Death in Video Games

Death is a powerful motivator. In fiction, it often triggers an emotional response from the characters affected by it: the death of a loved one, a friend, a family member. In the audience, the response is just as strong. Some of the most memorable moments from film, television, and literature come as a result of a main character’s death. In video games, this is no different. But sometimes death can be an abusive tool. When it exists solely as a means of triggering a response, rather than the emotions coming naturally or logically, then this is the sign of poor writing.

This is an article about death in video games: suffice it to say, there will be spoilers. You have been warned.

The infamous "Red Wedding" scene from Game of Thrones, purportedly one of the most emotionally stressful scenes in the entire series. Why? Just because a lot of people died? The death of a single character can often be more powerful than the death of many.

 I tried reading A Song of Fire and Ice. I even tried settling for the HBO series Game of Thrones. I really did. I kept hearing from everyone how great it was and how shocking it was. The notion of main characters dying in fiction always intrigued me, because, contrary to the traditional belief of the main character being the “hero,” I’ve always despised the dreaded plot shield (that is to say, the main character surviving even the most extreme circumstances simply because he or she was the main character). But, there’s a caveat to that: with equal dissatisfaction, I hate main characters being killed shamelessly. And as I read those books, I found that in spades.

There was no rhyme or reason to the deaths, certainly not after the first significant one. I understand the desire to bring about a sense of morality, especially into a world rife with war and dangers. The idea that no one is safe is a strong theme. But when it gets to the point that I start to expect characters to die, that defeats the purpose of it. Death shouldn’t ever be an expectation, it should be a surprise. Because that is, in essence, what death symbolizes – the uncertainty of life. Killing a main character in a meaningful way can have tremendous narrative impact. Killing main character after main character just because “people die” is sloppy and shameless.

In The Darkness, Jackie Estacado, after having died and been resurrected by the titular demonic entity that has cursed his family for generations, goes in search of the man who had him assassinated. Through a series of misfortunes, his girlfriend, Jenny, is caught in the crossfire, and in one of the most brutal and heartfelt scenes I have ever witnessed, Jackie is forced to watch (forced by the Darkness itself, whose intent it is to bring out Jackie’s innermost rage) as Jenny is executed by the very man who had him killed. This is death done meaningfully, because it allows Jackie to abandon his inhibitions and truly become the killer that the Darkness wants him to be.

A powerful and heartbreaking scene that shows the casualties of being in a relationship with someone possessed by an ancient demon.

 In Lost Odyssey, it is actually the main character’s aversion to death that makes the act so powerful. Throughout the game you are treated to these wonderfully written little stories entitled “1000 Years of Dreams,” in which Kaim, our immortal protagonist, remembers those whom he has met and spent time with throughout his existence, all of whom have passed on. None are more meaningful than “Hanna’s Departure,” during which Kaim is at the bedside of a young, dying girl with whom he spent many days and nights recounting his adventures to. She is frail now, without sight, and her hearing is fading. Kaim speaks to her and tells her of one final journey. He promises that he will see her again, but that is a lie. This will be the last Kaim will see of her, and soon he will move, to another town, another city, where he will continue to meet and love and eventually leave those who cannot possibly understand the burden of life as Kaim does.

In Red Dead Redemption, you spend the entirety of the game gunning down criminals and chasing anyone your employers tell you to. So at the end when they immediately turn on you to hide their association, John Marston does the only thing he can do to protect his family – he gives his employers what they want: himself. In a blaze of glory, John sacrifices himself so that his family can safely get away. And in the game’s epilogue, you assume the role of his son – some odd years later into adulthood – now in search of the one man ultimately responsible for setting up his father. And you kill him.

John Marston's death caught many by surprise, but it was a fitting culmination to his story and made for an excellent transition into playing as his son, who exacts vengeance for his father's murder.

 These are three powerful and emotionally resonant moments as a result of the death of a character, and in the case of Lost Odyssey, not even a pertinent character. But that is the ultimate potential of death as a thematic tool. To be used so carelessly defeats the purpose of it entirely. We become jaded, complacent, and expectant. Death can be used to demonstrate the price of war, as Game of Thrones/A Song of Fire and Ice tries to do, but it needs more restraint, more purpose. Otherwise, it isn’t sadness that people start to feel, but frustration.

Final Fantasy Tactics is perhaps the prime example of the cost of war in video games. I can think of no other game (and please, correct me if I’m wrong) where more essential, main characters die throughout the course of the narrative. Every single death of a character (gameplay deaths withstanding) facilitates the story and serves a purpose. There is no death that feels meaningless or unnatural. Teta is murdered by the traitorous Algus, who, in his disdain for commoners, seeks to hurt Ramza, the bastard son of a nobleman and the hero of the game. Ramza’s best friend, Delita, is of common blood; Teta is his sister. Algus murders her right before their eyes and it is this that sets in motion the chain of events which leads Delita and Ramza on two radically different paths to ending the war.

Zalbag, Ramza’s older half-brother, is murdered by their eldest brother and a conspirator of the war, Dycedarg, because he found out the truth – that Dycedarg poisoned their father to claim the throne. Miluda, a member of a revolutionary brigade, opposes our heroes on two occasions, but it is on the first, during which time the aforementioned Algus is still a part of your company, that he dehumanizes the woman and talks to her as if she were an animal, quite literally saying “Animals have no god” because of her common ancestry. It is after the second encounter when you are forced to kill her, and this launches her brother, Wiegraf, leader of the brigade, on a quest for revenge against Ramza, turning him into a rival of sorts throughout a significant portion of the game.

Algus, the spiteful nobleman that he is, shows his true colors when he talks down to someone simply for not being of royal blood.

 Even the villains themselves get their due, the results of which are never underscored or understated. Death in fiction is not a tool to be abused. Just like death itself in our lives, it is to be treated with respect. If you don’t respect the characters, how can the audience respect you? There’s a price that must be paid, and sadly in fiction, many of our favorite characters have to pay it. It can be used to demonstrate the perils of war, the dangers of a forbidden relationship, the punishment for immortality, and even the price of redemption. But whatever it’s used for, just make it count.

Top 10 Games of All Time

Can you feel that? It’s the bitter disappointment of a January dry spell without anything worth a damn to play. Lately I’ve found myself retracing my steps in games I’ve put way too much time into already, eagerly anticipating March to bring a handful of treats to dive right into. I’ve had so much time, in fact, that I managed to finally sit down and really put together a list of what I truly (at this point in time, in any case) feel are the 10 most influential games that I’ve played. Or you could call it my top 10 favorite games, if that’s more your fancy.

Whatever it is, these are the 10 games that I’ll remember most fondly. They each incorporate the holy trinity of narrative, gameplay, and presentation into stunning and remarkable achievements in interactive media. Some of these games are classics, others are modern marvels, but age means nothing to them or me. They will forever hold a special place in my catalog and in my heart.

10. EarthBound

 Admittedly, I never saw the appeal in EarthBound growing up. It’s not that I didn’t have an SNES, it’s just that I was more occupied playing games like Secret of Mana or Chrono Trigger – you know, the “popular” ones. I’m embarrassed to say, now having played EarthBound, that it took me so long to do so. Nintendo has that rare ability to make even the most mundane, innocent affair into something macabre and nightmarish. EarthBound is, essentially, a coming of age story about a young boy named Ness (who just happens to have psychic powers. Why? Who cares, that’s not important) who stumbles upon a strange alien airship that has landed near his home.

The mysterious creature, an insect named Buzz Buzz, informs Ness that he is from the future where the ancient being known as Giygas rules the universe. You are then tasked with the unenviable job of saving the future of your world. And you’re just a thirteen year old boy. With a baseball bat. And psychic powers. Did I mention those? Of course I did. It has that quintessential 90s cornball feeling to it, and the game knows that it’s dancing a fine line between parody and pretentious. But ultimately, the game’s notions of lighthearted humor and schoolyard fun are a mask to hide a much darker, more sinister subtext. EarthBound has one of the most unsettling finales of any game I’ve ever played, and it’s so carefully woven into the aforementioned humor that one could be forgiven for having never noticed it.

9. Alan Wake

 Do you like Stephen King? Do you like The Twilight Zone? How about David Lynch’s cult classic TV series Twin Peaks? If you answered yes to any or all of these questions, then Alan Wake is the game for you (and so is Deadly Premonition, but that’s a subject you can look more into here). Alan Wake’s presentation is straight out of a serialized TV show, with its various chapters or story arcs broken up into “episodes” complete with a full recap of previous events, as narrated by the titular character himself.

Alan is a struggling writer, having found success in the past but suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. His wife, Alice, joins him on a getaway vacation where he can relax and take his mind off work, but an ancient darkness lurking in the small pacific northwestern town of Bright Falls has different plans for the reclusive author. Alan Wake’s exceptional use of a narrative-driven story, brilliant light and sound design, and unique flashlight-based gameplay cement it as a truly, wholly engrossing experience. The idyllic town of Bright Falls is a clear and loving homage to Twin Peaks, right down to characters and even certain pieces of dialogue. But it’s the game’s wonderfully complex, if often vague, story that will sink its hooks into you and never let go.

8. Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

One of the most storied franchises in the history of the medium has never been closer to perfection than it was in Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater. Kojima gets enough flak for the often convoluted ways with which he tells the story in Metal Gear Solid. From nanomachines, to cyborg ninjas, to bipedal nuclear warheads; there’s a lot to take in, and not all of it often makes sense. But that’s beside the point. The Metal Gear Solid games are less about coherency than they are about emotion. Of course half of this shit doesn’t make sense. Of course Kojima retconned almost every bit of new information proposed in Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty. But that didn’t stop them from being damn fine pieces of entertainment. And none of them more so than Snake Eater.

For the first time in the series, players took on the role of the enigmatic Big Boss, previously conceived of as Snake’s greatest enemy (and biological father). But Snake Eater sheds some much needed light on the history of Big Boss, and what led to his eventual disillusion with the United States. At its core, it’s a love story (as a matter of fact, the entire series is a love story), but more than just a typical romantic relationship. It’s a story about genuine love, about respect and trust: with each other, with your country, and with those you perceive as enemies. Snake Eater teaches us that sometimes the world’s greatest threat isn’t exactly what it seems.

7. Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time

 The Sands of Time does something that, up until this point, had rarely been attempted: told an engrossing, compelling narrative in a platformer. Previously, the genre was dominated with the likes of Mario, Donkey Kong, Rayman, Sonic, and more. There was rarely the demand for a complex story in any of these games because, up until then, the gameplay was strong enough to hold your attention. But as the structure of the medium changed with the times and story-driven games became more popular amongst other genres, people started questioning why there couldn’t be a merger of the two.

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time isn’t just one of the most technically impressive platformers ever, but it manages to incorporate the act of dying into its own narrative – and even uses it as a legitimate gameplay design! The Dagger of Time allows the Prince to manipulate the very fabric of the continuum, rewinding time back to a previous point. As a mechanical element, this lets you rewind poorly timed jumps or missteps and try again (up to a certain point). Because the game was presented as a story being told by the Prince himself to a then-unfamiliar listener, should you die, you were often treated to one of these always amusing quips: “No, no, no. That didn’t happen.” The Prince himself was also by far one of the most charismatic characters I’ve yet to see grace the presence of a video game (that is, until, his darker turn in Warrior Within).

6. The Darkness

 Speaking of dark, most games don’t really get much darker than this. Starbreeze Studio, responsible for the often overlooked Chronicles of Riddick: Escape from Butcher Bay, and last year’s heartfelt Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons, take us on a much more sinister ride in The Darkness. It’s not enough that the game starts out with the death of the main character, but that he’s brought back to life by an ancient demon cursed to possess his family for eternity? That’s some bad luck, kiddo.

Jackie Estacado’s brooding angst notwithstanding, The Darkness (like Metal Gear Solid) is a love story, although of the more forbidden variety. It’s also one of the saddest games I’ve ever played, due in large part to one particular scene of which I won’t even mention the tiniest detail. The voice acting is brilliant across the board, from the supporting characters, to Jackie himself, and most impressive of all, the Darkness, brought to life masterfully by famed Faith No More vocalist Mike Patton. His shrill, ear-shattering screeches and the deep, guttural growl to his voice create the perfect level of insanity necessary to make the Darkness a being worth fearing.

5. Chrono Cross

 I liked Chrono Cross more than Chrono Trigger. There, I said it. So if anyone’s still reading, allow me to explain why. I understand the biggest complaint that most people have with the game, and can even appreciate that it is not, in fact, a flaw with the game itself; no, the thing that many fans of Chrono Trigger dislike about this sequel is that it was not, actually, a sequel. Not in the way that they had hoped for: an entirely new (and massive) cast of characters; a new setting; a completely different spin on the whole time travel shtick. No, Chrono Cross was not the Chrono Trigger 2 that fans had hoped for. But taking it for what it was, it was so much better than a true sequel could have been.

Chrono Cross had a lot on its plate. It had to prove that bearing the Chrono name wasn’t just for publicity’s sake. So, yes, there is a strong, rather important connection between the two games, and particularly with regards to the game’s main heroine, Kid. But Chrono Cross was more about the strength of friendship, and the bond’s forged between the assortment of characters across time and space, than it was about being set in the Trigger universe. Like Trigger, it established sympathy with its lead, but also with its entire supporting cast. There wasn’t a single person whose plight you couldn’t feel sorry for, and while some were admittedly less pivotal or interesting than others (Skelly, Funguy, etc), they all had a place in the game. Chrono Cross also features my favorite female character in a video game, Harle, and arguably the greatest soundtrack in the history of the medium.

4. Xenoblade Chronicles

Don’t you ever say the Wii wasn’t powerful enough. The real tragedy was that few developers failed to realize and utilize the potential of the Wii’s architecture to its strengths. Xenoblade Chronicles’ developer Monolith Soft took on the burden of creating not only one of the best looking Wii games, but also perhaps the most grand, both in scope and in actual virtual landscape. The world of Xenoblade Chronicles is massive; so large, in fact, that it literally takes place on the backs of two gargantuan giants, gods of the old world frozen in time, locked in their eternal struggle. And if that isn’t enough to entice you to play this game, maybe the rest of this will.

Xenoblade Chronicles incorporated elements and concepts from various different types of games: its combat was similar to Final Fantasy XII; its exploration was something most often associated with western RPGs, not quite on the scale or depth as an Elder Scrolls game; it featured a functional day-night cycle, remote quest turn-ins, a save-anywhere feature, fast travel, meaningful character-dialogue choices, exciting cinematic action scenes, and a useful mascot-type character. In other words, it was the least Japanese Japanese-Role-Playing Game in recent memory. For that alone, it deserves commendation, but the fact that the game is just so damn entertaining as well only elevates it.

3. Max Payne

 Now we’re getting down to the big three. Anyone who really knows me can probably already guess the top two, but for those of you who can’t quite put a finger on it, here we go. Number three, Max Payne. What can I say about this game? Some of my favorite video game quotes have come from Remedy’s hard-boiled revenge story about a former New York Detective-turned-fugitive in search of his family’s killers. The premise, as most hard-boiled narratives go, isn’t much to be desired. But it’s in the game’s brilliant presentation (its blend of graphic novel with neo-noir storytelling), and Max’s brooding, deep narration voiced brilliantly by James McCaffrey that really sets this in the pantheon of video game stories.

It also pioneered the bullet time mechanic in gaming, something that many games still utilize to some degree. The dialogue was tongue and cheek, if sometimes a bit campy, but it was never without intent. Sam Lake’s hyperbolic use of metaphors and run-on sentences were what gave the game its lifeblood. There was nothing else quite like it for a while, and to this day remains one of the most important examples of video games as a story-telling medium. As revolutionary as the gameplay was, the presentation will always stand out as its crowning achievement.

2. Dark Souls

 What? This isn’t number one? No, it isn’t. But not without a good fight. And one shouldn’t expect anything less than a good fight from Dark Souls, a game notorious for punishing its players with relentless intent. When I first played Demon’s Souls back in 2009, I knew it was going to become something truly special. To proudly say that you were there and you witnessed the birth of a cult phenomenon isn’t something I take for granted. I had been waiting so long for someone in the gaming industry to treat me, as a player, with a bit of respect. In that regard, I wished they would have the decency to not consider me an idiot for playing their game. I was getting frustrated with the way games pre-Demon’s Souls had largely felt sorry for its players, to the point of pity. There was no challenge left anymore. Achievements were the final nail in the coffin, and while there was merit with their initial intent, what they had become was just a sign that developers were getting extremely lazy.

Enter a game that felt no remorse; a truly living, breathing entity that only had one goal in mind – make you suffer. Contrary to the notion of its contemporaries that gamers were getting dumber, Demon’s Souls throws its face to the wind and says, “No, they’re not getting dumber. We are.” The game relished in the fact that you had to earn your victories, that death wasn’t an obstacle, but a necessity. It’s simply part of the structure of the world. You will die. Accept it, and enjoy your stay. From the brilliant level designs, to the terrifying creatures, to the weighty, freeform combat, and the game’s exceptional use – and lack thereof – of sound and music, everything about Demon’s Souls reinvigorated the jaded gamer in me.

Two years later, From Software launched their follow-up, a spiritual successor that promised to ramp up the difficulty to 101. Largely the same on nearly every fundamental level to Demon’s Souls, what Dark Souls did, and why I have selected it as my number two game instead of Demon’s Souls, is it made the world truly feel alive. Where Demon’s Souls took place in five disassociated environments thematically connected in the same “world,” Dark Souls takes place entirely in the kingdom of Lordran, evident by the game’s brilliant environmental structure. With few exceptions, everything in this world is connected via elevators, shortcuts, narrow walkways, cave systems, bridges: you name a place, and more often than not it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Firelink Shrine, the game’s central hub.

Having such an interconnected world that only revealed its web of design the further you pushed into the game made it all the more rewarding when you actually found one of these shortcuts after having spent hours trudging through a new area. Opening up that previously locked door or turning on the elevator shaft has given new meaning to the word “achievement,” and this, truly, is what it feels like to succeed.

1. Final Fantasy Tactics

 You may think Final Fantasy VII is the greatest in the series, if not one of the greatest of all time. Fewer, still, might think of VI, or VIII, or IX, or X. I could go on. Sadly, you’d all be mistaken (but are entirely free to have your own opinions, wrong as they may be). No, the greatest game in this longstanding franchise is Final Fantasy Tactics. Here’s why:

1. A main character whose personal struggle is actually relatable on nearly every fundamental level (he’s just trying to keep the peace and protect his family).

2. One of the most deceptively-hidden, subtle villains in all of gaming (Delita is, in fact, the true villain of the game; the man who orchestrated the entirety of the game’s series of events just for himself, even though he is portrayed as a victim of the system).

3. The other “villains” aren’t exactly what they seem, even though modern gaming has trained us to think the hero is always right; this is not the case (most apparent in Ramza’s rivalry with Wiegraf, a soldier who is simply trying to avenge his sister and whose only true act of villainy is that he was too weak-willed to reject power).

4. A game where death and war actually go hand-in-hand, and loss isn’t just an afterthought (several main characters die in the game, not just one or two for an emotional response).

5. No forced romantic love interest, no teenage high-school angst, no inane, irrelevant sidequests.

6. And, most importantly of all, Thundergod Cid.

Honorable Mentions

Demon’s Souls

Shadow of the Colossus

Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 3

The Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver

Breath of Fire III

Amnesia: The Dark Descent

Why Dark Souls Is True Horror

 Fear is subjective. Fear of the unknown, of the violent and terrible. Some fear death, others fear spiders. We each have a unique perspective on this universal sensation, but no matter who you are, or what you say, there is something in this world that we all fear. It’s a natural response to events or images that we perceive as threatening or otherwise dangerous. Movies, books, real world events – anything can trigger that basic survival instinct that tells us “this is not right.” It’s also important to create the distinction between fear and anxiety, and while anxiety can lead to fear, it generally occurs when there is no immediate sense of danger.

   

Take Steven Spielberg’s classic open water tale Jaws, for instance; the anxiety is in the suspense. The classic score playing when Jaws is circling its prey, the pause before it strikes, all of it creates layers that builds up to the eventual release, a sort’ve catharsis. Once the tension of such a scene is cut, it resets until the next dramatic moment. Jaws was not, by any categorical standard, a horror movie. And yet it created such fervor long after its release that people still, to this day, fear that movie. 

So what’s my point? My point is that fear is subjective. You don’t have to watch a horror movie or play a horror video game to find things frightening. Half-Life 2, System Shock 2, BioShock, Max Payne: these are not typical horror games, and yet each one contained at least one area, or one particular theme that was just unsettling. From Ravenholm, to SHODAN, to the Splicers, to Max’s nightmare, these were appropriately frightening moments from typically non-frightening games. At the complete opposite end of the spectrum, take a game like EarthBound, Nintendo’s classic SNES RPG starring the telekinetic thirteen year old Ness trying to save his planet from an alien invasion. It’s a colorful, cheeky little story about growing up and a child’s rite of passage into adulthood, but if you were to break it down, it has some of the most horrific and disturbing subtleties and subtext of any game I’ve played. Anyone who has managed to finish the game and can recall the laments of series-antagonist Giygas as he cries out to Ness knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Max's nightmare in the original Max Payne is one of the most disturbing moments in the game, but it's only a tiny part in an otherwise noir-inspired revenge story.

And then, there’s Dark Souls. What can be said about this game that hasn’t already been discussed? Even the topic I’m about to delve into shares some corner of the internet with talks of its difficulty, its minimalist storytelling, and its infamous boss battles. But on the subject of fear, Dark Souls is a rare breed. It does what nearly any horror game is incapable of doing (even the greatest of the genre). It stays with you. It haunts you. It puts you in a panic long before and long after you play the game. There is a persistent dread that goes along with playing Dark Souls, one that far too many horror games try to emulate with typical horror tropes and stereotypical set pieces.

For the purposes of this article, let’s compare Dark Souls and its elements of horror to, what I believe, is the prime example of a modern horror game – Amnesia: The Dark Descent. Now I must warn you, if you have any interest in playing Amnesia at all but have not done so yet, then I suggest you close out of this article right now, because I am about to dissect it to the point that knowing just how the horror works ahead of time will completely diminish the experience. That being said, for everyone else still here, let’s get on with it.

There is great excitement that builds up in horror fans at the mere mention of Amnesia, and rightfully so. It skillfully wove atmosphere with tension to create one of the most terrifying experiences in recent memory. But peel back the curtains and you start to see the puppet strings at work. Amnesia is, by no means, a flawless game, and for as much praise as it deservedly gets for its ability to outright terrify the audience, there is clear deception at play. Amnesia manipulates the player into believing they are in danger: that faraway noise, the floorboards creaking under your feet; these are some of the most common elements of horror that, no matter how archaic, still manage to make our skin crawl.

Unsettling imagery and moody atmosphere helped mask the orchestrated horror elements of Amnesia: The Dark Descent.

But it’s all a ruse, a cleverly guised setup. There’s nothing around the corner, or behind the door (until there eventually is). It’s the buildup that terrifies us, the expectation that something is going to come and stalk us, that very same feeling that Spielberg captured so brilliantly with Jaws: a collaboration of sight and sound that creates perfectly synergized anxiety. The monsters themselves, once they appear, are not particularly frightening. Disturbing, for sure, but observation alone isn’t enough to create that necessary fear. So the buildup is essential, and Amnesia handles it exceptionally well. Not only that, but they ingrain a sense of helplessness in the player long before you ever even lay eyes on these creatures by convincing you that they cannot be defeated, that no form of mortal weaponry can kill them. Unlike action games that seem to consider themselves horror (Dead Space, Resident Evil, Left 4 Dead), Amnesia gives you nothing to defend yourself except for the reminder that you can run and hide. And so, you run and you hide and you hope whatever’s out there hasn’t seen you.

It’s only upon your first death (if you’re so unlucky) that you notice something peculiar: there’s very little penalty for it. More than that, if you find yourself adept in the art of hiding in closets, you may notice something else: that the monsters follow a particular scripted path. If you wait long enough, they’ll simply go away. This is one of those instances where, as brilliant a sound design as Amnesia has, the music simply works against its own intent. When a monster does appear, there is a noticeable change in tempo and tone. If you’re playing the game as you should (lights out, headphones on, and utterly immersed), this will all be subliminal to you, just enough to make you realize that something is coming, but not nearly as blatant as to make you question why the music is changing. But once you realize it, what follows will render the game nearly unplayable.

The music not only increases when the monster is around, but it goes away when the monster does, as well.

That simple fact alone, once acknowledged by the player, removes any sense of danger or urgency the game previously had. It is akin to Frictional Games themselves standing beside you as you’re playing, telling you exactly when and where a monster is going to appear, and similarly, when it will go away. Knowing a monster’s pattern, its behaviors, and acknowledging the queues will turn what is an artfully put-together horror game into an otherwise typical first-person adventure that happens to take place in a dark, abandoned Prussian castle. And that is an unfortunate thing.

“So what, then, does this have to do with Dark Souls” you ask? Everything. Because where Amnesia’s reliance on string-pulling allows it to create its danger, Dark Souls leaves it entirely up to the player. You decide your fate. You choose your path. You deem what is or isn’t necessary to defend yourself in this world. Yes, of course, you have the tools to kill everything and everyone around you, which goes completely against the point I just made about Amnesia. But having the tools to defend yourself and having the ability are two very different things, because even the strongest warrior can take the one wrong step that will cost him everything.

You need far more than weapons to survive in Dark Souls.

Dark Souls isn’t a game about success, contrary to the notion that it is one of the only games that gives you the ultimate feeling of success. It’s about facing your fear, about disregarding your inhibitions, and about throwing away all you thought you knew and starting over, literally and figuratively. Dark Souls begins training the player from the moment you step foot in this world into abandoning your idea of what a video game is “supposed” to do. For so many of us who have become accustomed to games telling us we are the hero, the savior, the strongest soldier in the world, Dark Souls simply tells you “No. You are not special. You are not unique. And you will die, just like everyone else.” And that can be a powerful and frightening thing.

Death is not just an obstacle in Dark Souls, but a necessity. There are few places in the world that can’t kill you, and even in the safest amongst them, the threat of danger looms all around you. Some of the biggest causes of death in Dark Souls are environmental hazards: cliffs, fire, steep drops, poison swamps. The inhabitants of Lordran aren’t the only things trying to kill you, but the world itself wants you dead. Where Amnesia relied on scripted events to fill you with dread, the dread is everywhere in Dark Souls. The prospect of death itself can be a powerful motivator, because unlike most games where death simply returns you to a previous checkpoint with no penalty, in Dark Souls, death can mean the complete disregard of the last couple hours of playtime. Your souls – that is, your means of experience and currency – are lost upon death, with only a single opportunity to reclaim them. So death in Dark Souls isn’t to be trifled with, and the fear of it can create some admittedly frustrating moments. Moments you’ll fear going through again.

But that’s what makes it the epitome of horror. Because horror is the antithesis of desire. You don’t want it. No one enjoys being scared. Sure, you may enjoy scary movies or video games or stories, but you enjoy the excitement that surrounds it. Or maybe you’re just the kind of person that is unaffected by it, but you still appreciate the craftsmanship that went into its production. I lean more towards the latter, as I enjoy all things horror, but am rarely surprised by it. And then there’s Dark Souls. Because no matter what you think you know about horror, Dark Souls convinces you to reimagine it. It’s not a typically frightening world (though like the games mentioned at the very beginning, it has a few disturbing locations), and none of the enemies are that unusual considering its medieval fantasy setting. But what Dark Souls manages to do is combine a proper feeling of helplessness despite all the necessary tools to succeed, a powerful aversion to death, and the most genuine fear of the unknown ever put into a game. Because if there’s one thing, above all else, that Dark Souls does best, it’s surprise you, makes you ask “What else could possibly kill me next?”

And not knowing is the most frightening thing of all.