I remember exactly where I was when I first created my Skyrim character. It was November 11, 2011—yep, 11/11/11, because Bethesda’s marketing team knows a good gimmick when they see one. I’d taken the day off work, much to my boss’s annoyance. “You’re using PTO to play a video game?” he’d asked with that particular mixture of confusion and judgment that non-gamers excel at. You bet your khaki-wearing ass I am, I thought but didn’t say, because I needed that job to fund my gaming habit.
sat in my apartment—the one with the weird stain on the ceiling that looked suspiciously like Abraham Lincoln’s profile—with a box of pizza and enough Mountain Dew to give a small horse heart palpitations. The character creation screen popped up, and I spent—I’m not exaggerating here—TWO HOURS crafting the perfect Nord warrior. Every slider was meticulously adjusted. Cheekbone height? Critical decision. Nose width? Could make or break the entire experience. My roommate walked in around the 90-minute mark, watched me rotate the character to check the eyebrow thickness from different angles, and simply said, “Dude.” Then walked out. He wouldn’t understand. This wasn’t just a character; this was going to be my digital alter-ego for hundreds of hours to come.
Little did I know just how many hundreds of hours that would be. Or that thirteen years later, I’d still be returning to Skyrim like it’s some kind of digital comfort food.
That first playthrough was pure magic. Emerging from Helgen after nearly being executed (talk about a rough start to your day), I remember standing on that mountain path just… looking. The vast expanse of Skyrim stretched before me, white-capped mountains in the distance, a river winding through a forest, and somewhere down there, adventures waiting to happen. I literally just stood there for a few minutes, rotating the camera. Games weren’t supposed to be this beautiful, this open. I felt something I hadn’t experienced since I was a kid unwrapping my first NES—that pure, unfiltered sense of wonder.
I made my way to Riverwood, then Whiterun, following the main quest like the good, obedient gamer I was. The first time I entered Dragonsreach and heard that echoing, cavernous theme music, I got honest-to-god goosebumps. Then I met the Jarl, sitting on his throne all attitude and fur capes, and suddenly decided I wanted to be a Jarl when I grew up. Not an option in the real world, unfortunately. I’ve checked.
But it was when I veered off the main quest that Skyrim really sank its claws into me. I was headed to High Hrothgar, like I was supposed to, when I spotted something off the path. A small cave entrance. “I’ll just take a quick peek,” I told myself, the biggest lie in gaming history. Three hours later, I emerged from a complex system of caverns, having fought off bandits, discovered an ancient Nordic burial site, and somehow become a vampire. Oops.
That initial playthrough was a 147-hour odyssey over the course of about three weeks. My Nord, Thor (look, I never claimed to be original), became the head of the Companions, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Thane of every single hold, and owner of more houses than I’ll ever afford in real life. I got married to Aela the Huntress because, well, who wouldn’t? I completed the main quest, which honestly felt like a side activity compared to everything else I’d done. I killed my first legendary dragon with a combination of luck, cheese wheels (so many cheese wheels), and frantic button mashing. And when the credits rolled, I didn’t feel finished. Not even close.
Over the years, Skyrim has been my constant companion through life changes both good and bad. I played through the Dawnguard DLC the week after a particularly nasty breakup. Hunting vampires turned out to be excellent therapy. I celebrated getting a promotion by purchasing Hearthfire and spending an entire weekend building the perfect lakeside manor, complete with an armory for my growing weapon collection. My second character—a Khajiit thief named Whiskers (again, creativity has never been my strong suit)—was born during a blizzard that trapped me in my apartment for three days. By the time the snow melted, I’d become the head of the Thieves Guild and had a bounty in every major city.
The Dragonborn DLC dropped while I was visiting my parents for Christmas. I distinctly remember sneaking downstairs at 1 AM to play on my dad’s computer because it was better than my laptop. He caught me around 3:30, but instead of being mad, he pulled up a chair and watched for an hour, asking questions about the lore. “So these Dwemer guys, they just… disappeared? The whole race?” he asked, genuinely interested. The next morning, he told my mom he wanted a gaming PC. She still blames me for that.
When Skyrim Special Edition was released in 2016, I bought it immediately, even though it was essentially the same game with prettier graphics. “This is ridiculous,” I told myself while entering my credit card information. “You’ve already played this game for hundreds of hours.” Then I proceeded to play it for hundreds more. This time with a High Elf mage who specialized in Destruction magic and had a paralyzing fear of crabs. (I don’t know why I decided my character was afraid of crabs. It just felt right, and I would literally run away from them whenever I saw one on the shore. Created some interesting gameplay moments.)
The modding community deserves a special shoutout for keeping Skyrim fresh all these years. My first mod was something simple—better textures for the night sky. But that gateway mod led to more extreme modifications. Soon I had realistic water, enhanced NPC behaviors, and armor sets that actually looked like they could stop a blade instead of just showcasing the character’s… assets. I installed a mod that made dragons terrifyingly difficult, which I promptly uninstalled after being reduced to ash seventeen times in a row. There was the week I made Skyrim into a survival game, where I had to eat, sleep, and stay warm. I actually caught myself thinking about whether my character was hungry while I was at work. That’s when I knew I might have a problem.
The Anniversary Edition in 2021 pulled me back in yet again, a decade after I’d first set foot in Helgen. By this point, my original gaming buddies had moved on. “You’re still playing Skyrim?” they’d ask during our increasingly rare online sessions, a mixture of amusement and concern in their voices. But for me, returning to Skyrim wasn’t just about the game itself—it was about returning to a place that felt like home.
That might sound weird or sad to some people, but gamers get it. Skyrim’s world had become as familiar to me as my own neighborhood. I knew the shortcut from Falkreath to Riverwood. I knew exactly where to stand in Blackreach to get the best view of those glowing mushrooms. I knew which merchants had the most gold (Beirand in Solitude, obviously), and which followers were actually worth the trouble (J’zargo and his unlimited leveling, thank you very much).
One thing I’ve come to appreciate more with age is how Skyrim handles its questlines. Take the Dark Brotherhood, for instance. My first time through that storyline, I was in my early thirties, just focused on the gameplay and the rewards. When I replayed it last year, the themes of family, betrayal, and finding belonging among society’s outcasts hit differently. Maybe it’s because I’ve experienced more of life’s complications, or maybe I’m just paying closer attention, but Skyrim’s writing has layers that reveal themselves over time.
The same goes for the civil war questline. As a younger player, I chose sides based on superficial reasons (the Stormcloaks had cooler armor, I’m embarrassed to admit). In later playthroughs, I found myself genuinely weighing the political and ethical implications of each faction. Imperials or Stormcloaks? Centralized authority with problematic elements, or local rule tinged with nationalism? There’s no perfect answer, which is exactly what makes it compelling. How many games from 2011 do you still see people debating the politics of? Not many.
And let’s talk about Blackreach for a minute—that massive underground cavern filled with glowing mushrooms, Falmer, and Dwemer ruins. The first time I stumbled into it, I was genuinely slack-jawed. “How is this EVEN MORE GAME?” I remember thinking. I’d already played for dozens of hours, and suddenly here was this entire other world beneath the world. When I revisited it years later on another playthrough, I discovered areas I’d never seen before. That’s the magic of Skyrim—thirteen years later, it can still surprise me.
The modding scene in 2025 is nothing short of miraculous. There are mods now that add entire new continents, questlines that rival the official content in quality, and overhauls that make the combat feel like a completely different game. My current modded playthrough includes better weather systems (because watching a storm roll in over the tundra never gets old), smarter enemies (because I apparently enjoy pain), and a mod that lets me run an inn (turns out managing an inn in Skyrim is more satisfying than my actual job—don’t tell my boss).
When people ask me how Skyrim stacks up against modern RPGs like Starfield, I always give the same answer: it’s not really a fair comparison. Sure, newer games have more advanced technology, more sophisticated systems, and usually better facial animations (those dead-eyed Skyrim NPCs are… something else). But Skyrim has something that can’t be engineered or programmed—thirteen years of personal history, of shared cultural moments, of memes and discoveries and stories. When I play Skyrim, I’m not just playing a game; I’m revisiting different chapters of my own life.
Do I wish the combat was more dynamic? Sure. Do I sometimes get annoyed at NPCs getting stuck on terrain or saying the same line for the thousandth time? Absolutely. (If I hear “I used to be an adventurer like you…” one more time, I might Fus Ro Dah my own TV.) But these quirks have become part of the charm, like a favorite old sweater that’s got a few holes but feels just right.
As I write this, I realize my current character (an Argonian alchemist with a troubled past and a concerning hoarding problem—I literally can’t walk past a flower without picking it) has been neglected for a few weeks due to work deadlines. But I know Skyrim will be there waiting when I return, just as it always has been. The Throat of the World will still pierce the clouds, the taverns will still echo with “The Dragonborn Comes,” and somewhere, a guard will still be complaining about taking an arrow to the knee.
Some games you finish. Skyrim finishes you.
