotal moment in my gaming life. It showed me that games could tell stories with the depth and nuance of great films or novels. It proved that point-and-click adventures could be sophisticated without being pretentious, challenging without being unfair (mostly—I’m still not over that goat).
So here’s to George, Nico, and the mysterious Templars. Here’s to hand-drawn animation and carefully crafted puzzles. Here’s to games that respect our intelligence and reward our perseverance. And yes, grudgingly, here’s even to that blasted goat. Without you, the victory wouldn’t have been nearly as sweet.
