Dear Swen Vincke and the Larian Studios Team,
Like millions of players around the world, I was completely blown away by the monumental achievement that is Baldur's Gate 3. Having already deeply loved both Divinity: Original Sin and Divinity: Original Sin 2, I knew your studio was a masterclass in giving players genuine narrative agency. Naturally, when you recently unveiled your next massive project — officially titled simply Divinity, a next-level, ultra-cinematic RPG promised to be your biggest game yet — the entire industry took notice. Whether players are speculating on your gorgeous new proprietary engine or the potential implementation of new cinematic perspectives, the hype is thoroughly real.
But as a fellow game designer, there is one tiny, fundamental feature that gets critically overlooked in modern AAA titles that I want to address in this letter.
I call it "The SaveGame Trap", and it is an invisible barrier that prevents us players from experiencing the true, uncompromising emotional depths of your writing.
The Mechanics, Dynamics, and Aesthetics of the Save State
To understand how a simple utility tool can quietly undermine our gaming experience, we have to look through the lens of the classic MDA framework in game design: Mechanics, Dynamics, and Aesthetics.
- Mechanics are the base rule sets and hard-coded inputs of the game (e.g., a Quick-Save and Quick-Load feature).
- Dynamics are the runtime behaviors that emerge when a player interacts with those mechanics (e.g., compulsive saving before every major milestone).
- Aesthetics are the ultimate emotional responses and experiences evoked in the player (e.g., tension, fear, true triumph).
While playing Baldur's Gate 3, I caught myself constantly trapped in a frantic cycle of manual saving. I saved before every combat encounter, every tricky skill check, and especially before major narrative decisions. I vividly remember a heavy, monumental decision at the end of Act 2 involving a specific companion cleric and her life-altering choice — no spoilers here for the uninitiated. Instead of facing the terrifying weight of that moment, I hit F5, dabbled deeply into both versions, weighed the outcomes of each choice, and reloaded to pick the one I "liked" more.
I was striving for a self-engineered "perfect" storyline. But by having a safety net just a single hotkey away, the fundamental aesthetic — the raw emotion, the lingering dread, the profound gravity of making an impossible choice — was instantly diluted.
Breaking the Sandbox: Why Narrative Weight Requires Permanence
When game designers give players the unconditional ability to rewind time at free will, we inadvertently transform a masterfully written narrative into a consequence-free sandbox. But narrative-heavy RPGs should not be regarded or treated as mere sandboxes.
The reason real-life decisions feel meaningful is precisely because they cannot be undone. You only get to make that choice once, in that moment, with the information you had at the time. There are no rewinds, and no repeats. Just you, the decision, and whatever comes next. If we want a story to feel truly impactful, we must live with the consequences of our decisions.
When a game replicates that constraint, something remarkable happens. The narrative — the one the writers and designers intended to be experienced — stops being a branching flowchart the player navigates and becomes something closer to a lived experience.
The Ironman Psychology: Embracing Constraints for True Attachment
Playing with a single, auto-updating save can feel deeply uncomfortable at first. You will get frustrated when a negotiation fails, an ambush goes sideways, or an accidental choice leads to a tragic narrative outcome. You lose the comfortable illusion of total control.
But like in real life, with all its beautiful and tragic constraints, that discomfort is not a flaw — it is the point.
This is not about making the game frustratingly difficult. It is not about punishing the player. This is about the fundamental difference between experiencing a narrative and curating one. It is about protecting the player from betraying their own emotional experience. It is an overarching philosophy of narrative design, built from the ground up: one character, one save slot, one continuous storyline.
A curious thing happens the longer you play under these conditions: you become attached. You start caring about your character in a way that free-save players simply cannot access. Every fight carries stakes. Every conversation matters. Every decision you made — even the ones you later regret — becomes part of your unique story. Every victory is an earned miracle. Every loss, an unforgettable chapter.
The constraint does not diminish the experience. It is the experience.
An Open Letter to Swen and the Larian Team
Larian Studios has always been defined by your incredible bravery. You trusted players to embrace deep, uncompromised tactical systems when the rest of the industry said turn-based RPGs were dead.
My open plea for your upcoming journey into Divinity is to trust us players once again. Don't let us sandbox away the emotional stakes of your next immersive narrative. Build the experience around the magnificent weight of permanence. Prevent us from taking the easy way out, and force us to sit with the beautifully messy consequences of our actions.
You do not need to remove free saving entirely. But offer a first-class, intentionally designed single-save mode — not as a challenge mode, but as the intended way to experience the story at its fullest emotional depth. Name it something that reflects what it actually is: not a punishment, but a commitment.
If you design around this tiny, crucial constraint, you won't just deliver another great RPG — you will deliver a deeply transformative, emotionally unforgettable experience that mirrors the beautiful, irreversible permanence of life itself.
With the utmost respect and anticipation,
Aurel — Player, game designer, and someone who still thinks about that Act 2 decision in BG3