If you had to choose a best play through: high or low chaos, corvo or emily? Who to kill and who to spare?
That’s a tough one, because constructing narratives out of any given set of choices is a ton of fun. I don’t have a ‘best’, but here’s one for high chaos week:
Play as Emily. Worried about your father, your city. Shaking with anger, that everything could be taken away from you with such ease.
Stand for a long moment underneath Grim Alex’s wall of trophies. When you chewed through the city’s finest to get there you lopped off heads, fingers, arms. You never thought to keep them. Spare the good doctor. You’re curious.
Jindosh’s voice in Emily’s ear, and his insistence that social standing come from intelligence alone, is the most irritating thing you have ever heard. Monarchs are born not chosen, and besides, you were chosen by the Outsider. Turn him into a simpleton. Poetic irony in its cruelest form.
Your duel with Breanna is the most challenge you’ve had for a while. By the time she’s dead on the floor, half the museum’s wrecked. Good.
The voice of your dead mother stops speaking to you at this point.
Choosing between criminals and zealots is a false dichotomy if you ever saw one. The world will be better off without either Paolo or Byrne.
Similarly, choosing between the duke and his pet doppelgänger doesn’t interest you. They both die at your hand. You find yourself disgusted by the opulence, the wealth. You’ve gone so long now stalking back-alleys, eating rotten food, curled up at night wherever seems safest, or on Meagan’s lonely little ship, that it takes you a long time to even recognize the palace’s round beds for what they are. They had so much power and they chose comfort over control? You suppose you weren’t that different, in Dunwall, before all of this.
Dunwall is ruined and you are furious. Kill Delilah as fast as you can. You feel surprisingly little as her breathing stops. Free Corvo, and send him away to Karnaca to rebuild. It’s hard to look him in the eye. Alone in Dunwall, you grow increasingly more frustrated that you can’t solve every political problem with your sword, and as the years tick by the rage in your gut at everything that has happened to you festers and sours. You were chosen. You’re the sovereign. You didn’t deserve any of it, and the world paid.