Looking back at my journey through Faerûn, I never expected that after all these years, the most formidable foe I'd face in Baldur's Gate 3 wouldn't be a mind flayer emperor or a netherbrain, but a single, bug-afflicted goblin with a bad attitude and a smokepowder bomb. It's 2026, and while Larian Studios has long since moved on to new horizons, their masterpiece still hums with life—and the occasional, spectacular glitch. We've all come to accept that a game of this scale will have its quirks, but what happened to me during my latest, and most promising, honor mode run was less of a quirk and more of a cataclysmic event.

My party—my carefully crafted band of misfits—was traversing the shadow-cursed lands near the windmill in Act Two. We were feeling confident, having bested some of the realm's toughest challenges. Then, we spotted him: a lone goblin, looking as innocuous as a paperclip in a dragon's hoard. He hefted a smokepowder bomb. I smirked. These explosives are nasty, sure, but against a healthy, high-level party? They're more of a nuisance than a threat. I didn't even bother spreading my team out.

That was my last mistake as the commander of that particular save file.

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The goblin let the bomb fly. It arced through the air with a lazy grace, like a falling autumn leaf that just happens to be filled with nitroglycerin. It landed. The world turned white, then red. In an instant, the game over screen materialized. A full party wipe. My honor run, snuffed out not by a cunning tactical error, but by what felt like a divine smite disguised as a common grenade. I sat there, stunned, as if I'd just watched my favorite novel spontaneously combust in my hands.

Confused and more than a little salty, I turned to the community. It didn't take long to find others who had shared my bizarre, explosive fate. As player ConfidenceKBM had detailed, this was no ordinary bomb. The math was broken. A standard smokepowder bomb should deal 3d4 + 9 damage. The one that ended my run was dealing a catastrophic 6d4 + 18—double the intended firepower. This wasn't an act of god; it was an act of bug.

The root cause, as sleuths in the forums deduced, is a tragic miscommunication in the game's code involving a goblin racial trait called Fury of the Small. This ability lets a goblin deal an extra 1d6 damage to larger foes. Simple, right? Well, in this specific, unfortunate instance, the code doesn't add the 1d6. Instead, it seems to multiply the entire damage of the triggering attack—in this case, the smokepowder bomb—by two. It's as if the goblin's fury doesn't sharpen the blade but accidentally duplicates the entire arsenal behind it.

The community's burning question now is one of scope. Is this a localized issue, a single angry goblin near a windmill who's stumbled upon arcane arithmetic? Or is it a pandemic, with every bomb-chucking goblin in Faerûn suddenly possessing the destructive capacity of a small asteroid? For the sake of every current honor mode adventurer, I desperately hope it's the former. The thought of this bug being widespread is enough to make any player view goblins not as low-level fodder, but as walking, talking high-yield explosives.

Damage Breakdown Intended Bugged Result
Smokepowder Bomb Base 3d4 + 9 3d4 + 9
With "Fury of the Small" 3d4 + 9 + 1d6 (3d4 + 9) x 2
Approximate Max Damage ~31 ~62

This experience has changed how I play, even two years after the game's final major patch. I now treat every goblin with a projectile like a librarian holding a lit match in a room full of parchment—extreme, unpredictable caution is mandatory. I spread my party out with a paranoia usually reserved for avoiding area-of-effect spells from bosses. It's a testament to the game's enduring, chaotic soul that it can still deliver such unforgettable, if frustrating, moments.

So, a word to the wise for my fellow adventurers in 2026: The shadows of the curse aren't the only thing to fear in Act Two. Beware the goblin with the bomb. His fury isn't just small; it's bugged, and it hits like a freight train made of pure, concentrated misfortune. My honor run may be gone, reduced to ashes as fleeting as a snowflake in a forge, but the legend of the one-shot goblin lives on. Here's hoping the maintenance team catches this one before it claims more victims.