There are No Consequences
t's difficult to feel guilty when playing an evil character in Skyrim. In other games, wanton murder and general terror are one-way guilt trips that leave many players unable to look at themselves in the mirror. But in Skyrim, frolicking through fields and punting all fluffy bunnies who dare oppose you feels right as rain.
So when you attempt to turn an innocent Argonian into a handbag or rob a blind man, well, blind, guilt's noticeably absent from the equation because Skyrim's absolutely terrible at offering tangible consequences for your misdeeds.
Admittedly, if the player embarks on a killing spree, the bounty system kicks in and guards leap into action. But a low-cost bribe / fine is all that's needed to release the shackles and saunter on, whistling a merry tune.
Removing the arbitrary good/evil meter so many other games employ is a step in the right direction, but there's nothing taking its place. Instead, in order to let you meander about as an RPG Main Character at leisure, Skyrim opts to be a static, consequence-free world that revolves around you. And so, every being with vocal chords won't let you take two steps without jumping at the chance to spew some canned catchphrase in your direction.
This sort of thing works in, say, Modern Warfare, where meticulously linear scripting rules the day, but in Skyrim's wide-open reaches? Not so much. And that's just the beginning.
For instance, let's say you've become the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. You've got enough blood on your hands to paint a city made entirely of farmhouses and filled with fire trucks. But you can merrily skip over to the comparatively saintly Companions, assume a position of ultimate power, and nobody so much as bats an eyelash. That's like watching the Justice League roll out the red carpet for Lex Luthor.
Moreover, as leader, you can then immediately hit the road and never look back. And, of course, no one cares. Once again, the world's on pause.
Players are Impotent
In attempting to give players everything and ye olde kitchen sink without any real strings attached -- whether that means letting us lead every organization short of the Boy Scouts or clumsily stumbling through every spell in the book -- Skyrim renders us impotent. Our actions can't actually affect or change Bethesda's pristine world, and said world can't really push us around either. It's like slobbering all over the thick glass window at a pastry shop.
The worst part is that, when Skyrim tiptoes near the brink of real, tangible consequence, it feels like it's about to stumble across something brilliant. For example, you've probably hacked 'n' slashed many a bandit to the point of crawling away while pitifully begging for mercy. A first, you might have legitimately tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. Before long, though, they simply stand up, mutter something about "not letting it end like this," and practically leap at the pointy end of your blade. They, of course, perish, but the status quo lives to fight another day.
Can you imagine the possibilities, though, if Bethesda didn't merely tease us with that kind of convention-breaking moment? Perhaps spared enemies could eventually offer to join your cause, grateful that you didn't fill their face with arrows such that they spent their final moments looking like a walrus. Others, meanwhile, could maybe flee and grow stronger, biding their time until they see fit to seek vengeance. Same for, say, family members of random innocents you've slain. How much more intense would an already unpredictable dragon battle be with the possibility of some revenge-fueled pseudo-stalker breathing down your neck?
Skyrim comes closer than just about any other game to creating a truly believable world. And yet, it's only when we're this close that we can really see how far we still have left to go.
