Zanarkand's Last Dream

It's rare to see romance done well in a triple A video game title. It's even rarer to see it become part of the game's core experience.

Yet, Final Fantasy X was, if anything, an atypical game of it's time - even when compared with other unconventional titles.

The switch from the Playstation to the exponentially more powerful PS-2 meant that the developers had a lot more processing power to work with. And they sure as heck were going to use every bit of it.

Final Fantasy was one of the most graphically beautiful games of its generation. Even today, the classic, non-HD version looks pretty darn impressive.

If they wanted to, Square Soft could easily have spent all their resources to make the game even more visually spectacular. But instead they chose to spend equally as much time perfecting one of the series' more distinguishing features - the narrative.

Final Fantasy X was the first game in the series to utilize voice acting and, though the English dub at times left something to be desired, it cannot be denied that voice acting definitely enhanced the overall experience.

But I digress; I am not here to talk about the technical aspects of Final Fantasy X. I am here to tell you why the effect of a brilliantly written romance on a narrative should never be underestimated, even in a video game; I am here to tell you why FFX may just be the best written and most cohesive Final Fantasy game of all time.

(Spoiler alert!)

As I may have mentioned in a previous post, the purpose of the first few minutes of any given game is to draw in the players - to use something iconic or unique as a hook to reel the players into the game world.

FFX manages to do it brilliantly with its rather unorthodox style.

Instead of beginning at the narrative start point like most stories or showing us the end and then looking back, FFX begins somewhere in the middle - right before the game's climax (or so the player is led to believe).

The masterfully drawn scene of the main party huddled somberly around a campfire in a ruined city, accompanied by Nobuo Uematsu's hauntingly nostalgic To Zanarkand, makes for an excellent first impression. The omnipresent ambient sound of waves in this sequence, crashing gently on an unseen shore, help magnify the sense of foreboding incredibly!

Now the quality of Maestro Uematsu's work is never in question. In fact, having mesmerizingly magnificent music is more of a Final Fantasy staple than Chocobos! However, what sets the track apart from other FF musical scores is both its tone and its usage.

Usually a song with this much wistfulness is reserved for a either a turning point in the narrative or the aftermath of an exceptionally tragic event in a game e.g. the death of a party member. However, here it is used as the very first score in the game. This, combined with the scene it is used in, makes the entire first sequence feel more like a pre-funeral than anything. After finishing the game, I realize that this may have actually been the point all along!

"Listen to my story. This...maybe our last chance"

Even now, the words give me Goosebumps. A lot has been said about the quality of voice acting, but in this scene James Arnold Taylor nails it!

The scene soon cuts to a neo-cyber-punkish city - a stark contrast to the ruins we saw in the beginning. With its dazzling neon lights, fast-paced rave music and celebrity, this city, named Zanarkand, is eerily similar to the world we live in today.

Fleshing out the game-world even more, FFX introduces us to Blitzball - a fantasy sport which can best be described as underwater football played in a gigantic sphere of water - and to our protagonist, named Tidus (Tee-dus) by default, a star Blitzball player of the Zanarkand Abes.

Tidus' dreams of leading his team to victory in a climactic match, are shattered, however, when Zanarkand is attacked by a Kaiju out of some old Godzilla movie. Known only as Sin, the leviathan quickly levels the city. Only the timely appearance of Auron, a mysterious acquaintance of Tidus' missing father, saves him from being annihilated with the rest of his home.

When Tidus regains consciousness he is in a different world - a world that lives in perpetual fear of the monster, Sin - a world where machinery and technology have been outlawed under penalty of death - a world where his home city of Zanarkand has been dead for over 1000 years.

Realizing that seeing what's left of his home with his own eyes is the only way to make sense of things, Tidus joins the party of Yuna, a young summoner on a pilgrimage to Zanarkand to obtain a power that would allow her to defeat Sin.

Thereafter, Tidus becomes more of a view-point character, as Yuna and her quest to save the world of Spira take center stage. But here is where the narrative truly starts shining.

Not only are Yuna and her party members given complex, fleshed out characters but the exposition required to do so is brilliantly tied to the main narrative. Revealing the backstory of a particular party member never feels like chore or a side-quest. In a feat of brilliant narrative design, character development and additional information comes naturally as the narrative progresses.

Even if the players were to attempt solely focusing on the main story, they would still obtain in-depth knowledge of the plethora of characters they are dealing with. In short FFX does what many Role-playing games fail to do - it makes us care for our party without actively seeking out a reason or quest to care for them.

And then there's obviously the relationship between Tidus and Yuna - the naive, hyperactive newcomer and the polite, patient young woman who is never too busy to help out the people she cares about. It becomes apparent to the players that Yuna's journey is not nearly as hopeful as Tidus thinks it is. But that doesn't stop them from keeping up their appearance - it doesn't hinder them from cheering and laughing whenever they get a chance to but as Tidus puts it.

"I realize now that I was the only one really laughing." 

Yuna's quest itself is a brilliant example of gameplay and story integration. Summons and monsters have always been a staple of FF and, indeed, many JRPGs. But FFX is one of the few games that not only justify their existence but also make it integral to the plot. In the world of Spira sentient beings that aren't given a proper burial ritual or sending continue to inhabit the mortal plane in contempt - eventually transforming into twisted monstrosities, called fiends, that are the majority of enemies the player fights. However, in order to defeat Sin some humans willingly gave up their lives, turning their mortal bodies to stone so that their unsent spirits may become pseudo-fiends, called Aeons, which a summoner may call upon to fight Sin.

The pilgrimage itself consists of a summoner visiting the final resting place of these martyrs, now called Fayths, and enlisting the aid of their spirits in the fight against Sin.

In a way, Tidus is the perfect player surrogate - unaware of the world he's in while enjoying the journey as best as he can. Ironically, it is his naivety, his innocence, that melts Yuna's heart. It is his enthusiasm and sincere hope for a better tomorrow that breaks through Yuna's mask and, for the first time in a long time, brings tears to her eyes.

Yet these tears Yuna shed aren't for herself. They are for Tidus and his tragic dream. She knows that no matter how much she tries or how much she wants to she'll never be able to see the home Tidus always talks about - she'll never be able to walk, hand in hand with him, when he finally returns to his Zanarkand.

Indeed when Tidus' bubble is burst and he realizes that, for all his enthusiasm, he was cheering Yuna on to die; his breakdown is heart-wrenching. He vows to save Yuna no matter the cost and that, itself, adds to ever growing list of tragic dreams in the plot.

But Yuna doesn't give up, she'll do whatever she has to, not for herself but so that her friends can live their dreams. She's willing to give up everything, her dreams and her life, so that she may live through the dreams and lives of her friends

Yuna's journey sees her faith shaken, but it is only when she reaches Zanarkand and finds out that, for all her efforts, she has to let a friend die to defeat Sin only temporarily that Yuna snaps. It is when she finds out that for all her sacrifice, Sin will always come back using the spirit of the friend she sacrifices, that Yuna puts her foot down.

She rejects the Final Summoning which had been her goal all along and desperately searches for a way to permanently defeat Sin. It is at this climactic moment that we get yet another brilliant usage of a narrative trope - a subversion of the protagonist-decoy protagonist structure.

Tidus, it turns out, was nothing but a dream of the deceased Fayth of Zanarkand - an echo of an individual who had been dead for over a thousand years. Tidus was little more than the monsters he'd been fighting, brought into the world by the very same undead summoners that was responsible for Sin's existence

To defeat Sin forever, the party must kill, not just Sin but Yu Yevon, the summoner of Sin, as well - an act which would finally put the Fayth of the world to sleep and, thereby, cause the "death" of Tidus.

Knowing this, does Tidus falter? Does he take a moment to consider his options. No! Tidus revels in the opportunity to save his friends. Tidus may die in the attempt, but he'll do so on his own terms - saving someone he loves!

In the end, the romance works so well, not just because it was well written, but because it utilized a narrative mechanic only utilizable in a video game - the ability to literally walk in the footsteps of a character. Both Yuna and Tidus received tremendous amount of character development and backstory because both of them were, at a point, the protagonists of the story.

Indeed, for all the times Tidus exclaims that it is his story, it becomes apparent that it's everyone's story! But it is Tidus' own selflessly selfish act of self-sacrifice that brings a conclusion to this epic tale.

Final Fantasy X was probably one of the best games of it's generation. It had an amazing, unconventional narrative, a graphically impressive game world and a love-story that would echo through the hearts of players for as long as they remember.

And all that can be said without even getting into the music. I haven't played another game where the music fit in so well with the general theme. From the paragon of nostaliga, Zanarkand,to the melancholic Fleeting memories and right down to every single, haunting rendition of the Hymn of the Fayth. The Hymn is a brilliant example of a plot-relevant leitmotif, a song that is sung in-universe by a plethora of characters. Indeed singing the hymn is the only thing that the dead, stone bodies of the Fayth are capable of doing - the only thing that helps them keep their sanity.

Finally, there's the game's vocal signature song Suteki da ne or Isn’t it wonderful? A song that is so ironic, so tragic it brings tears to my eyes even half a decade after I finished the game.

"Isn't it wonderful"

"Being together, all alone walking hand in hand."

"And I want to go to your city"

"To your home..."

"...into your arms"

I would like to end this post by drawing attention to one final detail. Final Fantasy X is probably the only other game in the series apart from the first one, whose title makes the most sense story wise.

In the end, after defeating Sin, Tidus was the last construct of the Fayth. In the end, he was Zanarkand's Last Dream. In the end, Tidus was Zanarkand's Final Fantasy.

"The people and friends we've lost..or the dreams that have faded...never forget them"

Of Nostalgia Filters and Hidden Blades.

Nostalgia has a habit of making everything from the past look good.

 It may be an old game you used to play, an old toy you used to bounce around or, heck, even an old friend you used to have - they all start looking good. It's almost like our brain refuses to acknowledge the fact that the "game" was nothing but a few colored pixels, the toy was just an overpriced beach ball and the "friend"  was just a kid who shared a crayon with you in kindergarten.

Old is gold, my friend. NO EXCEPTIONS.

This is a sad truth of life and growing older only makes it worth. It is also the reason why your grandparents won't stop talking about the "good old days" before such "modern luxuries" as internal plumbing. 

The anonymity offered by the internet, coupled with the growing trend of fanboyism, has made the Nostalgia Filter worse than ever.

Generation one Pokemon will ALWAYS be the best. The older Elder Scrolls games will ALWAYS be superior to the "dumbed down, mainstream abomination" that is Skyrim. And Final Fantasy 7 will ALWAYS be the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Case in point.

People refuse to understand that changes in their favorite franchises mostly happen because of necessity, clinging instead to the age old notion that innovative designers are all Greater Daemons of Tzeentch. 

Attempting to replay these classics may soon turn depressing as players retroactively realize just how much they themselves and aged. Indeed the Nostalgia Filter may be the only thing that keeps players replaying older games going.

This was the mindset I had when I decided to replay Assassin's Creed II (courtesy of Steam Sales off course). Having enjoyed Assassin's Creed IV greatly, I was kind of taken aback by the fanbase deriding the game and proclaiming Assassin's Creed II as the greatest in the franchise.

I was skeptical. As good as AC-II was, surely it's dated graphics and game-play mechanics would make a playthrough tedious at best. Putting on my Cynicism Goggles and turning off my nostalgia filter, I decided to dive, once again, into Renaissance Italy.

Right off the bat, Assassin's Creed II strived to show us that it was a different game from it's predecessor. But more than that, it tried showing the gamers that yes, it had learned from Assassin's Creed I's mistakes.

As Desmond once again enters the Matr Animus, we are thrust into the birthing room of Maria Auditore just in time to witness her second son come into the world. A short QTE later, we first hear the voice of our protagonist, Ezio - Ezio Auditore da Fierenze! Here is a protagonist the players get to know from the first moments of his life! 

Fast forward a decade and a half and we're introduced to a teenaged Ezio doing typical teenager things like cracking jokes, getting into brawls and parkouring all over the roof-tops of Renaissance Florence.   

Introducing and making the audience empathize with the main character is the first goal of every narrative, and how quickly and concisely they manage to do it may well determine the quality of the rest of it. Assassin's Creed II does this remarkably well in its first 10 minutes! Not a bad start, Ubisoft, not bad at all.

The next hour or so of gameplay basically revolves around Ezio exploring the beautifully crafted visual master-piece that is Florence while happily interacting with his family.

"It is a good life we lead, brother."

"The Best! May it never change."

"And may it never change us." 

A chill went up my spine as the game's title popped up on screen, accompanied by Jesper Kyd's brilliantly haunting Ezio's Family. Even without knowledge of what happens next, even without acknowledging the tragic irony that is to follow, one cannot help but feel a sense of foreboding.

And sure enough, like every good story structured around the Monomyth, Ezio's beautiful life takes a morbid turn for the worse as his father and brothers are wrongfully executed.

Now, this is a part where AC-II truly outclasses its predecessor. Whereas the inciting action in Assassin's Creed was brought about as a result of Altair's own arrogance and failures, in the sequel Ezio ends up being a victim of circumstances more than anything. A conspiracy he did not know even existed, ends up destroying his life and forcing him into adopting a role he never wanted to adopt.

The fact that Ezio was, for the most part, a normal everyman thrust into such a larger-than-life role is what ultimately made him so relatable to the typical modern gamer. 

Following the traditional three act structure, the rest of Ezio's life goes by in a hurricane of blood, betrayal and vengeance as he struggles to root out the conspiracy that claimed his family - as he desperately tries to understand why his family was so savagely taken from him. In the process Ezio pulls a Forrest Gump by interacting with, and influencing, many, many key historic Renaissance figures and, indirectly, shaping the period into what it ultimately becomes.

The wide number of widely different locales, from the riverine beauty of Venice to the tower-city of San Gimignano and even to the swamps of Forli, that Ezio visit over the course of his life not only serves to keep the player entertained with the widely different vistas, but also reflects the slow change in narrative tone as the game progresses. 

Every different locale had its own distinct color palette and, while the game wasn't nearly as open ended as its most recent sequel,the design decisions served its purpose of making the game world seem so much bigger than it was.

One can say that the distinct cities reflect Ezio's own mood of sorts, as he undergoes massive character development.  The gold and yellow of Florence portrays Ezio's own glorious youth; the grey and blue of Fiorli represents both the slow birth and death of cynicism as Ezio scampers through the early morning Italian mist in search of purpose. The subtle silver and violet of Venice marks a transitionary point in our hero’s life while the bronze and green of San Gimignano brilliantly conveys a feeling of ascension - of a young Ezio realizing his potential as he climbs up a towering behemoth of a monastery.

The narrative covers over two decades of Ezio's adult and, in that time, vengeance slowly drops down our protagonist's priority list until, finally, the self-destructive nature of revenge itself is deconstructed. Ezio matures in more than just looks, going from an angry young Italian man to a suave, charming inidivudal, lovingly called Mentore  by the rest of his order . 

Sometimes it’s hard to realize that it is Roger Craig Smith himself that's been voicing our protagonist since his early teenage days. The massive amount of work that must have gone into completely altering one's tone and pitch to portray single character over such a long period of his life requires a lot of dedication indeed.

In the end I realized that what made Assassin's Creed II wasn't it's individual merits, but rather the sum of those merits. Assassin's Creed 4 had better gameplay, Assassin's Creed 3 definitely had a better story (though, not necessarily, a better narrative), and Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood probably had the greatest city ever designed in the franchise.

But Assassin's Creed II was the game in the series that took the very basic components of its design and merged them seamlessly into a master piece. The core experience that the designers tried portraying was definitely one of living in the shoes of a 15th century James Bond-esque figure: an Assassin whose wit was just as sharp as his hidden blade. And they succeeded.

Everything about the game said "Renaissance."  From the soaring architecture, perfect for an Assassin's Creed Game, to Kyd's brilliantly composed pieces, and right down to the ambient dialogue of the masses - every element of design meshed in perfectly. And it is this, more than anything, that makes Assassin's Creed II the best game in the franchise - not the nostalgia, not the individual elements but rather the coherence of them all put together.