Lately, the world feels pretty bleak.
I spend a lot of energy these days just telling myself that, in many ways, this is the best the collective human race has ever had it. I try my hardest to muster up some semblance of gratitude, for self-preservation if nothing else. People who are far wiser and more well-adjusted than myself will tell you that being buried in overwhelming dread is exactly what the powers that be want; that maintaining a sense of joy is vital during times like these. In my experience, they’re absolutely right. As such, I’ve tried my hardest to remain uncompromising when it comes to living a life still sprinkled with joy–after all, who would be inclined to live and fight for misery?
I try to spend as much time as possible around loved ones and touch plenty of grass, but admittedly, an element in my attempts to enjoy life and process all of this has been video games. This probably isn’t a surprising or novel claim. If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re a gamer and are very familiar with the healing power and delightful escapism associated with games. Recently, Reuters published a study regarding the positive impact that cozy games such as Animal Crossing or Stardew Valley can have on mental health. According to the study, there is essentially “no statistically significant difference between playing a video game and engaging in meditation.” I love this fact, mostly because it makes me feel a bit less guilty when my husband catches me playing Fields of Mistria at 11 o’clock at night.
But while I have found myself gravitating towards games like Fields of Mistria and Hello Kitty Island Adventure in my spare time–both of which are incredibly fun, free of oligarchs, and adorable–these sweet adventures offering a detour from reality aren’t always what I turn to. And though they’re certainly relaxing, they’re also not the games making the largest positive impact on my mental health, either.
What I long for more than anything these days are tales of resistance; stories in which scrappy underdogs take on forces far larger than themselves. They’re seldom fearless–no sensible person is, video game character or not–but that fear doesn’t hinder them from doing the ethical thing. To invoke a Mr. Rogers quote I’ve always found charming, I suppose that even when it comes to video games, I’m “looking for the helpers.”
This isn’t a new phenomenon for me. When conversations turn to what “radicalized” me, to use the beloved meme template, I can vaguely pinpoint the moment many of my core beliefs and values began to form–it was Final Fantasy VII during the moment when Barrett Wallace began shooting at the heap of metal and concrete Shinra buried his home, friends, and, presumably, his young daughter Marlene beneath. “What’s it all for?” he screams, his body heaving from both grief and the recoil of his bullets. Lately, I find myself asking the same question, over and over and over again. “What’s it all for?”
Barrett’s cry is more than relatable, though–it’s cathartic. Through the entirety of Final Fantasy VII, he serves as a beacon of love, bravery, and self-sacrifice. Barrett would lay down his life if doing so would better the lives of perfect strangers; he would fight ceaselessly, and savor the struggle, if it meant his daughter would never have to. He’s the type of person I desperately want to believe exists, not just as a singular being, but as an inherent part of all of us. Barrett Wallace is a “helper.”
I suspect this is in part why Metaphor: ReFantazio resonated so deeply with me last year, too. Throughout its entirety, as it delves headlong into topics such as prejudice, poverty, cycles of violence, anxiety, and religion, Metaphor repeatedly emphasizes the importance of caring for those around you and striving to be a just and empathetic person–a “helper,” if you will. Its metanarrative then takes this one step further by boldly proclaiming that works like Metaphor–works that are earnest, honest, and above all else, hopeful–are far more than entertainment; they’re vast wells of inspiration that exist in part to create even more helpers.
Stories, whether constructed by one person or a whole studio of people, contain our hopes, fears, dreams, experiences, and beliefs. They are the closest we can come to making the intangible, tangible–to sharing our internal worlds with one another in hopes of establishing resonance. And though not all works are intended to inspire, all works can, and thus the act of creating is one that can be immensely powerful. In Metaphor, I found a game that believes all of this as strongly as I do. Long after finishing the game, its hopefulness and reassurance continues to cloak me. And part of the reason it does is because I firmly believe it must cloak other people, too.
Of course some of Atlus’ other titles, namely the Persona series, also encourage perseverance, kindness, and rising against oppression and cruelty. I’d be remiss not to mention how Persona 5 is a game all about taking on those who abuse power, even when that means standing up to dangerous people, the status quo, government institutions, and forces that make you feel small.
I also think about the time I spent playing the Mass Effect trilogy, and how Shepherd’s willingness to help divided communities reconcile, right past wrongs, and lay down their life repeatedly inspires resistance, bravery, and compassion. Sure, you don’t have to play Shepherd that way, and there are some aspects of all of this the game doesn’t quite get right, if we’re being honest. But at its core, Mass Effect offers a power fantasy in which a large part of said fantasy is you having the power to change the entire galaxy for the better. Getting to make out with number one video game boyfriend Garrus is just a nice perk–though I’d argue it does reinforce the importance of holding on to those you have and finding joy even in dire circumstances.
But while RPGs tend to fit the bill more–after all, I’d bet most of us could easily list dozens in which a band of unlikely heroes come together to take on an oppressive regime or stop a Big Bad–there are a few other genres I’ve gravitated to that ignite me in a similar way.
Frankly, you can’t talk about games centered around resistance and helping others without mentioning Dishonored and Wolfenstein. Throughout both of these action-adventure series, you play as characters who are part of small resistance groups hellbent on taking down an oppressive regime. Be it through stealth or overwhelming firepower, your mission ultimately boils down to fighting oppressors and helping to restore power to the citizenry they’ve abused. They also pose an interesting question: Which is truly more violent, the violence exerted through resistance, or the systemic, sanctioned violence that commands us to remain complicit?
The one and only “strand game,” Death Stranding, is also well worth mentioning here, as the entire game revolves around helping others and establishing connections. In a world flooded with fear and in which people are largely isolated from one another, Sam Porter Bridges serves as a bridge himself, helping people regain a sense of humanity and companionship. Sam’s–and the player’s–alturistic nature is further highlighted by another one of the game’s key features, the Social Strand System. Although you will never meet all your fellow Death Stranding players, you are able (and encouraged!) to construct things that will improve not only your in-game world, but others as well. Naturally, this means you will reap the benefits of others’ constructions, too, making this a game that highlights the importance of mutual aid.
In metroidvanias, the general conceit tends to be that once-powerful characters are rendered “weak,” they still choose to embark on dangerous and surreal journeys, some of which help protect those around them. Gaining their powers back, and progression in general, does not come easily; there is a lot of trial involved and, oftentimes, the way forward requires going back, growing stronger, smarter, or better-equipped, and trying again later. In this way, these games emulate life.
And though it might sound a bit obtuse, soulslikes in particular have grown particularly comforting to me over the years. Most of the time, the stories and worlds they contain don’t feel happy, safe, or gentle. But honestly, I prefer that they aren’t. You can’t overcome something if there’s nothing to overcome; you can’t feel assured in your strength or perseverance if they’ve never been tested; you can’t appreciate light and beauty without fumbling through the dark and dire; and you can’t appreciate being alive without acknowledging the finality of death.
Though sometimes dismissed as brutal or grimdark, I’ve found inspiration and catharsis in games like Demon Souls, Elden Ring, Bloodborne, and Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. Behind each grotesque creation, cutthroat swordmaster, hellish landscape, and violent end lies temporary refuge, spectacular sights, and the satisfaction of knowing you earned the right to these things. Sure, there will always be something lying just ahead, but just like in real life, these moments of peace are ones I cherish and savor. They offer a reminder that, despite everything, you are here now, trying your hardest to live and do good even when up against the dark and unfathomable. What an incredible feat that is.
I suppose all this is to say, as much as the world needs games that make us feel secure and cozy, I believe we need games that encourage and empower us, too; games that remind us that life is hard and dark but that we have the power to live, hope, and help. And though some might shy away from the idea of games being political–and the ones I’ve mentioned above are maybe not as overt as the likes of Disco Elysium, Papers, Please, Fallout: New Vegas, or countless other titles that explore capitalism and morality, or critique apathy and centrism–to me it’s undeniable that all of these works of art are constructed out of experiences and core beliefs, which are perhaps the two biggest factors that guide our political ideologies. I find it beautiful to think that these creators believe in, and long to foster, goodness and progression.
And I get that not everyone wants to dig this deep. I get that not everyone will take away the same message or walk away transfixed and transformed. But I also have to believe that these stories do hold that power and there are plenty out there that, like me, are comforted, rejuvenated, and inspired by them. Lately, the world feels pretty bleak. But history, people, stories, and art remind me that nothing is insurmountable, and that a better world–and perhaps a cozy, lit bonfire–lie just ahead.
