I installed Daggerfall on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, my microwave learned to speak Tamrielic. By Thursday, time stopped functioning in any linear fashion, and my dog had a Daedric artifact.
This isn’t just a game. It’s an event horizon for mortal understanding. You don’t play Daggerfall — you enter it, and it enters you back, like a polite yet horrifying Lovecraftian entity wearing a DOS prompt.
Let’s start with the map. The “map” is roughly the size of actual Europe. When I tried to ride from one town to another, my character aged 23 years, my computer fan achieved lift-off, and the concept of “distance” ceased to have meaning. NASA called me to ask if I’d opened a wormhole.
Then there’s the character creator. You can choose your class, your race, and exactly which limb of Akatosh you wish to pledge your soul to. I rolled a Breton knight who somehow majored in lycanthropy and existential despair. Ten minutes later, he was bitten by a rat, became a werebat, and accidentally declared war on gravity.
The bugs? Oh, the bugs are divine. They’re not glitches — they’re procedural manifestations of chaos. Once, I fell through the floor and reemerged as the King of Daggerfall. Another time, the walls disappeared, and I glimpsed Todd Howard’s first thought. I tried to quit the game, but Daggerfall crashed Windows itself, rolled a d20, and rebooted as a sentient operating system.
The soundtrack? Gregorian chants echoing through the corridors of madness. The sound of wind that whispers, “You will never finish this questline.” I left my PC running overnight, and when I woke up, my toaster had joined the Mages Guild.
After 400 hours, I realized something profound: Daggerfall isn’t coded in C. It’s written in the language of creation. Every time you boot it up, the universe subtly reshapes itself. Causality flickers. I got a parking ticket in a timeline that no longer exists.
Final Verdict:
10/10 — My life is now an open-world RPG.