In Cyrodiil where the faces bend,
And every conversation meets a strange dead end,
A guard sees murder, daedra, and flame,
Then says, “STOP! You violated the law!” all the same.
The Emperor dies in the tutorial cave,
Entrusting the world to the first idiot who's brave.
You emerge from a sewer, destined and grand,
Then spend six weeks collecting forks across the land.
The gates of Oblivion burst from the ground,
Yet nobody panics all that much around town.
“Sure, hell has arrived,” the citizens say,
“But could you fetch ten bear pelts on your way?”
The NPCs wander with dreams in their heads,
Discussing rumors beside identical beds.
“I saw a mudcrab the other day.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Then they slowly drift away.
The combat is graceful, if grace means a shove,
Like two shopping carts trying desperately to love.
Bandits in glass armor leap from the brush,
Demanding ten gold with murderous hush.
The leveling system, a wizard's cruel prank,
Rewards you for jumping and swimming a tank.
Ignore your main skills, become strangely wise,
Or every roadside goblin ascends and outsize.
Meanwhile, the Hero of Kvatch, savior of all,
Can become Arch-Mage with almost no spellcraft at all.
Leader of Fighters, Assassins, and Thieves,
A professional fraud everyone believes.
The guards know your crimes before you've begun,
Tracking your thefts from the light of the sun.
Steal one tomato in some distant shack,
And every authority instantly knows the exact snack.
Then comes Sheogorath, glorious and mad,
Making insanity somehow seem less bad.
By this point the player completely agrees:
The world runs on nonsense, cheese, and decrees.
And that's why Oblivion still sits on its throne,
A masterpiece built from the uncanny unknown.
Part epic fantasy, part beautiful bug,
Part prophecy, part NPC trapped in a rug.
For many games polish their worlds until bright,
But Oblivion achieved something stranger outright:
It accidentally captured what dreams often do—
A realm that's absurd, inconsistent, and true.
