Christmas break, 1998. Five CDs in a massive cardboard box with a face on it that looked like it was having a really, really bad day. That was my introduction to Baldur’s Gate, a game that would fundamentally change how I viewed not just RPGs, but storytelling in games as a whole. I was 20, home from college, and I had precisely two weeks to dive into this thing before heading back to the dorms. Little did I know I’d be taking “sick days” from classes well into February to keep playing.
I’d dabbled in Dungeons & Dragons during high school—mostly because Tom was obsessed with it and had somehow convinced our circle of friends that rolling dice in his parents’ basement was cooler than going to the movies on Friday nights. We were… not popular, if that wasn’t obvious. But my knowledge of AD&D 2nd Edition rules was spotty at best. “THAC0” sounded like a convenience store, not a combat mechanic, and I definitely didn’t understand why lower armor class numbers were better. It made no sense! Lower numbers should be worse, right? Anyway, Baldur’s Gate implemented these bewildering rules faithfully, which meant my first few hours with the game were filled with equal parts wonder and confusion.
The character creation system alone kept me occupied for nearly three hours. I must’ve rolled and re-rolled stats fifty times trying to get that perfect 18/00 strength for my fighter. For the uninitiated, that’s not an exaggeration of the interface—you literally could get an 18 strength, and then a secondary percentage roll from 01-00 that determined how much better than 18 your strength actually was. It was wildly unintuitive, charmingly faithful to the tabletop rules, and utterly engrossing. I finally settled on a half-elf fighter/mage named Kalindra (I thought I was being so original), and stepped into the world of the Sword Coast with absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
The opening cinematic and music hit me like a truck. That theme song, with its deep vocals and sweeping orchestra, still gives me goosebumps when I hear it. And then I was in Candlekeep with my foster father Gorion, running errands and learning the basics. It seemed so peaceful, so ordinary. Little did I know I’d spend the next 80+ hours uncovering a conspiracy involving the God of Murder, assembling a dysfunctional party of misfits, and clicking on every inch of the map to find hidden caches of healing potions.
Let’s talk about those companions, because they’re what truly made Baldur’s Gate transcend from “good game” to “life-altering experience” for me. I met Minsc and his “miniature giant space hamster” Boo early on, and initially thought they were just comic relief. A massive ranger with a pet rodent and a possible traumatic brain injury? Okay, sure. But the more time I spent with him, the more I realized how much depth was hiding beneath his seemingly one-note character. “Butt-kicking for goodness!” became a phrase my roommate and I would shout at random intervals, much to the confusion of everyone around us.
Imoen’s story broke my heart. Jaheira and Khalid’s relationship felt real in a way game romances rarely did. And don’t even get me started on Edwin, that arrogant red-robed wizard whose dialogue was so deliciously snooty that I kept him in my party despite his questionable ethics. These weren’t just stat blocks with voice lines; they were characters with motivations, backstories, and personalities that sometimes clashed spectacularly. I still remember the first time Kivan and Viconia started arguing because of their racial animosities. I sat there, genuinely uncertain what to do, feeling like I was mediating a real conflict.
The Sword Coast itself was overwhelming in its scope. Remember, this was 1998—open world games weren’t really a thing yet, at least not on this scale. The first time I opened the world map and saw all those locations, most of them unexplored, I felt a mixture of excitement and mild panic. Where should I go first? What if I wandered into an area that was too dangerous? (Spoiler: I absolutely did, many times, and the reload button became my best friend.)
I made the mistake of heading straight to Nashkel Mines from Beregost, completely unprepared, with a party of level 2 characters. The kobolds absolutely destroyed us. After my third total party kill, I reluctantly backtracked and spent hours doing smaller quests around Beregost and the Friendly Arm Inn, slowly building up my party’s strength and my inventory of magical items. That learning curve—the realization that I couldn’t just barrel through the main quest—was formative. Baldur’s Gate taught me patience in gaming, something that’s served me well in everything from Dark Souls to adulting.
The combat system was a revelation to me. Pausing to issue orders to each party member, positioning my characters strategically, saving spell slots for the right moment—it was like a chess match where half the pieces had fireballs. My first encounter with a basilisk was traumatizing. I didn’t understand why my characters were turning to stone until it was too late, and I hadn’t been rotating save files (rookie mistake). I lost about three hours of progress and nearly rage-quit on the spot. But instead, I reloaded, prepared accordingly with protection spells and ranged attacks, and felt a genuine rush of accomplishment when I finally took the scaly jerk down.
Party composition became an obsession. I spent evenings on early internet forums (remember GameFAQs?) reading strategies and debating the merits of different class combinations. Should I double up on thieves for trap detection? Was it worth having two divine casters? The endless permutations of party makeup meant no two playthroughs were identical. My first party was a chaotic mess of characters I just happened to find—my second was a carefully calculated machine with complementary abilities and damage types.
The dialogue system ruined other games for me for years afterward. Coming across a conversation with actual choices—choices that might lead to different outcomes or reveal different information—was mind-blowing in an era where most game dialogue was purely expositional. I found myself reading every line carefully, weighing options, sometimes even taking notes when important information was revealed. And the writing! It had this perfect mix of high fantasy gravitas and unexpected humor. “You must gather your party before venturing forth” still echoes in my brain any time I’m trying to coordinate friends for an outing.
The Infinity Engine itself was a technical marvel. Those pre-rendered backgrounds with their incredible detail made every location feel unique and alive. I’d sometimes just…stop and look around. The Bridge District of Baldur’s Gate city, with its architectural details and ambient animations. The forests with dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. The dungeons with ominous shadows and dripping water. These weren’t just gameplay spaces; they were places that felt lived-in and real.
Sarevok remains one of my favorite video game villains of all time. Not because he was particularly complex (though his backstory did have some interesting wrinkles), but because the game built him up so effectively. The first time you actually see him in that terrifying spiked armor, after hearing about him for dozens of hours, it’s genuinely intimidating. And that final battle? I died so many times that I started dreaming about his taunting voice. When I finally defeated him—after sending my thief to sneakily set traps all around the area before initiating combat—I literally jumped up from my chair and did a victory lap around my cramped apartment.
I made a mistake during my first playthrough that I still laugh about today. I spent so much time doing side quests and exploring every corner of the map that I hit the experience cap long before reaching the final chapters. I remember being confused about why my characters stopped leveling up, assuming it was a bug. I didn’t know RPGs could have level caps! The fact that I’d maxed out my characters and was still finding the late-game challenging speaks volumes about the difficulty balance.
The Black Pits arena challenges were added in the Enhanced Edition years later, and revisiting them was like reuniting with an old friend who’d gotten some new tattoos. Same core experience, but with some interesting new additions. I spent an embarrassing number of hours trying to perfect my strategies for those arena battles, even though I’d already seen everything else the game had to offer multiple times.
When Baldur’s Gate II came out, I literally scheduled vacation days from my first real job post-college. My girlfriend at the time (now my ex-wife—no connection to my gaming habits, I swear) couldn’t understand why I was so excited about “that dragon game.” But Baldur’s Gate had become more than just a game to me. It was a formative experience that shaped my expectations for storytelling, character development, and player agency in games for decades to come.
Looking at modern RPGs like Dragon Age or even The Witcher, it’s impossible not to see Baldur’s Gate’s DNA. The companion relationship systems, the dialogue wheels, the mix of main quests and side content—BioWare established a blueprint that countless games have followed and refined. When I played Pillars of Eternity years later, it felt simultaneously nostalgic and fresh, a love letter to the game that had changed everything.
I replayed the Enhanced Edition a couple years ago during that weird stretch of 2020 when we were all stuck inside. The quality-of-life improvements were nice, but what struck me most was how well the core experience held up. Yes, some of the AD&D rules felt clunky and outdated. Yes, the pathfinding could still make me want to throw my mouse across the room (seriously, why can’t you just walk around that tree?!). But the story, the characters, the world—they were every bit as engaging as they’d been when I was 20 years old, sitting in my dorm room, ignoring my homework to play “just one more hour.”
I’ve played hundreds of games since 1998. Some with better graphics, some with more streamlined systems, some with bigger worlds. But few have captured that perfect alchemy of systems, story, and world-building that made Baldur’s Gate so revolutionary. It wasn’t just a great RPG; it was a turning point for what computer RPGs could be. And for that, it’ll always have a special place in both gaming history and my personal gaming heart—right next to Boo, the only miniature giant space hamster in the Realms.
