Man, when Starfield dropped, I did something I haven’t done since the Dreamcast launch – I called in sick to work. Yeah, I know, real professional of me. Told the school I had a “family emergency” which wasn’t technically a lie since my relationship with Bethesda games goes back further than some of my actual family relationships. My wife just rolled her eyes when she saw me setting up camp in the basement with enough Mountain Dew to stock a gas station. “You’re 45,” she said. “Act like it.” But you know what? Sometimes you gotta embrace your inner 12-year-old, especially when Todd Howard’s been promising you the stars for over a decade.
I’ve been burned by space games before. Anyone remember how hyped we all got for Mass Effect Andromeda? That disaster still stings. But something about Starfield felt different during the marketing buildup. Maybe it was the fact that Bethesda hadn’t released a new single-player RPG since Skyrim came out when my kids were still in elementary school. They’re in high school now, for crying out loud. That’s how long I’d been waiting for this moment.
Those first few hours were everything I’d hoped for, honestly. Character creation took me almost two hours because I’m apparently incapable of making quick decisions about digital cheekbones. Settled on a former security guard turned space explorer – figured that background would give me enough combat skills to survive whatever the universe threw at me while still letting me explore and research. My character looked like me if I’d made better life choices and had access to futuristic hair restoration technology.
The opening sequence had me completely hooked. That artifact, the weird visions, getting recruited by Constellation – it all felt like classic Bethesda storytelling at its best. When I first climbed into my starter ship and lifted off from that mining platform, I actually got goosebumps. Haven’t felt that way about a game since… hell, probably since I first played Phantasy Star on my Master System back in ’87. There’s something about leaving a planet’s atmosphere that just hits different, you know? Maybe it’s all those hours watching Star Trek reruns with my dad, but that moment of breaking free from gravity felt genuinely profound.
Then I landed on my first procedurally generated planet and reality started creeping in.
Look, I get what they were trying to do with over a thousand planets. The scope is absolutely insane. I’ve landed on frozen hellscapes that made my character shiver just looking at them, toxic worlds where the rain literally ate through my equipment, jungle planets with creatures that looked like something out of a fever dream. The variety is impressive… for the first dozen worlds or so. But after you’ve seen the same rock formation configurations about fifty times, the illusion starts wearing thin. It’s like when you realize the same three voice actors are playing every NPC in a Bethesda game – once you notice it, you can’t stop noticing it.
Still, I probably spent an entire weekend just building spaceships. The customization system is way deeper than I expected, almost like having a whole engineering simulator built into the RPG. My first ship looked like it was assembled by a drunk technician using spare parts from three different manufacturers. By the time I built my fourth ship (which I named “Midlife Crisis” because my wife was giving me grief about my gaming habits), I’d figured out weapon placement, power distribution, shield configurations… all that technical stuff that would’ve bored me to tears in real life but somehow became fascinating when applied to my virtual spacecraft.
Combat felt solid enough, though not revolutionary. The zero-gravity sections were genuinely cool – there’s something satisfying about using your jetpack to flank enemies in three dimensions. Though I’ll admit, my first spacewalk was a complete disaster. Somehow managed to drift away from the space station I was supposed to be exploring and spent ten minutes frantically trying to figure out how the maneuvering thrusters worked while my oxygen slowly depleted. My daughter walked downstairs during this debacle, watched me panic for a minute, and said, “Dad, you’re embarrassing yourself to an empty room.” Kids these days have no appreciation for dramatic tension.
The main questline started strong but felt padded in the middle. Without spoiling anything, the central mystery about the artifacts and what they represent touches on some genuinely interesting sci-fi concepts. There were a couple moments that had me texting my gaming buddies at ridiculous hours because I needed to process what just happened. But man, the pacing dragged in places. Too many “go to this location, scan this thing, come back” missions that felt like busy work. By the time I reached the endgame revelations, I was impressed by the ambition but slightly disappointed by the execution. It’s like ordering the most expensive steak on the menu and getting something that’s good but not quite worth what you paid for it.
The faction storylines hit way better though. The UC Vanguard stuff let me live out my space military fantasies, while the Freestar Collective missions had this perfect space western vibe that reminded me why I loved Firefly so much. Each faction felt distinct with believable ideologies and conflicts. The Crimson Fleet questline in particular threw some genuinely tough moral choices at me – the kind that had me pausing the game and staring at dialogue options for way too long. One late-night decision about betraying an NPC I’d grown attached to actually had me pacing around the basement, weighing the options like they were real. My wife came downstairs for a glass of water and found me muttering to myself about space pirate ethics. “This is your hobby,” she reminded me. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
Character progression felt satisfying once I figured out the skill system. Started as a security-focused explorer but gradually morphed into more of a diplomatic tech specialist who could talk his way out of trouble and hack any computer in the galaxy. Worked great until I hit my first really challenging combat encounter in some abandoned research facility. Suddenly realized I’d maybe neglected my shooting skills a bit too much. What followed was a comedy routine of me frantically consuming every healing item in my inventory while my AI companion did all the actual fighting. “Some space hero,” I muttered, watching my health bar yo-yo between critical and barely acceptable.
The companion characters provided some of the game’s best moments. Sarah Morgan’s personal storyline dealing with loss and finding purpose in the face of cosmic uncertainty – that stuff resonated with me more than I expected. Building relationships with these digital people over dozens of hours created genuine attachment. When one companion faced serious danger because of a choice I’d made, I actually reloaded a save from three hours earlier to prevent it. Haven’t done that in a game since… well, probably since the last Bethesda game, honestly. Their personal quests often felt more emotionally coherent than the main storyline, probably because they operated on a more human scale.
One thing that impressed me was how cleverly they disguised loading screens. Those elevator rides, airlock sequences, long corridor walks – all of them are basically masked loading screens, but they keep you in the game world instead of staring at a static image. It’s a small detail that makes a huge difference for immersion. Found myself actually appreciating those quiet moments before entering a new area, using them to check my equipment or just mentally prepare for whatever was coming next. Way better than the literal loading doors in Skyrim that fooled absolutely nobody.
Everyone keeps comparing Starfield to No Man’s Sky, which makes sense but feels a bit unfair to both games. No Man’s Sky excels at pure sandbox exploration – it’s about the joy of discovery for its own sake. Starfield is more structured, more story-driven, more concerned with giving your exploration narrative context and meaning. I appreciate both approaches for different reasons. No Man’s Sky for when I want to wander aimlessly and see weird stuff, Starfield for when I want that wandering to feel purposeful. Though I’m definitely not playing both simultaneously – my sleep schedule can’t handle that level of cosmic commitment.
The New Game Plus implementation caught me completely off guard. Without spoiling the specifics, the way they contextualize starting over within the actual narrative is genuinely brilliant. It transforms what could’ve been a standard gameplay mechanic into a thought-provoking extension of the main themes. My second playthrough as a ruthless corporate operative made completely different choices, approached problems from angles that would’ve horrified my original character. The fact that the game acknowledges and incorporates these contrasts into its structure shows Bethesda at its most narratively ambitious.
I’m already excited about the modding potential. Running a few basic quality-of-life mods now, but the really transformative stuff is still coming. If Skyrim taught us anything, it’s that Bethesda games are as much platforms as they are products. Community creators will expand and refine this universe for years. My wishlist already includes better planetary ecology systems, more detailed ship crew management, maybe some total conversion mods that transplant other sci-fi universes into Starfield’s framework. The possibilities are genuinely exciting.
After putting in about 130 hours (don’t tell my principal), I’ve settled into a complicated relationship with this game. It didn’t quite reach the transcendent heights its marketing promised, but it delivered something I’ve invested more time in than anything else this year. The universe feels authentically lived-in, with environmental storytelling that rewards curiosity. Stumbling across an abandoned outpost with audio logs telling the story of a doomed expedition, or finding a breathtaking vista on some uncharted moon – these moments still give me that sense of wonder that’s become increasingly rare as I’ve gotten older and more cynical about gaming.
Starfield’s biggest success might be how it balances cosmic scale with human stories. Standing on an alien planet watching binary stars set while my ship sits silhouetted against unfamiliar constellations makes me feel appropriately small in the universe. But the game also zooms in on personal dramas – family tensions, political rivalries, individual redemption arcs. This balance between the infinite and the intimate is where Starfield really shines.
Looking back, that sick day was both justified and slightly misguided. Starfield isn’t the kind of immediately mind-blowing experience that demands marathon sessions. It’s more of a slow-burn relationship, a game that gradually reveals its depth over weeks and months. Some nights I log in just to fly between systems, scanning planets and listening to the incredible ambient soundtrack, not pursuing any particular objective. Other sessions involve intense story missions that advance meaningful character development. This duality makes it hard to definitively judge against the hype – it both delivered and disappointed, depending on what specific promises resonated with you.
Maybe that’s the most Bethesda thing about it. Like Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim before it, it’s a flawed masterpiece – a game of incredible ambition that doesn’t nail every element but somehow creates something greater than the sum of its parts. As I’m writing this, my ship is parked above an unexplored planet with interesting mineral readings, my quest log is stuffed with potential adventures, and despite my occasional frustrations, I’m already planning tonight’s session around finishing Sarah’s personal questline. If that’s not a recommendation, I don’t know what is.
Joe’s a history teacher who treats the console wars like actual history. A lifelong Sega devotee from Phoenix, he writes with passion, humor, and lingering heartbreak over the Dreamcast. Expect strong opinions, bad puns, and plenty of “blast processing.”
