I let real-life dice rolls decide my Baldur's Gate 3 fate, and now I'm going (back) to hell

There's nothing more dangerous than a bright idea is there? Inspired by Baldur's Gate 3 narrator Amelia Tyler's (hilarious) Dark Urge run – in which she rolls a real d20 to determine just how full 'D'urge' she goes – I had an absolute stunner: roll a real dice to decide everything. Wouldn't that be amazing? Wouldn't I see so many things I'd never choose myself? What could go wrong? With dreams of adventure, a dash of Wild Magic for spice, and some half-baked 'rules' I'd not given nearly enough attention to, my new sorcerer ventured forth.

Nothing could stop me at first. Giddy from rolls that had me exploding neuron-nibbling tadpoles, slaying pleading pink brain-babies (R.I.P. Us), and surviving Lae'zel's skewering glare, I bounded towards Shadowheart's pod like a proud pup just toilet-trained. "You! Get me out of this damn thing!" she begged from her eldritch sardine tin. Drunk on hubris, I wanged my die across its tray, and… Shar forgive me; I rolled a two. "There's no time – I need to get out of here," it decreed I say. Gods, no, I didn't want to see this; become this. I blurted that awful line, tried to forget her "if you leave me, I'm dead – please", and hooned it to the helm to bring the whole fleshy frigate down. It might be fine, I soothed myself. Just a setback.

Dice, dice, baby

But Shadowheart wasn't among its guts on the beach. Hells, had I already bumped off an Origin? The important one, whose artefact would stop me growing tentacles? Phew, no – she was hammering on a door nearby. I now had one plan: gather my party. So simple, yet so crucial – how hard could it be? How many dialogue landmines were there, really? I approached, my plucky can-do attitude only a little dented. 

Five options popped up, all but one of them in the spirit of mending fences: I could offer a hand, a lockpick, some advice, or even my Wild-flavoured magic. Guess which one I rolled? "What you're making is a racket," I barked at her. I have to admit, I judged Shadowheart a little as she kept angling for an invitation to my one-muppet party after that. No matter, I'd rather take my chances without her anyway, a fresh roll commanded. Off she stormed as I covered my eyes in horror. This can't be happening, I need some pals, stat, and the dicey deities have already driven my best chance away. 

I soon found my way to Gale's arm, waggling from its abyss. "A hand? Anyone?" Oh, his wee naive voice. I braced, staring at the vindictive cube beside me. I wasn't doing Dark Urge – I'd be fine; he'd be fine. Right? 

I rolled a two, which was hardly a promising start. As ordered, I slapped his hand, wondering aloud what my life had come to that I was clobbering this sorry chap in jeopardy. A strength check came next, but I was a squishy sorcerer, so it failed, of course. Then another: the game demanded a bloody 12! I managed a four. With karmic dice switched off and no Inspiration for a re-roll, I peered between my fingers, anguished as I watched Gale – and all that could have been – slip away. "I'll perish in here. I'll perish…" he whimpered. I won't lie, I needed a moment after that one.

Roll with the punches

This couldn't be happening, I was still solo. "Hey! I need some help!" Astarion called nearby. I approached, afraid for him, before rolling a one: an offer of help. Gently now, I thought, as I tiptoed forward. But then that pasty rotter pinned me to the ground, his knife at my neck – it seemed only fair that my dice made me try (and fail) to both twist his arm and headbutt him. I can't quite believe he agreed to tag along on my dice roll's asking after that. Dude. But also, please gods, don't leave me. I stared at the teeny cube perched on my desk. I'd murdered a wizard in distress trying to wrest him from a literal doom spiral but recruited a sharp-fanged fop who'd threatened to spatchcock me? What next, you little bastard?

After a bruising goblin battle – having only a melee rogue and a sorcerer with a penchant for polymorphing into sheep will do that to you – my remaining optimism dissolved into goo. I told poor, put-upon Zevlor to naff off, rejected a (frankly, very needy) Shadowheart for the third time, and thoroughly demoralised some children, all on the roll of my dice. You're welcome, Faerûn. At least Wyll agreed, reluctantly, to join us. What a babe. 

Three does not a party make, though, and I was low on options. I'd go for Karlach – she might be top of Wyll's smite list, but what's an unruly chaos-magnet to do? Given my streak, I needed to tool up for my journey to find her, so I targeted Dammon for some pocket-plundering; I felt like shit, but it was hardly the worst thing I'd done that day. A few potions here, a crossbow there, what's the harm? But the dice weren't having it: my journey came to a crashing halt as I rolled too low and got caught. One big throw, now, to wriggle out of it: come on, gods, help a lass out! Well, of course they didn't: the next thing I knew, I was staring through cell bars. 

What an ignominious end to my grand experiment: banged up for shoplifting. As I watched goblin snotbag Sazza yelling in a cage nearby, I wondered how she'd got there. Maybe she'd put her fate in the hands of a crummy plastic cube, too.

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