Why You Liked … Dragon Age: Absolution

In a world where found family tropes reign supreme, Dragon Age: Absolution dares to ask: What if not every family is meant to stay found?

When Dragon Age: Absolution landed in 2022, some dismissed it as cookie-cutter fantasy. What the cries of, “It’s just a heist story with misfit heroes!” missed was that Absolution wasn’t trying to reinvent the wheel. It reminded us that stories don’t need to. I’m not here to tell you these criticisms are wrong. I’m here to suggest you they failed to understand the assignment. Dragon Age has thrived by blending familiar tropes with deeply human moments, and Absolution is no exception. Much like its 2009 progenitor, which riffed off the political intrigues of the War of the Roses, this series taps into timeless themes: betrayal, loyalty, and the fragility of bonds.

In his book The Seven Basic Plots, Booker argues that all stories can be boiled down to (and if you guessed seven you’re right) seven basic plots. There’s a certain remixing where writers may combine rags to riches with overcoming a monster, but still: those plots are pretty well understood. Dragon Age, way back in 2009, also understood this, which is why it cribs heavily from history. It wouldn’t be unfair to overlay its narrative with our own War of the Roses. The noble houses and political intrigues of Dragon Age look a little like the Yorkists and Lancastrians. The Grey Wardens and Templars echo elite military orders and religious authority figures throughout history. The Blight itself can be considered a metaphor for invading forces or disruptive influences.

Misunderstanding these parallels is understandable, and may have led people to unfairly weight reviews against Absolution. At the burgeoning time where gaming started to get out of the basement to really intersect humanity at large, gamers were generally younger and had less experience on the known plots. Now we’re all grizzled veterans telling those damn kids to get off our lawn. It leaves us exposed to our own experiences; you’re just not going to see that much new shit the more old shit you’ve seen, and we’ll ask for our prune juice while complaining that nothing feels ‘fresh’ anymore.

However! Dragon Age, like many BioWare properties, did something … exceptional. It took a basic story riffed from our history, did a search and replace on the names of the major factions, and then introduced human moments. The story of 2009’s Dragon Age isn’t really about overcoming the Blight. It’s about you, cruising across the world, doing great works with your crew. Your found family at your side, misfits all, perhaps saving the world and all its people. People remember the Blight and the Grey Wardens, but they talk about Alistair, Morrígan, Leliana, Sten, Oghren, Zevran, and even Dog.

We’ve all been taught that found families in fiction are meant to stay together—whether through blood, loyalty, or destiny. Dragon Age: Absolution asks a bold question: What if not every family is meant to stay found? What if the connections we make are just as fragile as the ones we break? While fantasy often romanticises the formation of bonds, Absolution strips this idealisation away, showing us that even the strongest connections can unravel when there’s a blade at your throat.

This is the trick that Dragon Age: Absolution remembers: we came for the story, but we stayed for the heroes.

The Dual Nature of Storytelling

The real reason Absolution thrives where so many fantasy narratives fall apart at the seams is because it’s not about the grand quest. There’s an almost entirely forgettable MacGuffin that no one can remember the name of. It needs to be found. We’re here because we want to see how all the people in the story interact with it, not because we give a shit about the MacGuffin.

And this is the thing BioWare does really well. Their plots are fine, but deftly seeded with fascinating characters doing cool shit. You want to know more about the people you’re along on the journey with. You want to know if they’ve found their family, and what the consequences of that are.

I heard of a thing the other day called a plot ticket. This is the idea that there can be a thing the heroes need to get or do, like finding a golden key to unlock a chest. The heroes need the key but it’s not actually plot relevant; you can delete the entire key, chest, and maybe the castle it’s in and the main story won’t change. What plot tickets really do is provide interaction between characters. How does the thief want to open the chest? What would the warrior do? Would the priest have a problem with it? This character interaction drives what we crave out of stories: the people, and how they deal with their situation and each other. The plot is the vehicle, not the destination; the ticket gets you on the ride, and allows the characters to make you feel something about the journey.

It’s this nuanced depth and focus on characters and relationships that Dragon Age: Absolution sticks the landing on. These concepts resonate well beyond the main plot and last until after the credits roll.

Main Plot or Sidequest?

I’m a leave-no-question-mark-behind gamer. Every time I see a side quest, I’ve got to get in there. This is because the side quests are almost always where some of the best stuff goes to hide.

The main plot of Absolution is a classic MacGuffin chase. The Circulum, whatever that is, needs finding, the bad guys need stopping, and there’s a heist gone wrong. But if you think that’s the point, you’ve missed the mark. The Circulum is a plot ticket—a golden key that gets us on the ride. What matters are the character interactions along the way. That’s what gives the heist its heart.

The beauty and simplicity of Dragon Age: Absolution is that it doesn’t need to beat you over the head with ‘plot’. You know what a heist gone wrong looks like, and you can probably even smell the politics and scheming intrigue overlaid atop the pile. What it does is use this background as an excuse to introduce you to the characters vibing along with each other. There’s the love story between Miriam and Hira, or the growing romance between Roland or Lacklon. The inevitable betrayal, and then the other betrayal. The monster Rezaren who sees himself as saviour, or Qwydion’s comic relief when we need it most. It’s being enfolded in these events, and how this allows a different interpretation to a heist gone wrong, which gives us the popcorn fun of Absolution. It’s not asking a lot, but giving so much in return.

And when you see Absolution’s deft handling of these events, it makes you wonder what’s really driving the story. Is it the plot, or the side quests? Is it the MacGuffin, or the people pursuing it? 

There’s a great example in the backstory between Miriam and Rezaren. More than setup, it allows us to question loyalty, trauma, and how your past haunts your future. This echoes one of the series’ most important questions: can a family by unfound?

Plot Tickets as Character Windows

Each golden key unlocks moments that can either bring characters closer together or send them flying apart like a poorly-made IKEA shelf. One little wobble and suddenly, everyone’s involved in a complex drama of ‘who’s going to pick up the pieces’? Except for some reason in this drama, everyone has a sword.

In Absolution, the quest for the Circulum (our golden key in this case) is standard heist fare. But the Circulum isn’t just a heist MacGuffin. It’s a mirror reflecting each character’s true desires. For Rezaren, it’s a symbol of his misguided redemption. For Miriam, it represents everything she’s fought against: the use of power to control and destroy. By the end, we realise the Circulum isn’t the point. It’s the kaleidoscope lens through which each character’s growth, or downfall, is revealed. The ‘plot ticket’ is our car, but the passengers and their journeys make it memorable. It serves as a balance between plot and personal stakes.

The simple symbolism of the Circulum is clear: it’s a golden ring, two snakes chasing each other eternally. Its power is not, as the series overtly describes it, to bring tremendous power to the Trevinter Imperium. Its power is to unite or destroy us all. The person who controls the Circulum can accomplish wonders, but sometimes the best wonder is what’s already in front of us. It just took an epic quest to realise it. It’s through the Circulum’s ring we get to see how Miriam grows to trust those she doesn’t want to, and how her past loves are the very fault lines she’s been running from.

The other plot tickets are less obvious. Roland, Miriam’s oldest and dearest friend, falls hard for Lacklon. This growing relationship lets us see not the inner mechanism of Roland’s motivations, but the complicated clockwork of gruff Lacklon. He’s apparently motivated by cash, but even that’s a smokescreen, a cloak he wears against the tarnished grime of a segregated, racist world. Through Roland’s attention, Lacklon opens to the group, and to the world. He becomes a hero, but he’s the hero who brought an entire bandolier of grenades.

Or maybe we want to dig into the bad guys. Rezaren’s monstrous not because he bathes in the blood of babies, but because he’s so damn reasonable about infanticide. The foil of the honourable Tassia, a long-time friend, is a complicated undertone. We want to see the Tevinter Imperium as villains, heinous murderers with sharpened teeth who built wealth atop a slave empire. That’s not wrong at a surface level, but Tassia’s voyage to the truth leads her to a troubling destination. She may be more ally to the good guys than the bad, but the complicated fabric of her past, her deep affection for and faith in Rezaren, and the structures of the Imperium mean it’s not as simple as reversing her cloak.

Rezaren embodies a paradox: a man capable of love but so blinded by his obsession that he justifies monstrous acts in the name of redemption. His complex dynamic with Tassia—a character torn between loyalty and morality—mirrors the show’s core tension between personal bonds and ideology. Tassia’s inner conflict is the audience’s window into Rezaren’s transformation from a once-loving figure into a ‘reasonable monster’, the kind of villain who believes his righteousness overshadows his brutality, or worse, erases it. This duality is key: it’s not just about two sides of a conflict, but two sides of humanity’s darkest instincts.

The series explores the complicated past of Tevinter, of Rezaren and Tassia, and all the people on either side. See, it’s easy for a slaver to say their chattel is family. But the chattel never sees in that way. No matter how well you treat an object, if you see it as a thing, it’s never a person. It’s never free. And perhaps there’s no way back from this. If you were once slave and master, no matter that neither of you chose those roles, can you ever be equals? Friends? Family? We expect people to bond, to bury the axe, to put aside differences. We crave redemption, but Dragon Age: Absolution shows a messier, realistic take on how people might perceive things based on their positions, now or in the past.

Absolution is confident in touching on other tropes with irreverence. Making a mage that isn’t reverent of magic is refreshing. The animation of facial expressions especially during comedic or dramatic moments are brilliant in the extreme. These stories are complicated. There’s no easy way through to seeing people as ‘good’ or ‘evil’. You need to make up your own mind without a standard Western moral compass to guide you. Characters have their own motivations and principles, and cleve to what they believe is right based on their background. But even the least likeable are treasures; Locklan is designed to be gruff, but you can’t but help cheer for his eventual bonding moment. Roland is a dashing counterpoint to Miriam’s excess. Qwydion’s irreverence is a foil to Locklan’s grittiness, but they partner to bring the fun.

It’s this that deeply parallels the Dragon Age games, but also some of the best stories ever told. ‘Side quests’ enrich the experience by showing us character depth, and Absolution does the same.

Absolution isn’t afraid to show humour alongside the drama. I’m a long time big Ashly Burch fan, and her work on the qunari mage Qwydion is some deeply inspired showmanship. Qwydion is there to remind us that humour is the light in the darkness. She also pokes gentle fun at normalism, being a woman of tremendous size, and there are some warming moments between her qunari mage and the elven slaves of Tevinter. And then there’s the bar fight. This whole scene is constructed to show fun alongside tension. It’s not afraid to show a found family protecting one of their own while poking the bear with a big stick. 

Unfinding the Family

Dragon Age has often used the found family trope, as has just about everyone else in the world. We like it because it mirrors our lives. The family you choose are the best kind of family.

Or, is it? Absolution presents a more complex interpretation of the trope, like the family reunion where you realise Uncle Larry really should have stayed at the buffet table. Characters come together, but there’s a lingering sense of fragility. Their relationships are filled with doubts and betrayals. This isn’t a family that can stay together easily, but if they don’t, we’re all boned. 

Miriam and Hira’s relationship is fraught with tension. Their loyalty and love are constantly tested, both by their past, and newfound betrayal. Lacklon and Roland’s dynamic is a lighter question into whether we can bond over shared goals when there are so many differences we need to overcome. And the central theme of loyalty and the dark side of found family? Well, Absolution asks if families can be unfound if you burn the entire thing to the waterline.

See, the central theme of the series is about character moments, but there are heroes and villains on both side of the line. Just as Tassia questions her Imperium masters, Miriam is exposed to questions about whether the devil is all the way evil. And this brings us to a central recognition, the concept that those with privilege can reach down with a hand of support, but the strength is only ever given on their terms. The wealthy and the powerful won’t beggar themselves, not in our world or in Dragon Age’s. It’s an uncomfortable truth we must face. We’re willing to give, but only so much, and only on our terms.

It’s been said that it’s difficult to get a person to believe something that’s at odds with how they’re paid. They just can’t do what’s not in their best interests; people aren’t really wired that way. Kimberly Brookes’ performance is nuanced and profound. I’ve no doubt that as a woman of colour she has felt the sharp edge of discrimination a thousand times over, and is perhaps what lends so much strength to her portrayal of Miriam. She is strong when needed, but plagued by doubt. This central construct of doubt, and the Imperium that gave it to her, is a real world reminder that we gaslight the shit out of so many people. It’s easier to recognise it in fiction, and question how we might recognise the dual nature of giving and privilege.

Challenging the nature of found family is part of Absolution’s success. We can find a family, and we can unfind them, too. Our loyalties are true to our core beliefs, not the words we say when others are listening. There can be heroes on both sides of a war, no matter how difficult it is for audiences to comprehend because they just want to be told who the bad guys are. Absolution is unflinching in telling the stories that need to be told.

Personal Moments are the Real Ride

Where Absolution does its best work is in its character moments. Whether it’s the stolen kiss between Roland and Lacklon, or Tassia sparing her enemies when she has them dead to rights, these side quests are moments that show us why we care about this crew, despite the broader storyline feeling more familiar.

We get to see what friends are made of, and whether we can really trust anyone when stakes are so high. Whether you can learn to give up distrust for trust, and re-find that family you thought you’d never have. There are times we yearn for enemies to be on the heroes’ side, and want to throw heroes to the wolves. This mirrors the best parts of the Dragon Age games, where loyalty missions or personal side stories are often what players remember the most, even though they’re technically ‘side content’.

Absolution manages to get this job done, all in a wrapper of stylish, sublime animation with wicked sick action. It mirrors the delight, the fun, and the intimacy of Prime’s Critical Role series. Its artwork is high on light and colour, alongside epic action moments anime would be jealous of. There’s nothing quite so badass as seeing an elven assassin come for what’s hers, and seeing her tear down the walls of the monsters who trained her to kill their enemies.

In the end, it’s the small moments—Tassia’s mercy, Lacklon’s gruff charm, Roland’s loyalty—that stick with us. The grand quest fades, but the people we meet along the way stay with us. And isn’t that the real magic of storytelling? When it’s the people, not the plot, we remember long after the credits roll?

‘Side content’ is just another term for ‘deeper stories’. It’s what makes characters real and relatable. It’s the intimacy, both good and bad, that Absolution shares with us, giving back what we miss most about our time with the Dragon Age games.

Character-Driven Fantasy

Dragon Age: Absolution’s plot is like a comfortable old sofa. It’s a little too familiar but still somehow manages to support your back.

Where it triumphs is the understanding that fantasy works best when the focus shifts to the human (or elf, or dwarf, or qunari) element. The series uses the heist structure to create multiple plot tickets for personal stories to really resonate. Absolution gives us a chance to fall in love with its characters, much like the games do, through smaller moments in the grand canvass of warring empires.

It explores side stories better than most movies do. People who came for the main plot missed the point, the richness, of what this six-part series offers. There’s a deep moment of reflection this might bring when we see that the hot mess of Redemption’s web series scoring a 6.1/10, but Absolution only rating a 6.4/10. These kinds of scores give me deep trust issues with any online review system. Not every family is meant to stay found, and there’s real cost to families breaking apart. Sometimes, picking up those pieces resonates more.

By the end of Absolution, we aren’t left with a tidy resolution or a triumphant sense of unity. Instead, we see the painful process of ‘unfinding’—how even the strongest bonds can be tested, shattered, or betrayed. And that’s what sets Absolution apart: in the Dragon Age world, families are as likely to come undone as they are to come together. And our heroes know it’s time to get to work. As Absolution leaves us on the brink of a second season, it doesn’t depart with the thrill of plot twists but with the quieter, more lasting impression of character. We care about these people—not because they’re part of an epic quest, but because they are fragile, flawed, and achingly real. In a world where the most important battles are the ones fought within, it’s the characters who stay with us, long after the plot ticket’s been punched. 

That’s why, at the end of Absolution, I’m left thinking about Miriam, Rowland, Qwydion, and Locklan. Heroes not because they save the world, but because they’re flawed, relatable, and strong. Despite being elf, dwarf, or qunari, there are imminently human. In a world full of epic deeds, the magic of Absolution is how it dares us to invest in character over quest. What if the real quest is learning to trust again? It demands we reflect on the idea of family. Found, lost… and found again.