I still remember the first time I loaded up Avowed, that mix of excitement and curiosity bubbling up as I prepared to step into the Living Lands. The game wastes no time establishing your importance - you're Godlike, touched by divine power, yet here's the twist: you're the first of your kind who doesn't know which god actually chose you. It's like being handed the keys to a luxury car but nobody tells you how to drive it. This setup immediately hooked me, though I'll admit the initial hours felt somewhat familiar, like revisiting an old neighborhood where all the houses look similar but you can't quite remember which one is yours.
The real turning point comes during that surprising event early in the game - I won't spoil it, but it's the moment where the narrative shifts from "what's my divine purpose" to "how do I stop this plague from consuming everything." Suddenly, your personal mystery becomes intertwined with the fate of the entire Living Lands. I found myself genuinely invested at this point, imagining what I would do with such power and responsibility. The plague itself manifests in visually striking ways - entire villages consumed by crystalline growths that shimmer with unnatural beauty while slowly killing everything they touch. It reminded me of watching frost patterns spread across a windowpane, beautiful yet deadly.
Here's where things get interesting though - the game presents these two major narrative threads like parallel train tracks that you expect will eventually converge in some spectacular fashion. But instead of delivering a breathtaking junction, they simply merge in the most predictable way possible. It's like waiting for a fireworks display and getting sparklers instead. Throughout my 40-hour playthrough, I kept waiting for that moment where the story would truly surprise me, where the connection between my godless state and the plague would reveal some mind-bending truth. Instead, we get answers that feel like they were pulled from fantasy trope handbook chapter 3.
That's not to say the writing lacks charm entirely. Some of my favorite moments came from casual conversations with companions where I could choose between serious, thoughtful responses or snarky, humorous retorts. There's this one scene where you're negotiating with a village elder about quarantine measures, and the option to sarcastically suggest they just "think happy thoughts" to cure the plague actually made me laugh out loud. These moments provide much-needed levity, like finding wildflowers growing through cracks in concrete. The dialogue system allows you to shape your character's personality in ways that feel authentic to how real people might react under pressure.
What fascinates me about the Godlike mystery is how it plays with identity themes. Imagine waking up one day with superhuman abilities but no idea where they came from - it's the ultimate "who am I" scenario. The game could have explored this through more personal, intimate moments rather than grand plot revelations. I found myself more interested in small character interactions than the main storyline. For instance, there's a side quest involving a farmer whose family has been affected by the plague where the writing feels more genuine and heartfelt than any of the major plot points.
The combat system deserves mention too - it's satisfying in a visceral way that the narrative often isn't. When you unleash your Godlike powers in battle, there's real weight and impact. I particularly enjoyed the ice magic, watching enemies shatter into crystalline fragments. It's in these moments that you truly feel the potential of what the game could have been if the narrative matched the gameplay's creativity. I must have spent at least 15 hours just experimenting with different ability combinations, finding joy in the mechanical aspects even when the story failed to engage me.
What's particularly telling is how I remember specific combat encounters and funny dialogue exchanges weeks after finishing the game, while the main plot details have already started to fade. The plague that's supposed to be this world-ending threat often feels like background noise rather than an immediate danger. There's a disconnect between the severity of what we're told is happening and what we actually experience. I never truly felt the urgency the game kept insisting was there, which is a shame because the setup had so much promise.
Looking back, Avowed feels like a talented artist who sketched an incredible outline but forgot to fill in the details. The Living Lands are visually stunning, the combat feels great, and the initial premise grabs you immediately. But the narrative execution lacks the courage to take risks or subvert expectations. It's the gaming equivalent of a chef using premium ingredients to make a sandwich - technically competent but missing that special sauce that transforms a good meal into an unforgettable one. I'd still recommend it for the gameplay and world-building, but manage your expectations for the story. Sometimes the journey matters more than the destination, and in Avowed's case, the journey has enough bright spots to make it worthwhile despite its narrative shortcomings.
