Lee

Baldur’s Gate 3 is not really Dungeons & Dragons—it’s Divinity: Original Sin 2.5 in a Forgotten Realms skin. True D&D thrives on infinite improvisation, toolbox freedom, and a world that bends around the players. BG3 instead corrals you into dialogue wheels, capped classes, missing spells, and stories dominated by Larian’s pre-written origin characters. Your custom Tav isn’t the star, they’re the cameraman for Gale, Astarion, and the rest of the soap opera. The high-level weirdness of D&D—Teleport, Wish, planar travel—never even enters the picture, because the game stops at level 12.

What you’re left with is a shiny, cinematic theme park ride built on Divinity’s bones. Exploding surfaces, puzzle-box combat, and melodramatic companions make it feel like DOS2 polished with motion capture, not a leap into true D&D. And once players crack the system—like duo’ing the whole game on Tactician with Tav and Karlach by level 10—the rails show. The game is fun, even excellent as a CRPG, but it isn’t the tabletop spirit it pretends to be. It’s Divinity in Faerûn cosplay.

Baldur’s Gate 3 has done something wonderful—it’s gotten an enormous number of people curious about tabletop play. The game shows off just enough dice rolling, character classes, and fantasy adventuring to spark interest in Dungeons & Dragons. That spark matters. Plenty of folks who never would have cracked open a Player’s Handbook are now considering sitting at a real table with friends, dice, and imagination, and that’s a net win for the hobby.

But let’s be clear: BG3 is as much D&D as a French fry is a whole potato. It’s cut from the same root, sure, but it’s only a sliver of the full experience, reshaped and deep-fried into something else entirely. BG3 uses maybe ten percent of the actual 5e system, with heavy house rules and game-engine limits doing most of the work. At the tabletop, there’s no dialogue wheel, no restricted options, and no level cap at 12—you’re limited only by what you can imagine and what your DM allows. BG3 is delicious in its own right, but it’s not the whole meal.

Borderlands 4 looks less like a bold new chapter and more like a number slapped on a box to keep the cash flowing. Instead of offering something fresh or experimental, Gearbox seems intent on recycling the same grind-heavy systems that have already begun to wear out their welcome. Players aren’t asking for another mandatory treadmill disguised as progression—they’re asking for meaningful fun, new ideas, and gameplay that rewards skill and creativity. By doubling down on stat inflation and chore mechanics, the game risks alienating the very audience that kept the series alive in the first place.

What makes this worse is that Randy Pitchford himself has admitted he’s “nervous” about the direction. If the person at the helm isn’t confident this is fun, then why expect the players to be? Borderlands has always thrived on personality, humor, and chaotic action, but Borderlands 4 looks like a retreat into safe, tired design choices that benefit accountants more than gamers. Consumers don’t want another sequel with minor tweaks—they want either true innovation in the franchise or something entirely new. Instead, this feels like a product no one actually wants—not the fans, not the creators—just a brand trying to survive on name recognition.