Bioware Magic?

Intro

I’ve been immersed in role-playing games (RPGs) for as long as I can remember. When I say “immersed,” I mean the kind of all-consuming obsession where you still ponder old questlines during your daily commute or find yourself comparing real-life moral quandaries to the messy decisions you faced in a digital realm. My personal pantheon of RPG greats includes classics and modern titles alike: the entire Mass Effect trilogy (that ending tho), the razor-sharp moral labyrinth of Disco Elysium, the cult-favorite chaos of Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines, the rugged frontier politics of Fallout: New Vegas, the neon-drenched sprawl of Cyberpunk 2077, and the subversive brilliance of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II. Each of these has left me with an indelible set of memories, not merely because of how they look or play, but because of how they weave story, choice, and character agency into experiences that linger long after the final credits.

That’s the standard I bring to Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

BioWare once ruled the roost of Western RPG design, delivering some of my favourite interactive narratives in any media. But the last decade has been more uneven. Mass Effect: Andromeda landed with a thud, at least for me, with its thin writing and technical stumbles. Anthem didn’t really pique my interest—its sci-fi co-op looter-shooter approach felt miles away from the moral complexity I crave in a BioWare game. Still, there’s always been talk of “BioWare magic,” that often-invoked phenomenon (some might call it a myth) where a chaotic development cycle miraculously coalesces into a brilliant final product. Despite the studio’s ups and downs, I was hoping the fourth entry in the Dragon Age series might harness that old spark—perhaps, at the eleventh hour, the messy pieces would fuse into an unforgettable experience.

I’ve finished The Veilguard in its entirety. I didn’t just complete the main storyline; I snagged the platinum trophy, combed through side quests, tested the romance options, dug into the codices for lore, and witnessed every bizarre little design quirk along the way. My goal here is to offer a highly subjective review based on that comprehensive experience. I’m not here to wade into culture war debates or larger ideological tangents; I want to focus on the game’s design, writing, sense of choice, and overall success (or failure) in capturing what made Dragon Age so beloved in the first place. And while I’ll admit there were some moments gave me that old rush—times when I glimpsed the Thedas I know and love—there are also enough stumbling blocks, perplexing design omissions, and creative half-steps that keep me from calling this the triumphant return I’d hoped for.

Painterly & Polished

From the moment you hit the character creator, Dragon Age: The Veilguard signals it’s aiming for a robust, modern visual presentation. You can fine-tune your hero, Rook, in ways reminiscent of big-budget titles like Cyberpunk 2077: adjusting everything from nose width to eyebrow tilt, not to mention broad sliders for hair color and skin tone. And, oh my god, afro hair choices for days. It’s an impressively granular system, and I lost more time here than I’d like to admit—partly out of curiosity, partly just because I was enjoying crafting my character.

Stepping into the first major location, I was immediately struck by a painterly aesthetic. The world has a slightly soft, almost watercolor feel to it, like someone took the more hard-edged fantasy style of earlier Dragon Age entries and layered a subtle “Pixar sheen” over it. It’s undeniably beautiful in many scenes: a neon-tinged district in Tevinter at dusk, moonlight bouncing off cobblestone and runic inscriptions; a sun-baked corner of Antiva’s waterfront, seagulls circling overhead as the ocean crashes against age-old docks in Rivain. Despite a handful of leftover design assets from prior games (and the occasional repeated corridor), the environmental artists have put in the work to make each region feel distinct in color palette and atmosphere.

Performance is also surprisingly smooth. I rarely encountered crashes or major frame drops, even in big, chaotic battles or denser cityscapes: both on the PS5 and later a PS5 Pro. Character animations have come a long way since the stiff marionettes we saw in early Mass Effect: Andromeda footage. The lip-sync is decent (but probably the most imperfect part), the characters’ eyes track more convincingly, and the average cutscene is well-choreographed. If you enjoy simply wandering around a fantasy world to soak up the visuals (the sort of person who invests in photo mode if available), you’ll find a lot to love here.

The question, then, is whether the substance underlying this polished exterior lives up to the Dragon Age name.

The Myth of Choice

One of the hallmarks of great RPGs—Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines, Fallout: New Vegas, Disco Elysium, to name a few—is their willingness to let the player carve a moral path that’s messy, sometimes contradictory, occasionally cruel, or shockingly altruistic. And Dragon Age in particular built its reputation on forcing difficult choices with lasting repercussions, whether deciding the fate of mages and templars or choosing whether to commit borderline atrocities in the name of a “greater good.” Origins, DA2, and Inquisition may have varied in execution, but they offered enough moral friction to keep you on your toes.

By contrast, The Veilguard feels like it’s placed a protective layer over that friction, sanding down the edges so players can’t truly go off script. Rook, your character, can occasionally inject a bit of sass or mild disagreement, but the fundamental tone is “a nice or vaguely neutral hero.” If you were hoping to be a manipulative anti-hero or a jaded ex-fighter who does whatever it takes to save Thedas—even at the expense of innocent people—you’ll find yourself bumping into invisible boundaries in the conversation wheel.

This is more than just a personal gripe; it’s a design choice that undermines the sense of tension that once defined Dragon Age. In Origins, for instance, the possibility of alienating companions or entire factions added a real spark. The fear that a beloved ally might walk out (or worse, turn on you) kept every conversation laden with consequence. Here, you never truly feel that knife’s edge. Even if you try to push back or select the “rude” dialogue option, it’s never rude enough to spark a serious conflict. There are no game-altering schisms, no shocking betrayals triggered by your moral trajectory. The result is a safer, more sanitized brand of role-playing, at odds with the gritty politics, racism, and oppression that made Thedas such a compelling setting in earlier titles.

The Party

Companions have always been one of BioWare’s greatest strengths. Think of Alistair’s comedic awkwardness, Morrigan’s cryptic manipulations, or the entire ragtag crew from Dragon Age II (love it or hate it, that cast had sparks of genuine conflict). In Inquisition, you could even create deep rifts by making certain political or moral calls, pushing your relationships to the brink. That tension, that possibility that your best friend could become your bitter foe, was part of the magic.

The Veilguard introduces companions who are visually distinct and often come with tantalizing backstories on paper. Emmrich is stoic and driven by a sense of personal duty. Davrin is stern, borderline abrasive, and apparently shaped by tragedy. A few others bring more playful or mystical elements to the table. Yet after spending dozens of hours in their company, I realized how little real conflict arises. Everyone is just a bit too cordial—or, at worst, they have a brief spat that’s resolved in a single scene with minimal input from you.

One of the bigger missed opportunities is how the game handles a second companion slot. At times, you can bring along two party members, but the second one often says little or nothing during critical moments, sometimes not even appearing in cutscenes. This design quirk effectively kills the group dynamic. The banter we used to hear in earlier Dragon Age games, or even among crew members in Mass Effect, is curiously muted. If they’re not going to speak up or react, why bother bringing them at all?

Romantic subplots also reflect a broad but shallow approach, in which literally every companion is pansexual and open to hooking up with Rook, regardless of your character’s background or style. On the one hand, inclusivity is admirable. On the other, it flattens the sense of discovery—there’s no anticipation about who might be “actually interested.” Everyone’s available. Some companions are clearly scripted to come off as more traditionally straight or more obviously queer, but the game lumps them all into a universal “yes” category. What once might have been a dynamic “Will this mage or that rogue respond well to my flirting?” becomes more of a guaranteed success if you hit the right prompts. Gone is the tension of being turned down or discovering surprising connections. It’s ironically less inclusive in spirit, because it removes the distinct identity or orientation that each character might otherwise have.

A Shallow Tour

Set against the backdrop of earlier Dragon Age titles, The Veilguard tries to reintroduce us to Thedas, this time allowing us to visit places like Tevinter, Antiva, and beyond. Yet for a world so deeply established in prior games—replete with Chantry dogma, dwarven caste struggles, racism against elves, and the mage-templar conflict—The Veilguard often reduces these complexities to set dressing. It’s as though the script decided to focus on a single doomsday scenario and let the world’s richly layered social and political tensions slip into the background.

At times, you’ll see the Antivan Crows or the Venatori lurking around, and you’d expect them to pose real challenges rooted in the lore: conflicts about slavery, mage supremacy, and religious schisms. But the game rarely capitalizes on that potential. You never stand at the crossroads of a morally gray political standoff, forced to pick a side that will determine who thrives and who suffers. Instead, you meet the local faction, do a handful of linear quests, and move on. The city guards can’t even be bothered to react when the Venatori set up a camp around the corner; life in Thedas continues as if these self-proclaimed villains are invisible. It breaks immersion and underscores that the game’s promise of a richly detailed world is, in many spots, more set piece than lived-in reality.

There’s also a curious sense that the writing is hesitant to revisit or expand upon big lore questions left dangling from prior games. The outcome of the Inquisition, the uncertain future for mages and templars, or the underlying secrets of the Blight are brushed aside or relegated to throwaway dialogue. It’s akin to telling the audience, “That stuff happened, but we’re focusing on new drama now,” which would be fine if the new drama were equally gripping. But it never quite is. This might be the biggest letdown for longtime fans: Thedas is gorgeous to look at here, but it’s lost much of the robust socio-political intrigue that made it feel so alive.

Baffling Gameplay Restrictions

Why Can’t I Sell My Gear?
About ten hours into the game, I realized my inventory was filling up with weapons, armor, and random trinkets. Naturally, I popped over to a local merchant, expecting the usual “sell or buy” menu that’s basically an RPG staple. To my shock, there was no “sell” function for weapons and armor. The Veilguard simply doesn’t let you offload these for gold. This might not sound catastrophic at first, but when you’re drowning in gear you don’t need—especially in a game with lots of random drops—being unable to convert that surplus into currency is mind-boggling. Why is this missing?

Why Can’t I Unequip My Helmet?
RPGs often let you decide whether to equip or unequip your helmet. Some even offer transmog systems for aesthetic customization. Not here. You’re stuck with your chosen helmet (or another), and if it clashes with the rest of your armor or obscures your carefully crafted face, too bad. You can choose to have the style of another, but wholesale remove it. It’s one of those quality-of-life features I’d come to take for granted, and its absence rankles, especially given the game’s emphasis on a highly personalized hero.

Why No Equipment Preview?
Another head-scratcher: you can’t preview gear before buying or equipping it. Picture this: you see a fancy new greatsword in the shop. It could be described as the “Glorious Blade of the Hinterlands.” You’re not sure if it’ll look ridiculous or if it’ll fit your character’s vibe. The game doesn’t let you see it on your hero until after you’ve spent your precious gold to acquire it. Considering how many items you’ll come across, it’s a bizarre oversight that leads to wasted money and frustration.

Collectively, these design choices feel like holdovers from a build of different game or constraints that a patch might eventually address, but as of now, they remain glaring omissions that hamper the typical RPG flow. You can’t manage an economy if you can’t sell items; you can’t shape your style if you’re forced to wear a helm you loathe but it has the best stats; you can’t marvel at a new shield if you have no idea how it looks. Each quirk might seem small, but together they diminish the sense of immersion and player agency.

Drama vs. Stakes

Another recurring annoyance in modern RPGs—DA:TV included—is how they handle personal companion arcs in the midst of an urgent, apocalyptic scenario. Yes, Mass Effect 2 famously used loyalty missions to let you bond with or test your squadmates, but the difference is that those missions often tied back into the larger threat or deeply characterized the companion’s mindset, which in turn influenced endgame outcomes.

Here, you’ll often find yourself helping a companion with a random family issue that feels disconnected from the epic doom looming over Thedas. The repeated pattern of “my cousin has vanished” or “my estranged aunt did me wrong” comes across as trivial filler that slows the main plot to a crawl. It’s not that personal quests can’t work—intimate, character-focused storytelling can be a highlight. The problem is that the game rarely uses these quests to meaningfully reveal new angles of the companion’s moral code or worldview. Instead, you’re just playing detective or mediator for a domestic spat that doesn’t tie back into the bigger political or cosmic crisis.

There’s a missed opportunity to weave these personal arcs seamlessly into the broader narrative, revealing how certain familial tragedies might inform how the companion approaches the doomsday threat, or how old grudges might lead them to sabotage a mission or defy your orders. Instead, you help them solve it, you get a thank you, and that’s that. When the world is on the brink, it’s jarring to spend hours chasing an uncle’s stolen heirloom—particularly when it has no bearing on the overarching conflict.

Combat and the Grind

To give credit where it’s due: the game tries to merge fluid action combat with deeper role-playing trappings. Early on, it can feel exciting and fresh. You can dodge, parry, chain abilities, and see sparks fly in a flurry of cinematic kills. The skill trees are also fairly extensive, letting you specialize in certain elements or weapon styles.

Exploration faces a similar issue. The first time you see a new zone, you might be awed by the scenic panorama. But as you roam around in search of hidden chests or lore notes, you’ll discover that the environmental storytelling is thin. Occasionally you’ll find a note about a tragedy that occurred, but it rarely ties into an actual quest or chain of events. You end up with loot caches or “Solas statues” (just an example of random collectible mania) that feel game-y rather than integrated into the setting. This ironically undercuts the visual grandeur, turning each location into a glorified checklist of minor tasks.

The Endgame

Having finished every last quest, and explored a couple of romance options, I can confirm that The Veilguard does attempt to crank up the spectacle in its final acts. Some characters from earlier chapters reappear, a couple of old Dragon Age lore threads get a wink-and-nudge cameo, and certain plot points involving Solas or the state of Thedas come into sharper focus. Yet these revelations never quite land with the emotional weight or moral crunch that earlier entries managed. Even the final showdowns feel more like a corridor leading to a cutscene, rather than the culmination of your complicated decisions.

I found myself yearning for the messy politics of Origins, where every ally you gained might bring new moral baggage, or the grand alliance-building of Inquisition, which made me feel like each handshake or betrayal shaped the final war. In The Veilguard, victory arrives with minimal friction. Most companions stick around no matter what, conflicts rarely escalate into something irreparable, and the sense of “multiple possible endings” is toned down. It left me with a sense that, while I’d seen a decent fantasy story through to the end, it wasn’t the layered tapestry or moral crucible that keeps me replaying older BioWare games.

It’s not that this is a broken or utterly terrible game. On the contrary, it’s polished on a technical level, richly atmospheric in certain locations, and it can be entertaining in short bursts—particularly if you enjoy simpler action combat or if you’re eager to revisit Thedas in any form. But the game struggles with a fundamental identity crisis. It wants to be a grand epic, with doomsday stakes that threaten to reshape the entire world, yet it also wants to be a buddy road trip where everyone gets along and no one truly tests your moral boundaries.

I was willing—eager, even—to give BioWare the benefit of the doubt, to imagine that “BioWare magic” might salvage the rough edges. But now that I’ve seen the credits roll, I can say that magic never fully manifested. The design limitations, the toned-down approach to moral complexity, and the overuse of random drama companion quests in the midst of an apocalypse all add up to a game that, while still fun in places, never becomes the storied gem it might have been.

If you’re purely a Dragon Age devotee and you want to see every new corner of Thedas regardless of narrative stumbles, you’ll probably still find enjoyment here—maybe even enough to justify a full-price purchase. But if, like me, you hold these games to the standard of titles such as New Vegas or Disco Elysium, you might struggle to ignore the absence of real moral tension or the illusions of choice that never truly branch into different outcomes.