Every time their gazes tug down,
They think us monsters, then men,
Predators, then persons again,
Beasts, then beings,
Horrors & then humans.
– Amanda Gorman, “Lucent”
One of the reasons why Baldur’s Gate 3 so quickly became one of my favourite games is because it does an excellent job in going against the expectations. Today I want to talk a little about how it handles picturing monsters in its narrative. Prepare to read about goblins and other creatures, and then – inevitably – about Astarion and vampire spawns.
A lot of games (be it D&D or other titles, tabletop or video games) draw a neat, clean line between the protagonists and antagonists. So much we usually don’t even bat an eye when the “good guys’” bodycount gets ridiculously high. We’re used to the idea that cutting through the swathes of thugs, goblins or demons is part of the convention. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it: after all, we’re talking about a form of entertainment. It’s just my personal preference that I especially enjoy titles that subvert this trope (because BG3 isn’t, of course, the only medium that does this).
The humanisation I want to talk about starts with a very simple thing: giving a name. When a creature gets a name, it stops being an anonymous part of a crowd (or a pack, or a swarm). To give something or someone a name is to make it familiar, to tame it a little. We can observe it in everyday life: we name pets, plants, possessions. And sometimes we decide to change our own names to better reflect who we are or who we have become. Names have power and significance.
Imagine how delighted I was when in Act 1 I discovered goblins, and many other monsters have names. Even better, they have distinct personalities (sic!) and individual quirks. They aren’t just scripted combat encounters. Crusher perfumes his feet and adorns his toes with jewelry; he wants to feel important, and possibly to overthrow Minthara and other high ranking Absolutists. Piddle likes reading, even if some words cause him difficulties. Among this ragtag gang I think my favourite is Klagga. The poor lad loves poetry and nice clothes (let’s just agree, for the sake of this post, that pants looted from a dead dwarf count as nice), but he keeps it a secret because he doesn’t want other goblins to see him as soft. He writes love letters to Minthara, which are dreadful, and by that – all the more endearing. I could go on for a long time, but let me conclude the thought with this: when I spared Fezzerk and Racha in Moonrise Towers, I really hoped to meet those little ruffians again (or, at the very least, to hear from or about them).
Tracker Klagga: Some of these words are real pretty. But if the lads find out how much I enjoy it, they'll stick ME on the spit.
Similarly, you can chat with ogres, hobgoblins, even some gnolls. And the dialogue options aren’t limited to the good old “Prepare to die, you beast”. I especially like how you can free “Timothy”, “Barnabus” and “Tomelia” from mental thrall, and they’ll side with you later. Compared to slaughtering your way through the entire gnoll stronghold in Baldur’s Gate 1, it really feels fresh.
And when I thought we can’t go any further than that (I know, I’m going a bit anachronically, forgive me), I was elated to find out we can meet non-hostile illithids. Again, this isn’t something that happens during your average D&D session – and I’d wager it’s even more rare to be able to ally yourself with one, not to mention to romance one.
Now, in the light of all of the above, let’s talk about Astarion and what makes him the most developed example of humanising monsters.
His case is more complex, but also less immediately obvious – at least in the wider context of the popular culture. Vampires have a long history of being portrayed as hungry beasts – and almost just as long a history of being used as a mirror to examine our own humanity. They occupy a unique niche: they’re neither dead, nor alive; no longer mortal, but not beasts entirely. They’re a perfect narrative tool if you want to discuss the themes of what it means to be a human, how to reconcile morality with predatory instincts, whether there are possibilities of redemption etc. It has been done before and in this sense, Astarion’s story isn’t doing anything new.
So when I first learned he was a vampire, the “revelation” was almost lost on me. First, because it was quite obvious (purposefully, I think), and second, because I’m so used to vampire characters being protagonists in various media, I took his true identity in stride.
But when I took a step back to think about it from the setting’s point of view, I realised he actually belonged with all the goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, gnolls and illithids, not with the player character and other companions.
His place was in the Monster Manual. In the bestiary. In the book that tells you what kind of creatures to throw against a party of adventurers, so they can earn their experience points and advance a level.
And, realistically, that’s what should happen in the game. The moment Tav/Durge and the rest of the companions learn of Astarion’s true identity, they should grab a pitchfork, skewer the bloodsucking abomination, then pat themselves on the shoulders and call it a day, right?
(Which, ironically, BG3 actually allows: we can stake Astarion and, if I recall correctly, we’re not able to bring him back afterwards. And the indifferent reactions of the rest of the party really make you think, especially when you're aware how much they learn to care for Astarion if he's spared.)
Still, the game gives us the unique chance to get to know the monster (and not just as an NPC, but as a full-fledged companion): to become familiar with him, to learn about him, his needs, his views, his experiences, what shaped him. To engage on a very intimate level, and I don’t mean physicality here. To gentle him and to build a relationship with him. And once we go through this process, we may realise he was never a monster in the first place. Or maybe he is – by the bestiary’s standards – but in the long run, that label proves meaningless. We can even observe how he himself struggles with this dilemma, how he tries to figure out his own identity, to decide where he fits in the world.
When Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, he made vampires the metaphor for the fears of the contemporary age: they represented barbarism, animalistic forces and sinful sexuality. They were the dangerous “other” that came literally at night to overturn the social order and disrupt the civilised world.
Here, we’re invited to bond with this “other”, and to recognise a person behind the mask of the beast. He doesn’t have to be a monster. He doesn’t have to be an enemy. We don’t have to give in to the fear of the unknown. It is our decision how we perceive and label him.
And once we had the chance to show Astarion kindness and understanding, the game raises the stakes: what if there’s more creatures like him? If you can see humanity in one vampire spawn, can you see it in seven? And we’re introduced to his siblings: Petras, Dalyria, Leon, Aurelia, Violet, Yousen. They all have names. They all have distinct personalities (though not all are explored equally). We learn a little bit about their pasts, their hopes, what’s important to them.
And then the game asks: what if there’s more still? Not just seven, but let’s say, seven thousand?
You know how huge numbers are just too abstract for our brains to process and they become a statistic? One could ask: why seven thousand specifically? Why not just seventy? That’s still a lot, but easier to digest. But I think the choice was deliberate: to give the player a number that it’s hard to wrap their head around. To show the mechanism: you can come to care about one spawn or even seven, but seven thousand suddenly proves troublesome to imagine. Just how much is that? It’s a small town.
So we have this crowd that may become a blur in our minds; at this point, it might be tempting to dehumanise the victims simply because of the sheer number. It’s almost as if the game is testing our resolve. But we do meet some of them: the shy Sebastian or the little Chessa, to name only two. The crowd, even if mostly anonymous, isn’t entirely faceless.
But even that isn’t the end of the story. If we decide to spare Cazador’s victims and free them, after they get to the Underdark and start a community there, we learn one more very important thing in the game’s epilogue. The Gur, the people who killed Astarion in the first place, and who dedicated their lives to eradicating monsters like him (it’s worth noting the bitter irony here: apparently killing him once wasn’t enough), learn compassion. This illustrates an important principle: the best way to accept the “other”, that unfamiliar stranger who instills fear in us, may be through exposure. The Gur never tried to befriend their quarry – and as I imagine, the said quarry never gave them a chance or a reason to do so. But once their own children turned into vampire spawns, the tragedy sprouted an opportunity to finally see a different side of things.
The letter from the Gur; read the full text here
I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this recently. How our brains are built to avoid the unfamiliar, and therefore how easy it is to accuse “the other” of being a threat, a monster. How we perceive differences as danger. Sure, on the fundamental level, we don’t see the goblins change – they remain unrepentant and prone to violence (it’s stated they have become more organised only because of the Absolute’s influence). But Astarion and the freed spawns are a different story. Their fundamental nature doesn't change either – I don't even think it would be fair to demand such a change – but they are willing to learn to coexist, if only the other side shows the same willingness. And to see this story through, we need to throw the “common sense” to the wind, to let the fearsome stranger in, and to look for similarities rather than differences.
